“Where’s Granny?” mumbled John. “I needs a spell. Urgent. I feels rotten awful.”
“Me too.” Nathan went back to the bed, carrying a cup of tea and two sandwiches. “But we’re not at home, I’m afraid. I can’t see anyone wanting to make us feel better in this place.”
“We ain’t home?” John sat up with a jerk, regretted it, and sank down again with one hand to his forehead. “And I doesn’t want no sandwiches. I feels sick.”
“We were drugged,” Nathan told him between mouthfuls of stale bread and burned bacon. “That wasn’t hot fig juice at all, it was a sleeping drug. And it wasn’t an Epilog either. It was – guess – yes, our best friend Clebbster.”
“Wot?” John sat up with another horrified jerk. “Where is we now, then?”
“The great black house on the cliff at Pickles Fishing Village,” said Nathan with a sigh. “This horrible food has just been supplied by William Octobr. We’re locked into this bedroom, and Clebbster is around somewhere. Hexaconda used to live here, but we know she’s not here now.”
“Humph,” John swallowed the shock. “Better n’ some old ruin or them tunnels under Clarr.”
“Wherever we are, we’re locked in,” said Nathan. “Prisoners. Again! But I think it was my fault. Too trusting. An invisible Epilog we’d never seen before, and we happily go into his dark house in a place we know the Epilogs don’t live, and drink something which tastes wrong. How stupid can you get?”
But John managed a smile and shook his head. “Too trusting – too true. But we ain’t stooped, Nat. We got Epilog friends wot got names we can’t remember. We knows they live all over. Up till this week, them trees was horrible, or we thought they was. Now they’s friends. It ain’t easy to know it all. So we gotta trust.”
“And now,” added Nathan, “we’ve got to get out. Clebbster will clump up the stairs and point that disgusting long finger, and blast us into little bits.”
“Well,” John rolled from the bed, grabbed a sandwich, stuffed it in his mouth, and said, while spitting crumbs, “Get yer knife out, Nat, and open that door.”
The door sprang open so quickly with a snap and a clatter, with the padlock outside breaking into two parts, that once again Nathan wondered if it was a trick. “My knife doesn’t usually do anything that quickly, nor that dramatically,” he said.
“Reckon your knife’s sick o’ being locked up too,” John said, looking around the open doorway.
Together they crept down the stairs. Uncarpeted, the steps creaked and echoed, and in the middle was a central balustrade which they guessed had been made for snakes to slither and coil up and down instead of using the steps. But no one appeared to notice the little sounds they were making, and they reached the bottom of the stairs, Nathan holding his knife, and John holding the heavy cup and large platter from the tray upstairs. The bleak darkness continued, so they ducked into the first opening on the bottom corridor. The door was slightly open, and they checked first in case Clebbster was waiting there. But it seemed empty. It was the huge room of the swimming pool. The water steamed.
“Quick, let’s check there’s no one in the water,” Nathan said, darting forwards. He ran to the edge and stared in, stopped immediately, and raised a hand to stop John coming too close. “Snakes,” he sighed. “Not as many as last time, but five or six. I wonder if they’re Quosters or real snakes?”
“Hush,” mumbled John, going white. “Tis summint worse. Look.”
It was a vast room, high ceilinged and dripping with steamy condensation. The walls seemed to be painted white, but nothing was clear beneath the slurp of water. The pool itself was not tiled, and it seemed to have been made of moss, weedy grasses and stones, more like a natural pool outside. The water was clearly hot and it bubbled beneath the steam, as if simmering. Within the water, the six large snakes of different types swam, encircling each other, or lying still and content at the bottom.
But on the surface of the water, the bubbles and the steamy swirls, danced three brightly coloured little stars, one black, one green, and one pink. There was not a blue one. But the others, dithering and twirling, were obviously enjoying themselves.
The largest snake, a python of many colours, was so huge, at first it had seemed like two or three. It lay half on the surface and half submerged, its vast coils curled over and over beneath. Its head was floating, and its green eyes were wide and watching while its nostrils breathed bubbling water and smoke. The eyes did not blink but the small pointed finish to the endless tail twitched in silent impatience.
Another much smaller snake swam past, and the huge serpent’s second coil slapped out, hurling the other across the pool. It sank to the mossy bottom and stayed meek.
John asked, “Hexaconda?”
The giant barely moved but its head and the slender beginning of its neck basked on the simmering surface. It appeared to be waiting for something.
“It’s not Hexaconda,:” Nathan murmured, “and I think we ought to leave.”
The three stars hovered, barely touching the water, with no reflection visible through the steam.
“I reckon, yeh,” said John, and moved at once. They both left the room, shut the door hard behind them and wiped the damp from their faces and clothes. “T’wer him, weren’t it?”
“Clebbster. I’m sure it was. But he didn’t attack.”
“That water,” said John. “I reckon tis healing. That bag o’ bones gotta keep mending them splinters, ain’t it?”
“He could walk alright while pretending he was an Epilog,” Nathan said.
“We doesn’t know. Didn’t see the fellow, did we!”
“True. But who flew us from the forest to Pickles, if Clebbster is still sick?”
“Them stars.” John had his foot firmly taut against the outside of the door but it seemed that no one attempted to open it. “Three o’ them. Reckon they coulda done wot they wanted. Wotever Clebbster said. I reckon Clebbster were speaking but he weren't see cos he were in a wheelchair or sommint. But that don’t matter. Now we gottta get out.”
The corridor was dark, but Nathan had been there before when exploring Pickles, and tried to remember where to go next. Yet somehow it looked different and there was a sound of whispers which he disliked. “I think there’s a left turn at the end there,” he said, pointing into the shadows. They ran the length of the passageway but found no left turn. Instead they took the right turn, since that’s all there was. But as they turned the corner, a blast of freezing air struck them, blowing them off their feet and backwards. Landing flat on their backs outside the door of the pool again, they sat up, bruised and puzzled.
“Reckon we’d best go t’other way,” said John, rubbing the back of his head. And with a slip and a scramble, they staggered back up and turned to the opposite direction. The passage led them on and on into the growing darkness, and the whispers grew louder.
Voices echoed. ‘When the ice wind blows, I claim their souls.’ ‘Beware, for hunger grows. Then I shall eat whatever passes.’
Nathan felt cold water on the back of his neck, but there was no condensation here in the corridor, no steam, and no visible person. “What do you want?” he shouted.
‘Our memories,’ one voice echoed. ‘To claim our rights,’ answered another. ‘To feed on the wickedness of others,’ said a third.
There was a door open. A flicker of green and a pinpoint of light showed through the narrow opening. Both John and Nathan rushed in, and when they heard the door snap and click behind them, they wished they hadn’t. They stood in a tangle of climbing brambles where small green leaves were sharply thorned along their edges, scratching and twining as anyone passed. Longer thorns sprang from the stems. And the stems began to move. As if greedy, they sprang over John, wrapping him in unbreakable vines. They swept out and clambered around his body and face, tightly around his neck, and snapped both his hands to his sides. Then the long curved thorns began to climb up him, scratching his face and neck until they bled. His eyes,
staring, were desperate, but he could only grunt and not speak, for his mouth was held shut with thorned branches under his chin, up around the top of his head, and down again.
Nathan was already stabbing with the Knife of Clarr, attempting to free him, but the thorns fought back, jabbing and stabbing. “The Lord of Clarr to the Knife of Clarr,” yelled Nathan in desperation, “Break this thing. Cut the stems. Free John.”
With a hiss, the knife cut. The plant fell apart. The rope-like stems curled back against themselves, collapsed into a hundred broken creepers, and their thorns cracked. The climbing shoots fell into loose and placid leaf. The tangle of green tumbled into a shattered pile and John climbed out, blood dripping down his face and hands. His eyes were still wide and panic-stricken.
“Hey, thanks,” he gulped. “That knife is a proper marvel. But that thing attacked me. Not you. Why?”
“Why anything?” sighed Nathan, kicking the torn creepers into a corner of the room. “Nothing ever makes sense until afterwards, when you can look back and see what really happened. “But I’ve an idea someone wanted me to go on alone without anyone to help me. Which is crazy. As if I’d just walk away and leave a friend trapped like that.”
“So wot fellow planned it, woulda done just that,” nodded John. “Clebbster, would.”
“Yes, he did,” Nathan nodded. “Even with his daughter.”
“Now we goes on together,” agreed John, “but mighty careful.”
The room was large and they could see no other way out, but a slant of light angled down from a high window at one end, and they walked towards this, but slowly, trying to avoid any traps on the way. The ground was solid, the walls plain, and there was no furniture of any kind. Then they reached the beam of light, and stood a moment, looking up. But they quickly realised that the window, which had seemed to be the source of sunshine, was something quite different. It was a flat painting of a window with frame and four glass squares, but there was no real window there at all, and the slanting light was not a sunbeam but came from a tunnelled opening within the centre of the painting. The light was silver grey, and flickered with sudden shades of blue.
Before their eyes, and within the light as it struck downwards onto the floor, something began to take shape. It was a man, transparent at first, but armed with a curved sword, a gold studded baldric slanting across his chest, and two other knives slotted through. As his vague outline turned to shadow and finally to realistic focus, he leapt from the light beam and faced Nathan with a snarl.
Then, without a word, he walked to the side of the room and waited. Another figure jumped, shouting and raising his sword which caught the light, turning a dazzling blue, before the figure then stood beside the other, keeping to the side of the walls. Nathan and John, startled, moved back as the third figure sprang. This man was a little shorter but wide shouldered and muscular, his light yellow hair long at the back of his neck. His sword was double-edged, and the metal blade was dark.
A fourth man, looking like the son of the other, marched from invisibility into clarity, a long black bladed sword in each hand. His pale hair fell into his eyes, and he grinned, showing blackened teeth.
The figures continued to take shape, until, quite abruptly, Nathan recognised Krillester. And then suddenly he knew what this was.
Nine heavily armed men, solid, muscular, all fair-haired and blue eyes, stood against the wall, one armed with an axe, another carrying a lance, and the last was Krillester.
Until then another man jumped like a toad from the light. He was tall and extremely thin. His greasy black hair was scraped back from his forehead and lay like dead seaweed over his head, while his brilliant green eyes glittered. This was Deben. Yet he did not speak, nor acknowledge that he knew John and Nathan. Instead he stood beside his adopted father, back against the wall.
Others continued to bound into the huge room. Two more men looking so very like Deben, crowded in. But then a woman, tall, skinny and green-eyed walked from the light. Her nose was hooked, her mouth small and thin-lipped, her hair short and straggly, very black, and scraped over the top of her head, hiding the bald centre. She walked with arrogance, kept her three knives in her belt, and walked down the centre of the room. She was followed by another woman, younger, even thinner, scowling and squint-eyed.
A man again, glowering. And then it stopped. But a voice spat out from the painted window and its trailing light beam.
“Well, now you see, if you have the wit to see, what you and your thieving family face.” It was Clebbster’s voice, and Nathan took another step away. But Clebbster did not appear. Only his voice spat out the words. “You think me alone? You have the conceit to suppose me outnumbered? These are my ancestors, and each one can call on a thousand men, trained and armed, to back their emperors. So, brat of an Octobr, meet your real enemies.”
Nathan shivered and turned. The ice down his back felt like a freezing fountain.
Once again each man stepped forwards.
“I am Lester,” he said loudly, blue eyes large and round. “I overthrew the dim-witted idiot William Octobr and took the power I deserved. I was the first Hazlett emperor, and all those who followed me are my kin.”
“Not Deben,” shouted John, but they ignored him.
The next man grinned. “What a pleasure,” he said, licking his lips, “to meet the latest feeble Octobr failure. I am Fester, son of Lester, and I enslaved the beggars of Peganda and the uncouth fools living hungry in the coastal villages. I took them in and fed them. A little. And they worked for it, day and night.”
“I am Wellister,” said the next man, pushing forwards. “Son of Fester. The strongest of all. My magic swept whole armies into the sea.”
“I am Tallister,” said the next, “brother of Wellister. He thinks he was strong, but I killed him and took the throne. I watched him die screaming as he tried to spit out the poison I’d fed him.”
“And I am his son, Mimester,” said the next.
Nathan and John stood absolutely still and silent and watched each one come forward and give his name. They didn’t understand how these wizards could appear from the past, for some had been dead for hundreds of years. The smell was rank, and hot, like sweating pigs and piles of rubbish left too long. And yet, Nathan was still shivering and felt icy fingers crawl through his hair. John was staring without blinking, finding it all beyond belief.
Then Krillester stepped forwards. “You know me,” he said. “You know my strength. Yet I am the last of the true Hazletts. My adopted son, unknown to me at the time, was a vile Quoster, and in spite of my kindness, he killed me when I grew old and he was impatient to rule. But now we will fight together against the Octobrs, fools and usurpers.”
Finally Nathan yelled out, “How dare you call us usurpers, when it was all of you who stole our throne?”
Deben laughed. “We are sixteen wizarding rulers,” he said, “and have sat on the Lashtang throne and worn the Lashtang crown for nearly a thousand years. We are the rightful emperors now, and any who try to steal our rights must be called usurper.”
“You’s all cruel,” shouted John. “Done killed each other. Cruel to yer peoples. No one ain’t got no right to do that. You ain’t proper kings. You’s wicked.”
“How true,” said the next man, who appeared much like Deben, and more Quoster than man. “I am Deben’s son, Jallister the Cruel, they called me, and I was proud of it.”
The first of the two women looked down her hooked nose at John and Nathan, for she was very tall. “I am the daughter of Urrester,” she said, half spitting. “I am Ripsta, and this is my own daughter Claksta who ruled after me.”
A shuffling old man came next, skinny, bent, and wearing glasses. “I am Davister,” he said, “son of dear Claksta. I am Clebbster’s father, and I ruled for many years. I believe he killed me in the end, but I cannot be sure since I was so old and could not see. I made a pact with the Meteor Star Yaark, but perhaps he killed me too.”
With a huge echoing o
f jeering, and shouting, the men began to clump together, arguing and laughing, and the reek of their dark magic swam around the room like fish in water. John and Nathan kept well away against the opposite wall, stepping quietly and carefully towards the one door, although it was shut and they had heard the click of its lock.
Krillester had drawn his sword and with the flat of the blade had swung it hard, slapping it against Deben’s face. He fell, the slap brilliant scarlet across his cheek. “You dare kill me?” he screamed. “After I had taken you from the slums and given you wealth and privilege?”
Deben was still laughing, cackling like a Kookaburra. “You’d grown weak. I was ready to rule. And you never liked me. I never liked you and I saw your vicious nature.”
“You killed more men in a week than I did throughout my life,” cursed Krillester.
“Because I enjoyed it,” Deben answered. “And will enjoy killing these foolish Octobrs and their armies of fools when the time comes.”
Nathan turned the handle behind his back. It turned only halfway, and would not open the door. John moved along, taking the handle behind his own back, and with his knife, attempting to pick the lock. “But I ain’t Peter,” he whispered. “You tries yer knife.”
Nathan again took his place before the door, and with the Knife of Clarr in one hand, he whispered his orders, and asked the knife to open the door, just a little and partially unseen, so they could creep out without being noticed. Yet still nothing happened. “Is the door barred with dark magic?” Nathan asked, and felt the knife twist against his palm. “The knife says yes,” Nathan told John. “So what do we do now?”
Having no idea, John said, “Don’ ask me. Ask yer knife.”
Yet he was interrupted before he could ask, for the slanting blueish light burst apart and swelled, swirling into one huge circle of golden illumination. And there in the middle, transparent but brightly clear, sat Clebbster on the throne of Lashtang. His black clothes and bent spine seemed to crumple over, but his brilliant green eyes were malicious. He looked past the throng of his ancestors and leered at Nathan and John. It was obvious that he could see what was happening just as they could all see him, even though he was not present.
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