The Wings of Ruksh

by Anne Forbes

  As Arthur flew over the fishing fleet, Archie loosened the saddlebags so that a constant stream of glittering magic dust floated through the air and landed in and around the trawlers and although some of the fishermen, scanning the surrounding blackness fearfully, seemed to sense the presence of something unusual, there was no sudden outcry to indicate that he had been spotted.

  The battleships, however, proved quite a different kettle of fish for, as Arthur and his magic dust swept across the French fleet in the total, utter darkness of the night, he was spotted! Not by the glow of the ships’ lights, for he was too high for that, but by the wonders of modern technology.

  It was the MacArthur’s fault, really. Not quite up to scratch with the latest in military inventions, he had omitted to include night-vision goggles in his calculations. Indeed, he’d never heard of them and had relied on the fact that Arthur didn’t show up on radar screens to afford him protection.

  This, however, wasn’t enough and before long one of the officers on watch caught sight of his great shape flying over the biggest and most illustrious of all the French battleships.

  At first, needless to say, he just couldn’t believe his eyes. He took his goggles off, polished them up with his handkerchief and eyed the battleship again. By that time, however, Arthur had moved on and there was nothing to see. He sighed with relief but now on the alert, started to scan the sky above the nearby ships. And he spotted Arthur again.

  “Hey, Henri,” he called, beckoning another officer onto the bridge. “Come here a minute, will you.”

  “What’s up, Jacques?”

  “Put your goggles on and look over there,” Jacques said, hurriedly. “Hurry up, put them on and tell me what you see. Over there … to starboard. What the devil’s that?”

  “It looks,” Henri said, his eyes round in disbelief as he adjusted the night vision, “it looks a bit like a dragon, wouldn’t you say?”

  “That’s what I thought!” They looked at one another apprehensively.

  “The radar room,” Jacques said sharply as reality kicked in. “What in heaven’s name are they doing down there? They should have spotted it ages ago. It should never have got within a mile of us!” He swore roundly as they left the bridge at a gallop and charged down the companionway. “Why the devil haven’t they sounded the alarm!”

  The sailors manning the quietly-bleeping banks of radar screens looked up in surprise as the two officers barged hurriedly into the room and made straight for the monitors, peering at them over the men’s shoulders.

  “Hey,” one of them protested. “what’s all this?”

  Henri couldn’t believe his eyes. “They’re … they’re not picking anything up, Jacques,” he said incredulously, ignoring the question and peering at the screen over the operator’s shoulder. “Not a thing!”

  “Maybe if you were to tell me what I should be picking up, sir, it might help?” queried the radar operator dryly.

  Henri and Jacques looked at one another.

  Jacques took a deep breath. “There’s something huge flying over the fleet,” he said. “I don’t know what it is but it looks like an enormous dragon!”

  The radar operators looked at one another and grinned. “You are having us on, sir, aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m not! We both saw it.”

  Henri nodded. “Whatever it is, it’s cruising over the fleet right now!”

  The radar operators glanced at their screens, just to check, and, seeing nothing, looked at their officers through narrowed eyes. There was nothing there and they were not impressed.

  “I wonder if they’re going to wake the captain up,” said one wickedly, glancing at his friends for support. “Although I can’t say I’d like to wake up the old man with a tale like that!”

  There was burst of laughter as Jacques and Henri looked at one another in disgust and left them to the green glow of their radar screens. Scrambling up the companionway to the bridge, they hastily pulled on their goggles and once more scanned the darkness of the heavens.

  This time, however, the sky was completely and utterly empty. They looked at one another in dismay — for the monstrous creature that they had seen soaring in the blackness of the night sky had completely vanished.

  Frantically, they scanned the surrounding area again and again but there was no dragon to be seen anywhere and it was just when they had decided that it must have been a figment of their imagination that one of the radio officers came up to them and handed them a piece of paper. Jacques scanned it quickly and looked at Henri in triumph. “It wasn’t only us that spotted it,” he burst out, thrusting the paper into his hands. “Look at this! An officer on one of the cruisers saw it too!”

  “But where has it gone?” Henri questioned, looking up in to the darkness. “It seems to have completely disappeared.”

  By then, they were far too late to catch a glimpse of Arthur for he had finished his work and, with Archie perched tiredly on his back, was was already heading for home.

  32. Scotch Mist

  Sir James, Tatler and the Chief Constable all spent the night inside the hill. Sir James had become used to the wide, stone-flagged corridors that arched dimly towards the sleeping quarters, but Tatler and the Chief Constable marvelled at the size of rooms that housed vast wardrobes and huge four-poster beds. Tapestries, depicting dragons, unicorns and other strange creatures, draped the walls, and the old furniture gleamed with polished brilliance. Sir James relaxed for a while in the welcome warmth of a fire that burned brightly in the depth of an enormous fireplace and then, totally exhausted, headed for bed. As he pulled the blankets and fur covers over him, he had only time to think momentarily of Arthur and Archie, flying over the icy waves of the North Sea, before his eyes closed and sleep overtook him.

  They all slept late and it was almost ten o’clock when they gathered for breakfast in the Great Hall where Hamish told them that Archie and Arthur had returned safely just before dawn.

  “It all went without a hitch,” the MacArthur assured them in a voice filled with satisfaction as they poured themselves coffee.

  “Wonderful,” Sir James congratulated him.

  “When will you know if the spell has worked?” Tatler asked, a trifle anxiously. “I thought I’d better check before I passed the news on to Charles Wyndham and the Prime Minister.”

  “It’s working already,” the MacArthur grinned gleefully. “Archie and Arthur have just gone to get cleaned up. They’ll be back in a minute but we had a look in the crystal when they came in, and from the way the French are behaving it seems to have just dawned on them that they’re in big trouble!”

  They strolled over to the stand that held the crystal and stared into its depth. As it showed nothing more than a thick, white mist it was hardly exciting viewing but Sir James sighed with relief. The MacArthur’s cunning plan was working a treat!

  “The spell will take care of the French,” nodded the MacArthur, looking round the table, “but it’s the crown that’s our main concern now.” His voice became serious as they sat back and listened. “I spoke to Ellan earlier on and she told me that Rothlan, Hamish and Jaikie have finally managed to rejoin them. I told you that Kalman set the snow witches onto them, didn’t I? Rothlan had to call up the storm carriers to finish them off but he lost Clara and Amgarad in the battle. Amgarad was frozen by the witches’ spells but apparently he’s fine now.”

  “And Clara?” Sir James asked anxiously as Tatler and the Chief Constable looked at one another in alarm.

  The MacArthur frowned. “Kalman is using the crown’s magic to hide her from us. The crystals haven’t been able to pick her up at all.”

  “But that’s dreadful.” Sir James looked horrified.

  “Don’t worry, Sir James,” the MacArthur reassured him. “You’re forgetting the Sultan’s spell. Kalman might be able to keep her prisoner but he won’t be able to harm her. He’d know immediately that a strong spell is protecting her.”

  “Aren’t Lord Rothlan and
her father trying to find her?” queried the Chief Constable.

  “Amgarad is going to search the mountains for her today, but the others have to press on to Ardray.”

  “Did you tell Rothlan about Kalman’s meeting with the Scottish Executive tomorrow?” queried Sir James.

  “I did. At three o’clock, you said.”

  Sir James nodded. “It’s so important that Rothlan moves into the tower at the right time,” he said, frowning worriedly. “I’m getting totally paranoid about it!”

  The MacArthur nodded. “So am I,” he admitted. “Time’s getting short. They just have to find Clara soon. Rothlan can’t change back to the twenty-first century until they do.”

  Sir James looked worried. “I hope to goodness our plan works,” he muttered. “Kalman seems to have been winning all along the line. What if he cancels this meeting?”

  “Relax, James. He can’t afford to miss it. You know that,” the MacArthur said seriously. “Not if it’s going to prove his claim beyond doubt!”

  Sir James frowned as he looked round the table. “Parliament is absolutely buzzing with it all,” he said to Tatler and Sir Archie, “and to tell you the truth I find it totally mind-boggling the way everybody is supporting his claim. Believe me; I haven’t dared say a word against him! They’re for him to a man, just as he planned.” He heaved a sigh and shook his head.

  “Then there’s no doubt that he’ll be proclaimed king?” Tatler said.

  “No doubt at all! The latest news is that de Charillon’s waiting for a courier who’s bringing more papers from Paris. If they arrive in time, he’ll pass them on to Stuart and, according to Ned, they’ll provide absolute proof.”

  The MacArthur drank the remains of his coffee. “Aye, that I can well believe,” he said sourly. “Forgeries, the lot of them!”

  They all rose to their feet as Arthur and Archie appeared. Sir James slapped Archie on the back with a beaming smile and there were murmurs of congratulation all round. Arthur perched happily beside the MacArthur and was about to join in the conversation when he glimpsed the glow of the crystal ball.

  “Did you know that the mist’s vanished?” he queried.

  The MacArthur got up and adjusted the crystal. “It’s all right,” he said reassuringly as they all sprang to their feet in alarm, “it’s just homed in on something else.” His face creased in a puzzled frown. “Where do you think this is?” he asked.

  Tatler looked over his shoulder and almost had a heart attack as he looked at the figures that moved in the crystal. “That’s Bruiton!” he gasped. “The French Foreign Minister! I don’t know where he is but it’s him all right!”

  With one accord they clustered round the crystal and watched with fascinated eyes as Marcel Bruiton, followed by a horde of officials, marched into what looked like a vast, underground room.

  “It must be part of the Ministry of Defence in Paris,” Tatler muttered as he eyed the uniformed figures.

  “In that case, this ought to prove very interesting,” the Chief Constable said, with a grin as they settled excitedly to watch the French reaction to the MacArthur’s cunning plan.

  33. French Leave

  Tatler was correct in his guess. What they were seeing was, indeed, an operations room in the Ministry of Defence in Paris. The eye of the crystal moved round it slowly, revealing a huge, brightly-coloured projection that dominated one of the walls. It showed, in great detail, the blue stretch of the North Sea from the east coast of Great Britain to the deeply indented coastline of Norway. A casual observer might have assumed that a giant computer game was in progress as the map was dotted with a variety of ships of varying sizes that were either strung along the shores of Britain or clustered in the middle of the screen. Those in the middle of the sea, it was noted, were flying little French flags.

  Army, Navy and Air Force uniforms were all present in the room but it was the naval officers, stationed nearest the screen, whose faces showed traces of strain. The Army and Air Force officers seemed decidedly more relaxed and clung interestedly to the outer fringes of the group, their expressions guarded. Nevertheless, one could, if one looked closely, occasionally discern a fleeting look of amusement on their carefully schooled features. The navy was in the soup! Or rather, in the middle of the North Sea without a lifebelt in sight!

  “Well?” Bruiton demanded.

  “It’s quite incredible!” answered the most senior of his admirals, shaking his head worriedly. “Nothing’s changed! I just don’t know what the devil’s going on out there. Apparently, the fleet is surrounded by a heavy, thick, white mist. It sits out there covering our entire fleet and, as far as I can see, defies all the laws of meteorology!”

  “And can’t,” Marcel Bruiton demanded, “can’t they sail through it?”

  The admiral gave him an expressionless look. “They’ve been trying to sail through it all day, Minister.”

  “What! You must be joking!”

  “I’m not,” the admiral muttered.

  “But … I don’t understand …”

  “Neither do I,” muttered the admiral, “and what’s more, neither does the Weather Bureau. Not only that, the satellite shows that the fleet is sailing round in circles.”

  “Round in circles!” snapped Bruiton. “You’d think with all the expensive navigational equipment we’ve installed that they’d be able to do slightly better than that!”

  “Our captains at sea blame everyone but themselves, sir.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! Anyway, surely they can’t all be going round in circles!”

  “Fantastic or not, that’s what they’re doing!” the admiral paused. “All of them.”

  “Even … even the submarines?” gulped the Minister.

  “Even the submarines!”

  “And what about the British fleet? What are they doing? Where,” his eyes searched the board, “where are they?”

  “Laughing their heads off, I should think!” whispered a high-ranking officer to his neighbour.

  The admiral blenched. “Sir, they’re doing nothing.” He gestured to the screen where ships bearing the white ensign of the British Navy hugged the coast. “Their entire fleet is in port. They haven’t a warship or a submarine at sea!”

  “But they must know that our fleet is on its way to destroy them?”

  Several heads jerked in surprise at this remark. “Destroy them?” queried a rather crusty-looking old general, looking round a room that had fallen suddenly silent. “Is there, by any chance, something that we haven’t been told, Minister? I, certainly, was under the impression that the cause of our present state of alert was the protection of our fishing fleet!”

  “Yes, yes,” Bruiton said hastily, “a slip of the tongue! I meant destroy them … if they attacked our fleet.”

  The general coughed. “May I point out, Minister,” he said, “that the entire British fleet is in port and that at the moment we seem to have put ourselves in the position of aggressors! Besides which,” he glowered at the admiral, “our fleet must be in a disgraceful state of unreadiness if all it can do is sail round in circles. Thick mist or no thick mist!”

  Biting back an angry retort, the Minister looked thoughtful. “The mist is suspicious,” he announced.

  “Very suspicious,” nodded the admiral, pleased that they were in agreement about something.

  “Can’t we have it analysed?”

  “We could analyse it, sir,” there was an agonised pause, “if we were able to find it.”

  “But,” he looked at the admiral, “you’ve just said it was around our fleet!”

  “Yes, it is, sir. We have proof of that. Our captains confirm it.”

  “Then why can’t it be analysed? Am I surrounded by fools?”

  “Well, you see, Minister, there are no chemists on board the warships.”

  “But for God’s sake, man, the Weather Bureau can send in an aircraft equipped to take samples, surely!”

  “Theoretically, yes,” agreed the admiral, s
wallowing hard.

  There was a stunned silence as the Minister digested this reply. “What the devil do you mean?” he said eventually. “Theoretically, yes!”

  The admiral didn’t answer and as the uneasy silence lengthened, an Air Force officer moved over and saluted respectfully. “We’ve been sending weather aircraft out to take samples, sir. They’ve flown out to the areas indicated but they haven’t found the mist.” He took a deep breath and his eyes shifted to a point over the minister’s left shoulder, “and what’s more important, sir, neither have they found the fleet.”

  This time the silence lasted for several minutes.

  Incredulity laced the Minister’s voice. “They – can’t – find – the – fleet!”

  “No, sir.”

  “What on earth do you mean,” his voice was strangled, “they can’t find the fleet?”

  The admiral looked as though he were about to burst into tears. “It … it seems to be lost!”

  “Lost! What do you mean it’s lost? Good heavens, man, you can’t just lose the French fleet!”

  “Sir,” interrupted the Air Force officer, “when the weather aircraft returned and the crew reported that they were unable to find either the fog or the fleet we sent over one of our best reconnaissance aircraft.”

  “Well?”

  “With exactly the same results, sir. The weather, as far as they are concerned, is as clear as crystal from Norway to Scotland and our fleet is non-existent.”

  “It’s not there? But where can it have gone?”

  “No, no. You don’t understand, sir,” interrupted the admiral, “it’s there, all right. Our commanders and captains are sending in reports regularly!”

  “So, it’s there — and it’s not there! There’s a mist — and there isn’t a mist! Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

  “Yes, sir,” whispered the unhappy admiral, staring at his feet.

  The Minister, ageing ten years in as many seconds, looked as though he was going to have a nervous breakdown on the spot. “A secret weapon! It must be!” he said glancing round the room sharply. “The British must have a secret weapon! There … there can be no other explanation.”