by Sam Gayton
‘Just add in a Q there, and an X there, then you’re finished.’ Min pointed at the contract’s final few blank spaces. Over by the inkpot, the fleas were slinging off their typing shoes and hopping up Stickler’s sleeve towards the house-hat. ‘Follow us up to the house-hat and I’ll mix you up a nice cocktail: bee, bear and butterfly blood. It buzzes in your mouth, growls down your throat and flutters in your belly. That’ll cheer you up!’ She nipped him on the cheek and bounded off.
Hercufleas sighed. A blood cocktail might make him feel better, for a little bit. But then tomorrow would come, with more customers, more contracts, more typing…
Stickler whipped the contract like a rug from beneath his feet, sending him sprawling.
‘That’ll do,’ Stickler said, plucking a quill from his pocket. ‘Here’s your peril insurance form, Miss Greta… Here’s your money-back-guarantee coupon… And to receive your heroes, sign on the dotted lines: here, here and here.’
Greta snatched the quill and stabbed it down into the inkpot, scratching her name several times across the paper. Stickler blew the ink dry, then filed the contract away in a drawer.
‘You’ve got your gold and your signature,’ she said, looking around. ‘Now where are my heroes?’
Hercufleas felt something buzz inside him, as if he had drunk the blood of an electric eel. Were Prince Xin and Ugor the Barbarian really coming here? Was he about to glimpse the most legendary heroes in all Avalon? Shivers ran up and down his spine.
‘I will send a message to our alchemists to wake them and dispatch them from the caverns below,’ Stickler explained. ‘Prince Xin and Ugor will meet you by the shore.’
Hercufleas’s excitement fizzed away. Not only was he not going on any adventures, he wasn’t even going to see the heroes that were. It wasn’t fair!
‘How will I find them?’ Greta pointed out the window. ‘It’s dark. And there’s fog.’
Stickler scooped up the florins. ‘Don’t worry about finding them – they’ll find you. They will be looking.’ He held out a slip of paper for Greta to take. ‘Show them your receipt, and have a Happily Ever After.’
Hercufleas looked around. His fleamily were already back in the house-hat. He saw their silhouettes through the kitchen window. Stickler’s attention was focused completely on the gold florins in his hands. Greta was stuffing the receipt into her satchel.
No one was watching him.
His legs jumped before his brain could tell him what a stupid idea it was. He landed on the back of Greta’s collar and crouched there, utterly still, as she headed for the door. He heard the shop bell ring as she walked outside. He saw the goosebumps on her neck rise in the cold night mist.
What am I doing? he wondered. But his heart knew the answer. It thrummed in his chest with a giddy thrill. He was going on an adventure!
Only a little one, of course. Ten minutes at most. He deserved it, after all that hard work. He was going to catch a glimpse of Prince Xin and Ugor the Barbarian, the greatest heroes in all Avalon. Then he’d hop back to Happily Ever Afters. With a bit of luck, no one would even notice he was gone.
11
Greta ran through dark, foggy streets, heading for the shore. The air was thick and chill and dank. Tucked under her collar, Hercufleas shivered. Glimpses of Avalon emerged from the mist and vanished again just as quickly. Rows of sulphur-yellow street lamps. Posters in shop windows advertising heroes for hire. Statues of legendary knights, hair and shoulders crusty with gull poo and rime. Street sellers hawking merchandise, holding out to Greta replicas of famous swords, alchemicals granting super-strength and matryoshka dolls from Petrossia.
The outside world astounded Hercufleas. He hadn’t realised just how enormous Avalon would be. It was going to take him forever to hop back to Happily Ever Afters and the house-hat. He pushed the thought from his mind. Adventurers didn’t worry about getting home. They kept going no matter what.
Greta kept going too, clogs clack-clack-clacking on the cobbles, until she reached the pebbly shore. She skidded to a stop, panting for breath, heart racing. Hercufleas’s heart, the size of an apple pip, beat just as hard. This was where Stickler had told Greta to wait. This was where the heroes were supposed to be.
‘Prince Xin?’ called Greta into the mist. ‘Ugor? Hello?’
Hercufleas strained his ears for a reply, but there was only the lap of the waves on the shore and the faraway thud of Greta’s enormous heart. Wait. Now he heard something else – the scrunch of shingle. Footsteps. Coming closer.
Slowly Hercufleas edged from Greta’s collar to her shoulder. He couldn’t come all this way (and get in what would probably be an enormous amount of trouble) without seeing the heroes. Two enormous silhouettes stood up ahead, the mist curling its white fingers around them. Prince Xin and Ugor the Barbarian. Real heroes. Hercufleas clapped his hands over his mouth to stop himself screaming with excitement.
‘You are Greta?’ said Prince Xin, moving forward. He was slender as a willow cane, with skin flawless as porcelain and eyes the colour of jade.
‘I am.’ Greta waved her receipt. ‘I’ve hired you for a deadly quest.’
Prince Xin’s laugh was sensuous and dreamy, like a love song. ‘Have you now?’ He reached down and stroked the feathers of the enormous creature he sat astride. It was the size of a horse. It had stunted wings, the legs of an ostrich and the neck and plumage of a swan. ‘Did you hear that, Artifax? Doesn’t sound very appealing, does it?’
Artifax cocked his eagle head and clucked softly, regarding Greta with his purple eyes.
‘Hundreds of lives are at stake,’ Greta persisted, stepping closer. ‘We must go at once.’
‘Ugor and Onk-Onk not care about hundreds of lives, just our own,’ the barbarian said, emerging from the mist. He was twice as tall as the prince, and twelve times as broad, and a thousand times as hairy. Hercufleas wrinkled his nose: Ugor smelled of gunpowder and swill. He sat atop a huge armoured pig that could fire bullets from its snout.
‘But you have to help!’ said Greta, confusion and panic in her voice. ‘You cost all the gold I had.’ She waved the receipt at them again. ‘You’re the greatest heroes in all Avalon!’
‘Is that what Stickler told you?’ Prince Xin rolled his eyes. ‘That man is so devious he almost puts me to shame!’
Ugor the Barbarian laughed. It sounded like dynamite rumbling up a mineshaft. Hercufleas saw his teeth were filed down to sharp points, and suddenly he was afraid.
Greta scowled. ‘Why are you laughing?’
Prince Xin’s smile slid from his face. His laugh was different now. Sharp and hard. ‘Do we look like heroes to you?’
Hercufleas watched them uneasily, his insides wriggling and twisting, as if he’d drunk worm blood. What did Prince Xin mean? Why had he drawn his sword? What was Ugor doing, stuffing bullets down Onk-Onk’s snout?
Were they…?
Did they mean…?
Surely they couldn’t be…
Hercufleas felt Greta tremble. He watched the hairs on the back of her neck prickle and rise. He began to whisper The Plea of the Flea under his breath.
Greta backed away. ‘You’re scaring me.’
‘Of course we’re scaring you.’ Prince Xin sighed theatrically. ‘Isn’t that what villains are supposed to do?’
Greta went pale as the mist. ‘Villains? But I need a Happily Ever After—’
‘Did you think only good people want Happily Ever Afters?’ said Prince Xin. ‘There are plenty of ambitious princes who want their fathers to vacate the throne. Wicked alchemists needing children to practise their potions upon. People like that don’t need a hero to do good – they need a villain to do evil. That’s why Mr Stickler keeps us. We make him a fortune.’ He frowned. ‘But you know all this, surely. Unless Stickler gave us to you by mistake.’
‘No, he picked you out for me especially, after I threatened to —’ Greta began, and then stopped. Suddenly it all fell into place. Prince Xin and Ugor weren’t g
oing to help Greta take care of Yuk, they were going to help Mr Stickler take care of Greta…
‘Ah,’ said Prince Xin softly. ‘Now I understand. You threatened Mr Stickler? He doesn’t like that. He’s very proud of his reputation. He’ll do dreadful things to protect it. Or, rather, he’ll get us to do the dreadful things for him.’
‘Oh run, Greta,’ Hercufleas urged, his voice growing from a whisper to a shout. ‘Run, run, run, you have to RUN!’
12
Greta whirled round and pelted away from the villains, tripping and skidding across the shingle. A panic-stricken Hercufleas held on to her collar as she ran.
There was a whistling sound, something fluttered through the mist overhead and Prince Xin floated down in front of her, light as a feather, blocking her escape. It wasn’t a sword in his hand, Hercufleas realised, but a silver fluted tube – a flyte. Flytes were rare instruments that he’d heard his fleamily talk about. They gave heroes skilled enough to play them the power to glide through the air like a bird.
‘It really is nothing personal,’ said Prince Xin. ‘A job is a job, and we pride ourselves on always completing our contract.’
‘Get away from me!’ Greta yelled, reaching for the axe slung across her back. ‘Help! Somebody help me!’
She aimed a chop at Prince Xin, who piped a melody and soared up out of reach. Behind Greta, Ugor nudged Onk-Onk left and right, aiming the barrels of his snout.
‘Behind you!’ Hercufleas yelled in Greta’s ear.
There was a loud booming roar, a flash of powder. He heard the bullets zip over him as Greta ducked. She rolled left, and Prince Xin trilled a frantic high note to get out of the way, just in time – he glared down at the two smouldering holes in the end of his blue cloak.
‘That was midnight velvet!’ Prince Xin snarled, perfect face twisted with rage. Because he stopped playing the flyte to speak, he dropped to the ground. Greta swung her axe again, but he caught the handle and wrenched it from her grasp.
‘Now you will see why they call Ugor the Ballistic Barbarian,’ Ugor grinned, reaching for his gun on Onk-Onk’s saddle.
‘No, no, no!’ said Prince Xin crossly. ‘Don’t shoot her! Then it will be obvious she has been murdered. Stickler won’t want the rest of Avalon to find out about this! No, I have a much better idea. Watch!’
He sprang forward, dodging Greta’s wild punches. He snatched her up, kicking and screaming, with one hand. With the other he began to play his flyte.
They rose up into the fog. Hercufleas’s stomach lurched. Higher, higher, higher they went, until the ground below disappeared and there was nothing but whiteness all around. Then they burst out above the mist. The cold stars shone like blue diamonds beside a sliver of moon.
Far below, Ugor was shouting. ‘Where you go, Xin? What you do?’
Hercufleas knew. Once he got high enough, Prince Xin would simply let Greta go. All they had to do was lay her body at the bottom of the island’s cliffs. It would look as if she had lost her footing in the mist. A tragic accident.
Beautiful, haunting music came from the flyte. The arpeggios rose, higher and higher. Any moment, they would reach a crescendo, and Greta would drop like a stone. She twisted and screamed, trying to get free, but Prince Xin was too strong, and gradually the fight ebbed from her.
With a desperate scream, Hercufleas launched himself from her shoulder.
‘Whatever size his enemies, the winner’s always HERCUFLEAS!’ he bellowed.
And landing on the flyte, he bit Prince Xin’s fingers as hard as he possibly could.
‘OWWW!’
At once the haunting music stopped and they were all tumbling down, head over heels through the air. Hercufleas clung to the flyte for dear life. Prince Xin snatched for the instrument, but Hercufleas gnashed at his fingers again and he jerked his hand away with a howl. Greta lunged for the flyte, brought it to her lips and managed to blow a single high note that pinned her in place in the air.
Prince Xin grabbed at her feet. He pulled off a clog and disappeared with a hideous shriek down into the fog.
Three seconds later, the shriek ended in a sickening thud on the shingle below.
Down on the ground, Ugor roared.
Hercufleas opened his eyes. His arms and legs were wrapped around the end of the flyte. Prince Xin’s sickly-sweet blood was still in his mouth, tasting of jasmine and malice. Shakily he pulled himself up and stood on the tip of the instrument. Greta was still playing the high note, like the wail of a boiling kettle, keeping them suspended in the air. Her eyes were wide. Her pupils were almost crossed, staring at Hercufleas on the end of the flyte.
‘Whatever you do,’ he shouted, ‘don’t stop playing.’
Greta nodded, but now the high note was beginning to wobble. She was running out of breath.
She gasped a lungful of air, but as the note ended, the flyte’s magic ceased. They plunged down. Greta sank into the mist up to her knees, then blew the same note and jerked to a stop again.
‘Can you play something higher?’ Hercufleas yelled. ‘To take us up?’
Greta screwed her eyes shut, she shook with effort until she was beetroot red, but no matter how hard she blew, she didn’t have the breath or skill to make the flyte take them higher.
They fell further down into the mist as she took another breath.
And again: lower.
Lower.
‘You coming back down to me, little Greta,’ said Ugor from below. His voice was much closer now. ‘Ugor waiting for you. You die for poor Prince Xin.’
Now they were level with the street lamps lining the shore. The ground was a brown haze beneath them. Hercufleas made out Ugor’s enormous dark shape. He heard Artifax clucking softly over the body of Prince Xin.
They only had a few seconds before they hit the ground. Hercufleas scrabbled about in his mind, trying to cobble together a plan. Greta looked at him desperately. She couldn’t speak, but he knew what she was asking. She was begging him to save her. To be her hero.
‘Stay as high as you can, for as long as you can,’ he said. ‘I’ll get help.’
Greta shook her head. Don’t leave me.
‘I have to,’ he said. ‘I can’t fight Ugor. He’s like a giant compared to me.’
Tears leaked from her screwed-up eyes.
‘I’ll get help,’ he said. ‘Stay here. Don’t—’
And then Greta ran out of breath again, and they fell.
13
Ugor snatched Greta by her brambly hair. She kicked and flailed, trying to put the flyte to her lips again. He tore it from her grasp and crushed it to bits. Hercufleas tumbled off the end of the instrument, an invisible dot in the night. He landed headfirst in Onk-Onk’s left nostril. The pig sniffed, and with a yell Hercufleas was sucked up its snout.
There, at the end of a long tunnel packed with gunpowder and bogeys, he had an idea.
Before his brain could tell him what a stupid, reckless and dangerously explosive idea it was, Hercufleas rolled himself into a ball, shut his eyes and bit down as hard as he could.
Onk-Onk sneezed.
With a bright blue flash, a gigantic force shoved Hercufleas in the back. He shot out of Onk-Onk’s snout at well over a thousand miles an hour.
Straight into Ugor!
There was a clang! like a blacksmith’s anvil. The barbarian stumbled backwards, his armoured breastplate dented and cracked. Hercufleas felt as if he’d been hit with a sledgehammer. He fell on the ground, winded and dazed.
Above him, Greta stood blinking in confusion, wondering how she was still alive. Then she spotted a little brown pebble on the beach stagger to its feet.
Her hero.
‘Urggh…’ said Ugor. ‘Bad Onk-Onk… Why you break Ugor’s best armour?’
Greta had a fraction of a second to escape. She grabbed Hercufleas with one hand and her axe in the other, and ran. Ugor staggered to his feet in a daze.
‘Back to the house-hat!’ gasped Hercufleas in her palm. He l
ay there thinking of his fleamily and how he would never, ever go adventuring again.
But Greta ran to the shore, where a beautiful white bird stood over the body of Prince Xin. Behind her, Ugor jumped on Onk-Onk, who squealed as he charged towards them.
‘Stop!’ urged Hercufleas. ‘You’re going the wrong way!’
In one leap, Greta was on Artifax’s back, nestling between his little wings.
‘Go!’ she said. ‘Go!’
Artifax twisted his long neck round to stare at her, head cocked.
‘GO, Artifax!’
Then the bird saw Onk-Onk rushing up from behind, and suddenly they shot forward like an arrow from a bow. Down the shingle they flew, towards the waves. Ugor roared and cursed but Artifax outran his shouts. In a matter of seconds he had reached a jetty. He ran on, right to the very end, right to where there was no more jetty, only waves.
They didn’t stop.
Or sink.
Faster than the wind, Artifax splashed across the water like a skipped stone. When Hercufleas looked back towards Avalon, the lights of the island had already vanished into the mist.
It was pitch dark upon the lake. The only sounds were the splish-splish-splish of Artifax’s feet and the howl of the wind through his feathers. And at that moment it struck Hercufleas – with as much force as he had struck Ugor – that nothing would be the same again.
The house-hat, the exotic blood, the boingy-boing room – all of it would have to end. Mr Stickler hired out villains. He was not an agent just of good, but of evil. And because he was their host, without knowing it the fleamily lived off evil too.
Now Hercufleas knew the truth, they’d have to leave. They would become just like other fleas, scavenging blood wherever they could, always at risk of being squished by thumbs or drowned in hot soapy baths.
His adventure had ruined everything. But if he hadn’t left with Greta, she would be the dead one now, instead of Prince Xin. Hercufleas might have saved her life… but the life his fleamily had known? The life Hercufleas had lived for one, wonderful day?