by William King
"I'm going," he said suddenly, almost without thinking. "As soon as we land, I'm heading off. I'll take my chances alone."
Pulg didn't have time to reply at once. Folderol was descending now and they could see what was waiting for them at the carnival.
"Right," said Pulg. "So it's not going to be as easy as I thought..."
There were templars outside the carnival - all grey cloaks and swords and grim faces. They had Heidi and Wolfgang with them, apparently as prisoners.
"We could both fly off, I suppose," said Pulg, quietly scathing, "we could just fly off and leave our friends to the templars."
But Folderol continued to descend. There was a great bump and then a series of judders as the creature ran across the ground to slow himself. When they came to a halt, Hans found that he wanted to stay where he was, clutching the body of the wyvern for reassurance. But Pulg was sliding to the ground, pulling Hans down after him.
"All right then, boy," he said, "time for you to scurry off."
Even if he hadn't already been shamed out of it, Hans wouldn't have had the chance to get away. The templars were coming towards them, dragging their prisoners along as they came. Heidi was protesting with great animation, shouting obscenities and trying to land punches on the templars - it was taking two of them to hang on to her.
"You see what you've led us to, Pulg?" she cried. "Didn't I tell you it would come to this?"
"Quiet yourself, Heidi," said Pulg calmly. "We have nothing to gain from making the task of these gentlemen more difficult. This is a misunderstanding, nothing more. It will soon be cleared up."
"Are you Herr Pulg?" asked one of the templars, apparently an officer, stepping forward from the rest.
"I am..."
"In that case we must take you into the custody of the Templars of the White Wolf," said the officer, giving Pulg no further chance to speak. "You are charged with heresy for organizing public displays to promote evil in the city of Krugenheim. You will be tried and, if found guilty, you will be sentenced to death by burning. These, your accomplices, will perish with you."
Pulg edged backwards. Several templars drew their swords, ready to block a possible escape.
"I am a simple showman," said Pulg, "you must have the wrong man. Where is your written authority?"
"We have no need of written authority," said the officer. "We are the Templars of the White Wolf. Our authority stems directly from Ulric and He has no need of pen and paper for men to bow and obey Him. Now, kindly step forward and submit yourself for arrest. Or must we use our teeth to enforce the will of Ulric?"
All eyes were on Pulg. Would he come forward? Would he try to run? Heidi saw that this was her chance to escape. An elbow to the stomach and a kick to the groin and she was free, dashing away across the street.
"Catch up with her!" the officer cried. "Put her to the sword!"
Hans had drawn back to stand by Pulg. Here it was at last - the time to use the flute.
"Put your fingers in your ears," he whispered to the showman.
Then he drew out the flute and began to play.
The templars froze in mid-action. The ones that had begun to chase after Heidi were standing in mid-stride, like statues in extravagant poses.
This is it, thought Hans. I've saved Heidi. We can all escape now! I'm a hero!
Then it happened.
Folderol came lumbering forward with a great bellow, flapping his wings and leaping in amongst the templars, knocking them over like so many skittles. Some of them he tore at with his talons; others he took in his mouth, biting through wolf skin and human skin alike until the bones began to fracture.
Mesmerized by the flute, the templars had no chance to defend themselves. They just lay there and died as the wyvern tramped amongst them, tearing them apart like stuffed dolls.
It was all over in a few moments. The templars, poor Wolfgang among them, were lying dead in spreading pools of blood. Folderol stood in the midst of the carnage, claws in among the torn flesh, blood dripping from his gaping mouth. He began to look around him, wondering what to do next.
"Folderol!" Hans cried, wondering what had happened. Had the creature gone mad? He turned to see Pulg's reaction but the showman was no longer there. Had he seized his chance to run away? Then Folderol turned and began to move towards Hans, the tongue flicking in and out of his bloodied teeth.
He did not advance very far.
There was a small explosion and a blast of smoke and the creature fell to the ground, thrashing about in agony. And there was Pulg, over by the door to the carnival building, standing with the blunderbuss in his arms, hurriedly reloading.
"Stand back, Hans!" he cried. "Keep out of his way till I finish him off. He's not in a very good mood."
But Hans just stood there stunned, looking on in horror as his old friend rolled around in his death throes, tail and wings whipping hither and thither in a tortured frenzy as another ball, then another, then another, tore into his body from the blunderbuss, Then, finally, the tail thrashed its last and the creature lay still.
Hans wanted to cry.
"What have you done?" he shouted. "What have you done to him?"
"What have I done to him!?" said Pulg, throwing the blunderbuss aside and dashing across to seize Hans by the hand, pulling him over to the door of the carnival building. "What have you done to him, you mean, with that stupid artefact of yours. Come on - get inside. There'll be reinforcements."
He pulled the boy through the door and locked it behind them.
"Now then," he said. "Show me that thing!"
He had to shout to make himself heard. The hall was ringing with a great hubbub of baying, roaring animals. They must have caught a scent of the blood, Hans realized, and they want a share for themselves. Reluctantly, he held out the flute for Pulg's inspection.
"Where did you get it?" said the showman brusquely. "Why didn't you tell me you had it?" He took it in his hands and examined it, running his fingers over the smooth surface of the bone.
"It's none of your business," said Hans defiantly. "An old man gave it to me."
"If he was old, he should have accumulated more sense," said Pulg. "Then we might have avoided this dreadful mess. I think I could have beaten off that trumped-up heresy charge but I won't get away with the brutal murder of half the Templars of the White Wolf. Come on, we have to get out of here."
"But I don't understand what happened," said Hans. "Did Folderol go mad?"
"No," said Pulg. "He simply came to his senses. I thought you would have realized that Folderol was bonded to me by magic." He dashed across to his office and began to rummage through drawers.
"But you trained him," said Hans, following on behind. "You said you trained him."
"I may have hinted at that," said Pulg, "for the purpose of public relations. But training could never have reduced a wyvern to such a docile state. No - there was a magic bond. Here, take these and put them in that bag over there, will you?"
"You're a magician then?" said Hans, staring wide-eyed.
"No, but let's just say I knew one once. He was very good to me. Look - get a move on and pack that bag, will you?"
"What is all this?" said Hans. "What are we doing?"
"These are just a few essentials I keep for emergencies," said Pulg. "Salt meat, a few candles, a small tent... Here, put this on." He handed Hans a grey, hooded cloak and began to put on a similar garment himself. "We are druids," said Pulg, "on our way to a solstice ceremony in the Laurelon forest. Just remember that in case anyone asks."
There was banging and shouting at the outside door. The animals, who had been settling down a little, began to roar and shriek and chitter with renewed vigour.
"Listen," said Pulg, "you hear that? The sound of Chaos. It lay dormant in Folderol just as it lies in the rest of us, ready to break from its leash at any moment. It is a dark world, Hans. We must always prepare for the worst!"
"This cloak is too long!" Hans complained.
"Just be thankful you have any cloak at all," said Pulg. "Gather it up in your hands as you walk. Quick - this way." He led the way back towards the door. There was more banging. Someone shouted Pulg's name. The animals leapt at the bars of their cages, struggling to break free.
"The templars are there!" cried Hans. "We must go through to the front entrance."
"I think we'll be surrounded by now," said Pulg. "There's only one way out. Have you got your bag with you? Good." And, to Hans' amazement, he unlocked the door of the basilisk's cage and walked in. The animal turned its head, vaguely sensing his presence.
"Come on, my boy," said Pulg. "Basilisks are very slow animals. And we fed her only yesterday." He strode through the cage and opened a second door at the far side, revealing a further door in the wall beyond. "Mind you," he said, "it's a pity we can't stay around and see what the templars make of her when they break in and find her loose."
The door in the wall led into a dark passageway, sloping gently downwards. Pulg had to light a candle to show the way.
"There are store rooms along here," he said, "and a secret exit out of the building. Between you and me, I think these premises must have been used by villains once upon a time..."
"I've been thinking about the flute," said Hans, as he closed the door and followed the showman. "I think its magic must have interfered with Folderol's bonding somehow or other."
"Well," said Pulg, "what a bright little spark you are, to be sure. More precisely, it cleared Folderol's stupid little brain, didn't it? Like it did all those other dummies. And it cleared the bonding away with it."
"I'm sorry," said Hans, lapsing into a shamed silence. Behind them, they could still hear the cries of the animals, faint and distant.
"Well they might complain," said Pulg. "From what I know of those templars, the creatures will be burned alive before long. It took years to build up that carnival. Now it's all up in smoke..."
"Look, I'm sorry," Hans complained. "But it really wasn't my fault. I didn't know you'd used magic on Folderol."
Pulg suddenly turned round. There was a manic grin on his face. His eyes glinted like pits of fire in the candlelight.
"Don't worry, my boy," he said. "We must put the past behind us now. Think of what's ahead of us instead. All the excitement! All the adventure! Things can only get better..."
He proceeded to outline a brilliant future for them both, full of great riches and spectacular achievements.
We should be going, thought Hans, standing there helplessly listening to Pulg's exposition. If we don't hurry, the templars will catch us!
In the distance, the cries of the carnival creatures came louder again, as though they too had been listening to Pulg's words.
They put their trust in Pulg, thought Hans, and look where it's got them. Then he remembered something.
"You've still got my flute!" he said.
"Our flute," Pulg corrected him. "We're partners now - just as I always said we would be!" Then he turned and pressed his hand against the wall beside him. A large slab gave a creak and a judder and slid away to one side, revealing a narrow street beyond. It was dark now. Hans felt a cold breeze on his face, a welcome change after the dank smell of the passageway.
"See - the wide world awaits us," Pulg exclaimed. "I shall show you it, my boy, in all its splendour!"
He stepped out into the street with a triumphant swagger. Then he started in alarm. A dark figure was walking towards him.
"It's one of the templars!" whispered Hans in dismay. "They've found us."
But it wasn't one of the templars. As the figure stepped forward into the light of the candle, Pulg and Hans both gasped in relief at the sight.
"Heidi!" cried Pulg, recovering himself. "How splendid to see you! So now we can be three partners seeking our way in the world..."
Heidi did not look impressed with the idea. She seemed to be shaking with anger.
"And Wolfgang," she said, "what about him? He's not a partner, is he? Did you see what that creature of yours did to him?"
"Oh, my dear. An unfortunate accident..."
"All because you liked strutting around showing off with that beast at your side. And what about the other animals? You left them to die, didn't you?"
Pulg held out his arms in a gesture of helplessness.
"What could I have done to help them?" he said. "What can any of us do now? Look, I'll see if I have a spare druid's cloak in my pack for you, Heidi. We mustn't stand around here talking like this. The templars will catch us if we're not careful."
Heidi suddenly took a pace backwards.
"Yes," she said. "Perhaps they will."
And out of the darkness the templars came, like a pack of wolves descending on their prey. Pulg had no time to struggle. Within moments, they were all around him, pinning his hands behind his back, dragging him away. He looked back at Heidi in astonishment.
"You betrayed me!" he cried. "You told them where to find me."
Heidi turned her face away. There were tears on her cheeks.
"I had to do it," she said to Hans. "They would have burned the animals alive. It was the only way I could save them."
Hans was aghast, rooted to the spot. It had all happened so quickly...
A templar came up and spoke to Heidi.
"Remember," he said. "One day. You must be gone from the city in a day."
Heidi gave a silent nod and the templar left, following his comrades and their prisoner along the street. Hans caught a last sight of Pulg in the light of a brand one of the templars was carrying. He seemed to look back and catch the boy's eye and - what was that? - was it a wink?
"I made a deal," Heidi was saying. "I told them where to find Pulg in return for the freedom of you and me and the animals. They swore a binding oath to me, and it suits them really. It's Pulg they wanted, and this way they don't have the inconvenience of destroying all the animals."
Hans was hardly listening. Had Pulg really winked at him just then? And if so, why?
"But we have to get the carnival out of the city within a day," Heidi was telling him. "Come on - do you hear what I'm saying? We have to get what money we can from Grunwald for the hall and use it to get ourselves on the road."
Hans looked at her and wondered what to say. He wasn't sure he wanted to go with Heidi.
Suddenly, she looked afraid and desperate. She started to cry.
"I did the right thing, didn't I?" she said. "I'm sorry about Pulg but he was a bastard and I warned him often enough. How else could I have saved the animals?"
Hans looked doubtful. Then he realized what Pulg's wink might have signified. He began to brighten.
"Yes," he said. "Don't worry. You did the right thing."
"We can still call it Pulg's Grand Carnival," said Heidi. "The name can survive."
Yes, thought Hans, and Pulg has a good chance of escaping from the templars. He was trying to remind me that he still has the flute!
Perhaps Pulg too would survive...
"Come on," said Hans. "Let's go and see Grunwald and try to get this money."
They had a carnival to run.
THE WAY OF THE WITCHFINDER
by Brian Craig
There is, said the story-teller, a part of Bretonnia's coast which stands face to face with the Great Western Ocean, and engages in a constant contest with the sea. Sometimes the ocean retreats to expose new land, but in the end it takes back what it has yielded, and sometimes more. The legends of this region warn that when land is given by the sea it will one day be reclaimed. Thus, the wisdom of legend says that fields may be planted year after year when the clean rain has washed away the salt from the soil, but that no man should claim lordship over such fields, because any citadel which is built there will one day be broken by the great grey waves.
But there are in Bretonnia, as in all human lands, men who so yearn to be lords over their own kind that they are deaf to the wisdom of lore and legend - and so it happens that whenever new fields are given by the sea
to hungry toilers, there come after them those who would be their Overlords, bearing warrants from kings who imagine that they have power to grant such favours.
These lordlings build their castles, around which towns inevitably grow; they raise their petty armies and begin that business of robbery which the powerful call taxation. They grow fat and rich, and devote themselves increasingly to the cruel pleasures of tyranny and the vain pursuits of luxury - and sometimes turn, as the most corrupt of that kind often do, to the secret worship of forbidden gods.
Then, the common folk cry out in their anguish and their desperation. They look to the east, in the hope of summoning magicians who serve the better gods to deliver them from their daemon-led lords; but should hopes of that kind prove futile, they must look to the west, whence come the great grey waves which will drown their fields and their masters alike and clear the way for a new beginning.
The story which I have now to tell is of such a petty citadel, which was named by its founder Ora Lamae, and which had fallen after many generations into the untender care of one Bayard Solon, who governed his lands in the name of Charles II, the father of our own vainglorious king. Bayard Solon was himself governed - ultimately by daemons, many said, but more immediately and more obviously by his daughter Syrene, who was possessed of unnatural beauty and unnatural appetites. Her reign over her father and his people had not lasted long before the angry people began to implore their gods to send a champion to destroy her, and waited most anxiously to see if their prayers would be answered.
There dwelt at that time in the foothills of the mountains which are called the Pale Sisters a grey, gnarled priest of Solkan named Yasus Fiemme. He had travelled widely through the northern lands, hunting out necromancers and daemonologists and countless hedge-wizards of dubious repute. He had bested all those he had faced, for he had ever been a man of iron, merciless and utterly incorruptible - perhaps the finest servant Solkan had ever found in a land where the Gods of Law had few followers.
But even great magicians grow old, and the time had come when Yasus Fiemme formed a different ambition, and built a shrine to his angry god, intending to take an apprentice to whom he would teach all that he knew, and train most carefully, thus preparing a scourge for the followers of evil who would be fiercer even than himself, fit to destroy the most powerful enemies a Man of Law might face.