by Jenny Nimmo
Timoken searched the sky for the birds he had called, but there was no sign of them.
‘Only one thing for it,’ he said, standing on the saddle.
‘Timoken, what are you doing?’ cried Beri.
‘I am going into battle.’
Gabar grunted, ‘Do you want me to come with you?’
‘Not this time, my family,’ said Timoken, laughing. His black mood had lifted and, still smiling, he sailed into the sky, his sword pointed straight at the head of the biggest bird.
Chapter Sixteen
The Sign of the Serpent
The wheeling circle of birds began to close up, and Timoken found himself sailing into the centre of a densely packed flock. The wind tore at his cloak, leaving his body unprotected, but the birds seemed afraid of the billowing red velvet and tilted away, shrieking with fury. Timoken went after them, slashing at wings and talons. They soared above him and then swooped down, so fast he hardly had time to draw breath. Razor sharp beaks tore at his turban again and again, until it unravelled and blew away in shreds, leaving his head exposed to their vicious stabs. Timoken lifted his shield over his head, but time and again, the birds knocked it away. Desperately, he kicked out at them. He lunged at the black heads and jabbed at the fiery eyes, and as he twisted and whirled he used their own language to curse and threaten them. But they still came at him, and he felt his strength begin to ebb. His sword arm ached, his head throbbed and he found himself dropping helplessly lower and lower.
One of the birds swooped towards Timoken, its beak pointed at his eye; a second later a shutter snapped across his vision, and the world went black.
Covering his face with his shield arm, Timoken felt blood running across his cheeks; blood that was mixed with tears. He did not want to die before he saw his sister again. But when he drew his arm away, Timoken realised that he was not blind after all; a dark cloud had covered the sun. It seemed to fill the sky. And out of the cloud came sounds that Timoken recognised: a thousand voices, the voices of eagles and hawks, of gulls and owls and of every bird of prey that he had ever heard. And they all spoke with one voice: ‘We are with you!’
The cloud fell on the black birds, covering them like a shroud; it flew around them and beneath them, until nothing could be seen of the fearful creatures. Their furious screams rose above the cries of the thousand birds of prey.
Help had come not a moment too soon. Timoken knew that he could not have defended himself any longer. The black creatures would have torn him to shreds. His throat was parched, his head pounded, but he managed to utter a feeble, ‘Thank you, my friends,’ before he dropped to earth.
Timoken lay where he had fallen, on the dusty road into the city. His friends rode up to him, with Gabar galloping behind.
‘Is he dead?’ cried Beri.
‘Looks like they finished him off,’ said Mabon.
‘No!’ shouted Edern. ‘That cannot be.’
‘He looks dead,’ said Peredur, and Gereint agreed.
Timoken raised himself on one elbow and grinned at them. ‘Don’t believe everything you see,’ he said to Peredur.
They leapt off their horses and surrounded him, cheering with relief and joy.
‘You look terrible, Timoken,’ said Mabon.
Edern said, ‘Without wounds, a hero is not a hero.’
‘I’m not a hero yet.’ Timoken felt strong and confident. ‘Let us go into the city,’ he said, jumping to his feet. Gabar crouched to let him mount and he swung himself easily into the saddle.
‘You are very bloody,’ Beri remarked, looking at Timoken’s tunic. ‘Do you not have a clean garment in one of those bags?’ She glanced at the bundles hanging from his saddle.
‘I am alive,’ said Timoken, raising his sword. ‘That is all that matters.’
On the street outside the toymaker’s house, the sorcerer stood watching the cloud of birds. One by one, the flying creatures that he had created with such cunning dropped like wet rags on to roofs and walls and cobblestones. A bundle of bones and black feathers fell at his feet and he stepped back. One end of his mouth curled up in a grim smile. ‘Well, African, a new game can begin,’ he muttered.
Watching from their windows, others had seen the monstrous creatures fall. Cautiously, people began to emerge on to the streets. They looked at their neighbours and shook their heads, murmuring, ‘Is it all over? We thought the end of the world had come.’
A small procession was moving up the main street. People turned to look. They saw a boy on a camel and, behind him, five children on weary-looking horses. One of them suddenly rode up beside the camel. He – no, it was a girl – swept off her battered headgear and a mane of golden hair tumbled out.
‘I am Berenice, daughter of Esteban Díaz,’ cried the girl, ‘and I have come to avenge the death of my father. Where is the murderer?’
Someone pointed to an alley leading off the main street. Others nodded, and a woman shouted, ‘He is in the house of Tariq the toymaker. Tariq is dead now, but his wife still lives.’
‘The sorcerer keeps her prisoner,’ cried an old man.
‘Don’t go there, child,’ said another woman. ‘You cannot avenge your father. He was murdered by a sorcerer. Wait for the soldiers.’
‘This is Timoken.’ Beri pointed at him. ‘He is a magician, and he has just defeated the flying creatures that have been menacing our city.’
The crowd stared up at the boy on the camel. He had certainly been in a fight. His white tunic was streaked with blood, his face and hands were scarred with deep scratches. There was a glimmer of gold in his hair. Could it be a crown?
Timoken slid off the camel’s back, and the others dismounted. Children ran forward to hold the reins. They were proud that a boy, no bigger than themselves, had defeated the flying monsters.
One of the boys pointed to the narrow street a few paces behind him. ‘The sorcerer and his creatures are down there,’ he said. ‘We saw them.’
‘Which door?’ asked Timoken.
‘The sign of the camel,’ a small girl told him.
Timoken felt the eyes of the crowd on him. He could not fail now. But before he faced the sorcerer, he had to do something about his sword and shield. They had not protected him as well as they might have. He sat on the cobblestones and lay the sword across his lap. In the language of the secret kingdom, he begged the weapon to defend him, to be invincible against all enemies and to end the life of any being that wished him dead.
The people listened to the African’s chanting. They watched in awed silence as he ran his fingers over the sword, and they saw a silver ring on the middle finger of his left hand. The ring flashed as though it were made of fire.
Timoken put his sword aside and, laying his shield over his knees, he repeated his chant. When he had finished, he asked his friends to hand him their weapons. One by one he ran his fingers over the swords and the shields with their bright emblems: the wolf and the bear, the fish and the eagle and the running hare.
‘This means that we are coming with you,’ said Edern as Timoken returned his sword.
‘I want it to be your choice.’ Timoken stood up. He glanced at Beri.
‘Do you expect me to choose safety, when I have a chance to avenge my father?’ she said hotly.
‘No.’ Timoken’s face was solemn.
Beri quickly tied her long hair into a knot at the back of her head. ‘I am ready,’ she said.
Timoken had been prepared to go alone, but it was good to hear his friends’ footsteps close behind him. He came to a flight of steps. The door at the top was painted with the sign of a camel, and he smiled to himself. A camel could only bring good luck. But as he looked at it, the camel became a fluid thing; it turned from gold to green, the head withered and melted into the long neck. The legs vanished and the body stretched into a narrow, writhing creature: a living serpent.
Timoken mounted the steps. The others followed. He stared at the moving green coils, twisting and sliding across the wood. He
had never seen magic like this. His friends took a step back, but Timoken tucked his sword into its scabbard and put his fingers on the ringed door handle. As he began to turn it, the serpent’s head lunged towards his hand, its open mouth revealing lethal fangs. Timoken was quicker. In a flash he had seized the thing by the neck. It hissed in fury, its jaws widening, its yellow eyes glaring. But Timoken kept his grip until the serpent’s mouth began to close. Its eyes rolled back into its head and it was still.
‘I do not trust it,’ muttered Timoken, dropping the serpent to the ground.
Without hesitating, Edern pulled out his sword and cut off the serpent’s head.
The others stared at it in horror. If this was the beginning of a battle, what could they expect to find behind the toymaker’s door?
Timoken turned the handle and the door swung open. At first he could see nothing but an empty courtyard. There was a stone seat in the centre, and behind the seat a rose bush covered in golden yellow blooms. A breeze sent their fragrance drifting towards the group, but when they inhaled the lovely perfume, it turned sour in their nostrils and became foul and dreadful. The strength of the smell made their stomachs churn, and while they were reeling, retching, about the courtyard, the petals on the bush withered and dropped. Behind the dying blooms, three shadowy figures could now be seen.
‘At last!’ called a voice.
Timoken shivered. It was the voice of a youth, but its tone was ancient and evil.
Someone came out of the shadows and walked around the rose bush. The youth was not much taller than Timoken. His golden-brown hair touched his shoulders, and his eyes were the colour of polished green olives. Timoken instantly shifted his gaze to the hand that rested on the hilt of the youth’s sword. ‘Do not look into his eyes,’ he told the others.
‘You know what I want.’ The sorcerer’s smile was almost pleasant.
‘The web of the last moon spider,’ said Timoken. ‘But you shall never have it.’
‘You could have added, “while there is breath left in my body”,’ said the youth. ‘And I would have answered, “The breath in your body has not long to last.”’
‘The breath in my body will last forever,’ said Timoken. Now that he was face-to-face with his enemy, he felt quite calm. He was aware of the two viridees gliding around the other side of the bush, and, without turning his head, he said softly, ‘Be ready, my friends. Remember, your swords are invincible.’
‘We are ready,’ said Edern.
The sorcerer took a step towards Timoken. ‘I see you have your sister’s ring,’ he said. ‘A pity she was left without it.’
Timoken frowned. ‘What do you know of my sister?’
‘I know that she lies dead in her husband’s workshop.’
‘What?’ Timoken clutched his chest. He could not breathe.
‘Poor African. Did you not know that this is her house?’
Speechless with shock, Timoken shook his head.
‘At least it was.’ The sorcerer’s voice was filled with gleeful spite. ‘She would not be quiet, you see. She wanted to warn you, and whatever I did to her, she would still raise herself and shout and scream. So I had to –’
Timoken heard no more. His shriek of anguish drowned every other sound. His sword was in his hand and he was flying at the youth. Again and again he slashed at the bobbing head, but found that he was cutting through empty air. The sorcerer had become a column of smoke, a spinning green cloud. But his sword was still a weapon, and it came at Timoken in a lightning flash. Timoken raised his shield, but the youth’s enchanted sword came snaking across his chest, and Timoken’s movements had to become faster than seemed humanly possible. He whirled around, so that the red cloak covered every part of him except his head.
A voice cried, ‘I see it now! I see the web! You are wearing it, you foolish king.’
But the sorcerer’s sword could not penetrate the red moon cloak, and so he sent a shower of fiery stones raining down on Timoken. Most bounced harmlessly off the spellbound wood of his shield, but one of the burning stones caught the back of his neck. He staggered and fell. In a glance, he took in the fighting all about him. One of the viridees had curled its fingers around Edern’s sword and pulled it out of his grasp. Before the creature could turn the sword on Edern, Beri sliced at its arm and the severed limb fell to the ground, leaving the creature gurgling with rage.
Almost too late, Timoken saw the sorcerer’s blade coming at his chest. He parried the blow with his own sword, but now the whirling column came so close that Timoken could see the sorcerer’s form behind the vapour. He could see the green sinews, the long fluid limbs and the shifting, sponge-like skull beneath the handsome face.
‘What are you?’ Timoken breathed.
‘I am the only human son of Degal, lord of the viridees.’ The sorcerer’s voice rose in triumph. ‘The dark blood of the forest runs in my veins, and mine is the only human heart that cannot be touched by love or the sword.’
‘You are not human!’ cried Timoken, jumping up.
The cloud-wrapped form whirled around him, and the air hummed in its wake. Timoken turned with the cloud, bending, twisting and leaping, as the sorcerer’s sword sliced the air about him.
‘And are you human?’ screeched the sorcerer. ‘A boy who flies; a boy whose life depends on the web of the last moon spider?’
Timoken tried not to listen, tried to anticipate the next thrust of the sorcerer’s gleaming blade, but his head was throbbing, and he wondered how long he could keep his eye on the spinning cloud.
All at once the shrouded sorcerer became very still. Timoken stared at the cloud, waiting. After such frenzied movement, its stillness was unnerving. When it came, the sword thrust was so fast, Timoken hardly saw it. How he avoided it, he would never know, but, twisting aside, he lunged at the cloud, sending his sword deep into its core, and he prayed that he had found, if not his enemy’s heart, then whatever force it was that kept him alive.
For a few seconds, the cloud continued to spin, but gradually it dwindled. As it sank to the ground, a deathly wail came out of it. The sound was so terrible that Timoken had to drop his sword and cover his ears.
The viridees were nowhere to be seen, but a trail of thick green slime ran over the cobblestones at his feet. Edern was sitting on the ground with his head between his hands. When he felt Timoken’s eyes on him, he looked up and grinned.
The others were all on their feet. Battered and bloody, they looked cheerfully triumphant.
‘We have won, my friends!’ Timoken raised his sword.
His eyes had left the cloud for only a moment, but in that time it had vanished.
‘Did you see it?’ he asked the others. ‘Where did it go?’
They shrugged, and Mabon said, ‘A sorcerer can vanish, you know.’
Edern added quietly, ‘My uncle can do that – almost.’
Timoken picked up the sorcerer’s weapon. There were strange symbols carved into the blade: a sword made with magic, and yet the sorcerer could not take it with him.
As he studied the symbols, Timoken could see a small creature moving behind them. It was as though the bright steel were a mirror, reflecting objects that could not be seen by the human eye.
Timoken could make out the thing more clearly now. It was a serpent. The reflection of the shining creature darted up a wall; it dropped to the ground, slithered across a street and vanished into the shadows.
Dropping the sword, Timoken rushed to the courtyard door. He squinted into the shadows, crying, ‘Did you see it? Did you see it?’
Edern ran up behind him. ‘See what?’
‘The serpent. It was small, you could have missed it.’
‘There are many lizards,’ said Edern. ‘They are basking on the wall. No doubt you mistook one for a serpent.’
‘No,’ Timoken said firmly. He closed the door. ‘It is gone now.’
The others crowded around him. ‘Was it the sorcerer?’ asked Mabon. ‘There’s no sign of him.�
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‘How could he vanish like that?’ asked Peredur.
‘He is a sorcerer,’ said Timoken.
Gereint looked alarmed. ‘Not dead, then.’
Timoken shrugged. ‘It is likely that he has many lives. I have taken only one of them.’
‘Will he come back here?’ asked Peredur.
‘We will soon be gone,’ Timoken reassured him. ‘And then there will be nothing for him in Toledo.’ He noticed that Beri was sitting alone on the stone seat. She looked drained of life. Her face showed not a spark of her former bravado. She had killed a viridee, but she did not know if she had avenged her father. For where was the sorcerer now?
Timoken sat beside her. The others looked on. They wanted to celebrate, but they could not. Beri had lost her father, so how could they expect her to smile?
‘You are the bravest girl that I have ever met,’ said Mabon. Beri was not to know that, coming from Mabon, this was an unheard-of compliment.
‘It is true,’ agreed Edern.
‘The bravest,’ said Gereint.
‘And the most beautiful,’ mumbled Peredur, his cheeks reddening.
Timoken agreed with them all, but he had nothing to add. He could only think of his sister, lying somewhere in the house. He could not believe that she was dead when he had only just discovered she had survived the loss of the ring. She had taken the Alixir for more than a hundred years, so, surely, even a sorcerer could not end her life.
The boys’ kind words failed to comfort Beri. Their sympathy tipped her over into tears again. This time she hardly made a sound. But her shoulders began to shake and a river of tears flowed down her cheeks and dripped on to her battle-stained tunic.
Timoken did not know what to do. The sight of those tears tore at his heart and he had to close his eyes. In the language of the secret kingdom, he quietly begged the sky to show Beri that, in spite of everything, the world was still beautiful.
There was a moment of silence before he felt a light touch on his shoulder.
‘Rain,’ said Edern. ‘And the sun is still shining.’