He was brought out of his thoughts by a scream. Not a scream of pain or fear, but one of naked rage.
“What, by Titania's tatty tiara, was that?” exclaimed Mezereon, a note of fear in his voice.
Hornbeam had stopped in front of him and was listening hard. There was no further scream.
“Whoever it is,” said Hornbeam slowly, “he's very, very angry.”
“Who...?”
“Charlock?” Hornbeam thought for a moment. “Maybe,” he decided, “we will stop now and have a rest. I don't think I want to run into Charlock just after he's suffered a serious disappointment.”
“Yes, yes,” agreed Mezereon, “but...?”
“But?”
“I wonder what he's so angry about.”
“Maybe they've escaped him again. Either way, I don't want to run into him when he's feeling less than happy.”
“Quite so, quite so,” nodded Mezereon. He looked quickly around. “So, where shall we wait?” he asked.
“Somewhere better hidden,” suggested Hornbeam. “I don't think he'll come back this way—assuming they are his tracks we're following—but I think we'd better err on the side of caution.”
They found a crack in the root of a tree, from which they evicted several disgruntled woodlice.
“An hour,” said Hornbeam as he handed some food and water to Mezereon. “We'll wait an hour. That should put plenty of distance between us.”
*
AHEAD of them, Charlock had reined in his temper and focussed his energies on finding his way back to his master's hide-out.
As he climbed a tall tree to get a better view, he found himself wishing, not for the first time, that he had wings. Not those wishy-washy affairs the fairies had, but better ones, ones that could get wet and not render their owner flightless. Wings like a bat, he thought. They'd have been good. Why hadn't his master designed him with bat wings?
A sudden thought tried to lever its way into his consciousness. Maybe his master wasn't so smart after all.
He dismissed the thought immediately, and climbed as high as he could to survey the lake. He could see where he was now. It was so much clearer, so much less cluttered up here. No wonder the fairies were so annoyingly smug about being able to fly. It gave you such an excellent perspective of the world.
He made a mental note of his bearings and began climbing back down. It was always more difficult than climbing up. You always felt more likely to fall off, going down. Again, the thought crept quietly in and whispered. Why hadn't his master given him wings? He could have snatched the human brat days ago. They would have saved him all that pain, all those injuries, the indignities, the injustices.
“Shh!” snarled Charlock to himself, not wanting to listen to the thought. “There was probably a really good reason for not giving us wings.”
Such as?
Charlock reached the ground, now certain of the way back to his master. Soon he would have to tell the Vapourer he had failed, and his master would be angry with him. Charlock would deserve that anger.
And the Frenzy would know. There would be no way of keeping it from them. They would know their leader had failed. There would be a challenge—he knew that for certain. And all because of that human child.
He growled as he ran through the grass. Yes, he would have his revenge on the child. He would make sure he was the one to kill him. Then his master would be pleased with him again. Cheered by this thought, Charlock ran even faster.
Behind him, Mezereon and Hornbeam waited about an hour before continuing what they hoped was the pursuit of Liam, as well as Charlock.
“Do you think,” panted Mezereon as he jogged behind his servant, “we might go a bit slower? Otherwise, what was the point of waiting? At this rate we're going to catch up with Charlock. And we don't want that... do we?”
“I don't think that's likely, Master,” said Hornbeam over his shoulder. “Even walking, Charlock moves faster than you.”
“Impertinence!” exclaimed Mezereon.
“Yes, Master,” sighed Hornbeam, “but, unfortunately, true.” And then, to conciliate Mezereon, he added, “Master, I'm a third of your age, and I would struggle to keep up with Charlock.”
“Humph!” grunted Mezereon.
Hornbeam shook his head slowly. He didn't really know why he was hurrying. He had already come to the conclusion he would be no match for Charlock if he came up against him. But neither would Liam.
Liam had had remarkably good luck up to now and, apparently, some help recently. But that luck wouldn't last forever. Would Liam and his companion survive the next attack from Charlock? Hornbeam doubted it. And now, having been party to dragging this human child into the fairy world, Hornbeam was torn between self-preservation and his responsibility to the boy. Subconsciously, his sense of responsibility was winning.
He had some vague plan of snatching Liam and flying with him back to the palace. But this depended on Mezereon, now a very elderly fairy, helping him carry Liam, and the Vapourer not pursuing them. He wasn't sure how many of the Vapourer's minions could fly.
“Oh, well,” he muttered to himself, “I'll worry about it when I get to it.”
*
“I SAW them with my own eyes, Master,” whined Bogbean as he cowered on the floor in front of the Vapourer. “It was both of them.”
“Both of them?” shrieked the Vapourer. He had decided his anger would know no bounds and he was enjoying himself immensely. “In tact? Complete? No bits missing?”
“They both looked—er—very whole, Master,” said Bogbean. “Prince Cinnabar was unconscious—”
“Unconscious? Are you sure? Are you sure he wasn't... dead?”
The Vapourer frowned. He wasn't convinced he'd got the dramatic pause right.
“I don't think so, Master,” said Bogbean thoughtfully. “I saw him walking around today. And the human child appears to be just fine. A bit battered—”
“Battered you say? Hideously deformed and with a pronounced limp, you mean?”
“Er—no, Master. A few cuts and bruises, that's all.”
The Vapourer scowled. “This is not good, Bogbean! This is not good at all. The plan—it depends on the human child not making it to the palace! Someone has failed me, Bogbean and I am not happy about it. Who has failed me, Bogbean?”
“Er,” mumbled Bogbean, raising his face from the dusty floor. He would probably regret saying this to his master, but Bogbean had already decided he wasn't going to take the blame or, more importantly, the punishment for this.
“Charlock?” he suggested weakly.
“Charlock?” said the Vapourer, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. He thought for a moment. Charlock? Yes! Charlock. It was he who had been given the task of removing the human child. He had obviously failed to do so. This was all Charlock's fault, so Charlock must be... punished?
The Vapourer's thought process paused.
Punish Charlock? The leader of the assassins? Charlock, who could slice your leg off and stuff it into your mouth before you had time to fall over sideways?
If he was honest with himself―and he wasn't very often―the Vapourer was more than a little afraid of Charlock; terrified would probably be a better description.
“Charlock?” whispered the Vapourer.
“Master?” hissed a gravelly voice beside him.
The Vapourer jumped and looked down. Charlock was standing next to him.
He looked awful. Not that Charlock had ever been what anybody would call beautiful—he had been designed so that the mere sight of him would terrify. But, even for Charlock, he looked awful.
“Has there been a problem?” asked the Vapourer absent-mindedly, as he stared at his servant's battered features with a kind of morbid fascination.
“You could say, Master,” growled Charlock.
The Vapourer nodded slowly and then pursed his lips. “I am informed,” he said, throwing a glance at Bogbean, “that you have failed in your task. I am informed that not
only has the human child failed to die, but he has been rescued and delivered to the palace. What have you to say for yourself?”
Charlock hung his head. “Yes Master. Sorry Master. There were difficulties. The human child, he is so, so lucky. But his luck will run out. Charlock will make sure it will.”
“That is all very well, Charlock, but the human child is now safely in the palace, and once Mezereon has sorted out the succession with him—”
“The old fairy?” asked Charlock. “Pink wings?” Charlock almost spat out the word pink.
“Yes, yes, what of it?” snapped the Vapourer. He wasn't used to being interrupted.
“Master, Mezereon and his servant are still on the ground looking for the human child. They don't yet know he has been found.”
“So, Mezereon is not at the palace?”
“No, Master,” said Charlock eagerly.
The Vapourer smiled. “A chance to redeem yourself, Charlock. We will fall on the palace before Mezereon returns. We will annihilate the royal family using a strategy of surprise and ruthlessness. Surprise, because they know nothing about the Frenzy and we will attack in the middle of the night when they are all asleep. And ruthlessness because we will... we will... be very nasty indeed!”
He laughed maniacally. Yes, he had definitely got the hang of that laugh.
He turned to Charlock. “Prepare the Frenzy. Tonight we attack! Tonight I seize power!”
Charlock bowed. “Yes Master,” he said and moved to leave.
“Oh, and Charlock?”
“Master?”
“You will not let me down again. You will ensure the attack succeeds.”
“Yes, Master.” Charlock left the room, casting a malevolent glare at the prostrate Bogbean. Bogbean whimpered.
“Purple!” exclaimed the Vapourer, throwing his arms out.
“Master?” queried Bogbean.
“The conquering leader should wear purple, don't you think, Bogbean? Find me something purple and dashing!”
*
HORNBEAM was beginning to regret following the trail left behind by Liam and Charlock. The terrain was awful, difficult to traverse and almost impenetrable. If someone had not already been there, they would have had difficulty in getting through the brambles and thick grasses. As it was, he struggled through the gaps that had been made, hauling the weary and fractious Mezereon after him. But though Mezereon moaned throughout, he kept going. Hornbeam had to take his hat off to his master for that. The old man looked dreadfully tired, though.
It was getting noticeably darker—not because night was closing in, but because the brambles and vines above them were. Very soon they were walking through a green cavern, dark, airless and eerily quiet.
Hornbeam felt the hairs begin to rise on the back of his neck. He didn't like this one bit. He stopped and turned to Mezereon. The old fairy's face loomed, pallid and sweaty, out of the green gloom.
“Do you think we should go on?” Hornbeam asked him.
Mezereon grunted unhelpfully. “You're not suggesting we go back?” he wheezed.
“There's something wrong with this place,” said Hornbeam. “Something very wrong.” He was going to say evil, but decided at the last minute it sounded too dramatic. “And I'm not even sure this is Liam's track any more,” he added. “Anything could have made this.”
“Well, let's get out of here as quickly as possible. I don't want to be here when night falls.” Mezereon shuddered.
“Do you need a rest?” Hornbeam asked him.
“Yes!” snapped Mezereon. “But I'll take it when we're out of this place. Come on. Get going. If I stay still any longer, I'll not get moving again.” He pushed Hornbeam roughly at the shoulder. They plodded on, Mezereon's wheezing sounding all the more loud in the silence.
As he walked ahead of the old fairy, trying to discern the track in front of them, Hornbeam became aware of another sound. When his subconsciousness finally prodded him into noticing it, he stopped suddenly.
“What's that?” he said in a loud whisper.
“What's what?” wheezed Mezereon.
“SHH! Listen!”
They stood in silence, Mezereon holding his breath until he started to go an alarming shade of puce.
“What?” gasped Mezereon, letting the air out of his lungs. “I can't hear anything.”
“Shh,” hissed Hornbeam, again. “It's ahead of us, I think. We're about to walk into it, whatever it is.”
He signalled to Mezereon to follow him, and put a finger to his lips to indicate they must go silently. Muttering to himself and trying to wheeze quietly, Mezereon followed.
Then he heard it—a howling and yapping sound that reminded him of several things, but not one thing in particular. Whatever it was, Mezereon didn't feel he wanted to meet it.
He was suddenly aware of the noise every ragged breath he took was making, of every snap and crunch of his progress, and of his frailty and uselessness. Despite Hornbeam's presence, he felt very, very vulnerable.
“Stay close, Master,” hissed Hornbeam. Mezereon didn't need to be told again. He got so close to Hornbeam he was nearly riding piggy back.
The noise got louder and more distinct as they continued, and it became clear that, whatever was creating the noise, there was more than one of them.
Hornbeam dropped to the ground and started to crawl on his hands and knees. Mezereon followed suit and wished he hadn't. The ground under his knees was sharp and uncomfortable, and he struggled with the effort of crawling, and the effort of not crying out every time a particularly vicious piece of debris pierced his hands or knees.
They seemed to be making their way towards a wall of brambles and nettles, thick with lethal thorns and rapier-like barbs. What are we doing? Mezereon asked himself. He groaned inwardly as he saw Hornbeam suddenly flatten himself and proceed by pulling himself along on his elbows. Never! thought Mezereon. I can't do that! Not at my age. I doubt I'll ever walk upright again, as it is. Nevertheless, he made some effort to make himself less conspicuous, by pulling his rear end down as far as he could. If I'm attacked now, he thought, they'll just have to kill me. There's no way I'm standing up straight for at least half an hour. If ever.
He collided with Hornbeam's feet. The servant had stopped and was now gesticulating to Mezereon to be very, very quiet.
Mezereon could see nothing from where he was, but he could hear well enough. The screams and yells were reaching a crescendo when a low, gravelly voice spoke.
“Master has spoken. Master has said. We will move against the fairy kingdom tonight. Tomorrow, all those pathetic creatures, with their stupid wings and their arrogance, will be either food or slaves!”
There was a roar and scream of approval. Then the voice spoke again.
“Master has learned the sorcerer, Mezereon, is absent from the palace and our enemies are without a leader. If we strike tonight, we will overcome the worthless creatures before the sun rises, and you will breakfast on fairy wings!”
There were more screams and yelps of approval.
“So let the Frenzy begin! Prepare yourselves to become the masters of Fairyland!”
Even as the screams, yelps and howls began to reach a pitch that threatened to deafen, Hornbeam had deftly turned himself around and was signalling to Mezereon to do the same. Mezereon didn't need telling twice. Terror had gripped him, the kind that enables flight rather than hinders it.
With remarkable speed for a person of his age, he turned himself round and was heading back the way he had come, oblivious this time to the pain in his knees.
When he judged they were far enough away for it to be safe, Hornbeam hauled Mezereon to his feet. “That was Charlock doing the talking,” he told his master. “We've got to get back to the palace and warn them.”
“But what about the human child?” asked Mezereon, panting as he tried to keep up with Hornbeam.
“This is more urgent. I'm sorry and everything, but he's only one and there are hundreds in danger if we don'
t get back to the palace in time. Now hurry up. We need to find a place we can take off from.”
*
“WHAT do you mean, he's still asleep?” asked the Queen, the disbelief apparent in her voice.
“He's had a torrid time, Your Highness,” explained Hooktip. “He nearly drowned out there. Twice.”
“All the same, surely he's slept enough by now?” She peered keenly at Hooktip. “You are telling the truth?” she said.
Hooktip felt himself changing colour. He tried to ignore it. “Of course, Your Highness,” he replied with as much dignity as he could muster. “Your grandson has only just woken up, and he was pulled from the lake conscious!”
“Don't say that!” snapped the Queen.
“Highness?” queried Hooktip.
“Grandson. Don't call him that.”
“But—”
“He's a human. How can he be my grandson? It broke my heart when Swallowtail left. Do you think I need to be reminded of that every time I see him?”
“Highness, without him you wouldn't have Cinnabar either. He dived under the water and pulled your son from the depths.”
The Queen said nothing and pretended to be very interested in something she could see through the window. Hooktip stared at her, quite shocked by what he had just heard.
“Well?” said the Queen impatiently. “What are you waiting for? Go and see if that good for nothing child of mine is ever going to see me!”
Behind him, Hooktip heard the door bang open.
“Good day, Mother,” said Cinnabar breezily as he entered the room. “And you too, Hooktip. A very good day indeed!”
He stood beside his friend and beamed at the Queen. There was an awkward silence. “Sorry,” said Cinnabar, still smiling, “did I interrupt something?”
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