by Joffre White
Frog, Ginger and Fixer had gathered themselves together, their faces and hands blackened by smoke from readying the burning arrows.
‘What about us?’ asked Frog. ‘Surely there is more for us to do?’
‘Fixer, you belong in the service of Lady Dawnstar. Ginger, you shall now accompany me and Frog should take his place with Sir Peacealot.’
‘But we’d rather stay together,’ complained Ginger.
‘The time will come when we will be at each other’s side, have patience,’ instructed Logan.
A dragon rider approached the group, his face grave and solemn.
‘We wish to avenge our commander with the same sacrifice should the need arise,’ he announced. ‘It would be a fitting and glorious end to the race of dragons and their riders.’
Logan stepped forward and placed his hands on the man’s bowed shoulders.
‘Sir Dragonslayer would not want his loyal kinsmen to be so downcast, to make a sacrifice so great, not on this battlefield. He would want to see the fire in your eyes and the flames in your dragons rekindled and taken to the defence of Castellion Stronghold. For should we fail here, that is where the final stand shall be. Would you grant him that wish?’
‘You spoke to him of this?’ asked the rider.
‘It was written in his scroll and he was pledged to follow the order,’ answered Logan.
‘Then, so it shall be,’ said the rider, his back stiffening, his shoulders broadening and a fresh determination filling his face. ‘May the Light of Castellion be with you.’ He gave the royal salute and turned back to join his fellow riders.
A few moments later as Frog followed Sir Peacealot to meet with the bowmen’s commanders, all heads were turned upwards to watch the host of dragons circle in the slate-grey sky in a farewell salute and turn over the hills southwards towards Castellion Stronghold.
Frog spent much of the morning helping to prepare bundles of arrows and replenish stacks of wood for the fires, then at around midday he helped to serve the tired fighters bowls of steaming hot broth that had been cooked in large iron cauldrons over the open fires. Many of the fighters wrapped themselves up as best they could and claimed a few hours’ sleep, others dozed uneasily, seated around the burning braziers. In the cold light of an overcast day, the frost refused to leave the ground and a layer of thin ice formed on bowls and buckets of unattended water.
After they had both taken the opportunity to eat, Sir Peacealot instructed Frog to take refuge in one of the small canvas pavilions, erected well behind the battle line, and urged him to get what sleep that he could, assuring him that he would be woken when the time came. Frog suddenly realised how tired he felt and gladly rolled himself in some thick blankets and drifted into a deep slumber.
The shouting roused him with a start and he blinked once or twice while he reminded himself where he was. The light was fading, he had slept into the late afternoon. Throwing back the blankets and leaving the warmth that had cocooned him, the cold air shocked him fully awake. Gathering himself up, he pulled back the flap and peered out from the tent. In the gloom, the ground reflected back at him, white and frozen, clouds of sleet blurring his vision. A wind had risen and was driving the swirling, frozen rain in all directions.
‘Not good, definitely not good,’ was all he could allow himself to say.
He caught an almost recognisable smell mixed with the gusts of wind and wrinkled his nose, his mind searching to identify it while he pulled the hood of his cloak over him and went in search of the others. More by luck than judgement he bumped into Logan who was frantically trying to make a windbreak out of some shields in order to protect a spluttering brazier.
‘What’s happening?’ shouted Frog.
‘The wind and the frozen snow is putting the fires out. We will be defenceless against the next attack.’
‘What’s that smell, where’s it coming from?’ Frog’s voice struggled to be heard above the wind.
Logan shouted back. ‘It’s coming from the plain. It’s the Blackwater. The Blackwater has risen.’
He signalled for Frog to hold one of the shields while he attempted to drive a lance into the cold, rock-hard ground as a support. With a gust of bitingly cold wind, the flames in the brazier were snuffed out.
‘It’s no use, we’ll be overrun without the fires to heat our weapons. This weather has been sent by Maelstrom himself. The Blackwater has not helped us. There’s nothing left to do but to gather ourselves together and retreat to Castellion Stronghold.’ he grabbed Frog’s hand. ‘Quick, onto my back, we need to find the others.’
Sharp fragments of frozen snow stung Frog’s cheeks and he clasped his hood across his face and hung on to Logan’s broad shoulders. They worked their way to where the front line of defence stood. Men and women had their backs against the worst of the wind, their eyes peering above the cloth scarves pulled up over their faces. Lady Dawnstar and Fixer were among them, their cloaks flapping viciously around their bodies. Frog slid off Logan’s back and as he pulled down his scarf to speak, the odour, now even stronger, caught him in the back of his throat and he coughed at its sour dryness.
‘That smell,’ he rasped to Lady Dawnstar. ‘Show me where it’s coming from.’
She put her arm around his shoulders and turned them both into the full force of the wind, their bodies bending over in an effort to push themselves, step by step, forwards. After a few metres the smell was so strong that he could hardly breathe. She pulled her face close to his.
‘Look at the ground,’ she said. ‘The Blackwater has come out of the land.’
He looked down at his feet. Instead of snow-covered ice, the ground was a carpet of thick, dark slime, the pellets of sleet turning black on contact with it. He reached down and dipped his frozen fingers into it and as he did so fumes welled up into his head and dizzied his senses, his knees buckled and he passed out.
He came to with the taste of a bitter, burning liquid on his lips and in his throat and he rasped a cough, blinking tears from his eyes. Looking around he saw that he was in a small pavilion with Fixer, Ginger, Sir Peacealot, Lady Dawnstar and Logan standing around him. Logan was replacing the cap of a small leather bottle in his hand.
‘You like to live dangerously,’ he said. ‘That’s just a drop of Ranger’s elixir, it’ll put you right in no time.’
‘What happened?’ asked Frog.
‘You breathed in the Blackwater, you got too close to it,’ said Lady Dawnstar. ‘That’s why these plains are uninhabited. No one can tell when the Blackwater will rise, but when it does it turns the air foul and the ground black. Even when it seeps back into the earth, the soil remains like black, coarse sand, but at least the stench fades after a while.’
Frog sat up. His footwear was black, stained by what he had walked in. He brought his hand up and saw that his fingers were discoloured. He lifted them tentatively to his nose and sniffed.
‘That’s it!’ he said. ‘Oil! Filthy black, smelly oil. The Blackwater is oil!’
‘Which means?’ asked Ginger.
‘Stand back, light it up and watch the whole place go up in flames,’ he announced. ‘If this floods the valley, right across the plain to the mountains, once it’s been lit, it’ll burn for days and take every frozen thing with it. Nothing will be left.’
‘Just one problem,’ said Logan. ‘We have no flame. Nothing will light in this weather. The air is too cold and the wind is too strong. The frozen snow has smothered all of our fires.’
‘Gunpowder! We need some gunpowder. That should do it,’ said Frog.
Not for the first time did five faces look blankly back at him.
‘Let me guess,’ said Frog. ‘You don’t know what gunpowder is, let alone have any in this world, do you?’
‘Never heard of it,’ confirmed Ginger.
‘You’d think that silly old wizard would have invented gunpowder by now,’ said Frog.
The others stared back at him, easing themselves away.
‘Wh
at? What is it? Have I got something catching all of a sudden?’ said Frog.
Sir Peacealot pointed at Frog’s cloak. All eyes were now fixed on the bluish glow that escaped from it. Frog pulled the material back, exposing his short sword, and saw that its handle was pulsing with light.
‘What does it mean?’ he asked, getting to his feet and pulling the sword from its sheath.
‘More of the wizard’s magic?’ questioned Logan.
Frog became very anxious as the radiance from the sword spread across his hand, turning it transparent.
‘I don’t like it,’ he complained, and in an effort to discard the sword, he thrust it into the ground.
‘I, I can’t let go!’ he shouted, struggling to release himself. ‘Help me.’
Logan stepped forward and grabbed Frog’s arm, pulling at the weapon as Frog looked pleadingly up at him.
The others looked on helplessly as the light engulfed Frog and Logan, turning them transparent. Then, with a soundless flash, they were gone. A bare patch of earth in the centre of the tent was all that remained.
As soon as the stars appeared around him and the spinning feeling hit his senses, Frog knew that this was exactly what had happened when he and Sir Peacealot had clasped hands around his sword. He was back in the Slipstream. This time however, his head cleared and as he watched shooting stars fly past him and the whirlpools of far-off galaxies turn against a black, velvet backdrop of space, his mind connected events together and in a moment he realised what was happening and what he must do.
He was aware of Logan next to him, his eyes wide with surprise and confusion. There was an acceleration of movement and they were sent spinning downwards into a whirlpool of stars. Frog had just enough time to think to himself, ‘This is the bit where it all goes dark.’And he was right.
17
Take me Home
Chris opened his eyes. The dark leaves and branches of an apple tree were silhouetted above him against a twilight sky.
‘Chris, Chris!’ his mother’s voice beckoned. ‘You’ve had enough time out there now. Come on, time to get washed up and ready for bed.’
Chris smiled to himself. ‘I am definitely laying off anything with E numbers in it. What a dream,’ he thought.
He pulled himself up onto one elbow and the smile disappeared from his face. Spread out in the grass at his feet lay the body of an unconscious Logan.
‘Not good, definitely, not good,’ said Chris.
Further inspection confirmed the reality of his situation. He himself was dressed in the style and clothes of Castellion, his sword now firmly in its sheath on his belt. His boots bore the stains of black oil, inescapable evidence of what had happened to him. He looked around. In the dimming light he could see the piles of dirt and grass from his excavations, just as he had left them.
‘Chris, I’m not calling you again. Get up here now or there’ll be no TV for the rest of the week!’ shouted his mother.
He rolled back his sleeve to reveal his watch. 21.21. It was working again. Time really had stood still. Logan stirred and moaned, his eyes flickering in the first movements of waking.
Chris had to think and quickly. ‘Mum? I’ve stepped in some dog mess. I won’t be long but it’s going to take me a while to clean my trainers.’ He didn’t like lying, especially to his mum, but he felt that he had no choice.
‘You’d better make a good job of it young man and don’t take too long. I’ll be having a word with our neighbours tomorrow about keeping their dog out of our garden,’ she replied.
Now he really did feel guilty; still, he’d face that argument when the time came. What to do now was the burning issue. He turned his attention back to Logan who was sitting bolt upright, a confused expression on his face.
‘What happened?’ he asked as Chris knelt beside him.
Chris took Logan’s arm and encouraged him to stand. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to trust me on this. We’ve gone through the Slipstream and travelled back into my world. I know that this is going to sound weird, but you have to keep quiet and do everything that I say. I’ll explain later. Okay?’
‘Are we in danger?’ asked Logan, surveying the shadowy orchard and reaching for his whip.
‘No, no. But I’ve still got to hide you until I can figure out what to do next,’ reassured Chris.
‘You have trusted me, young Frog, and now it is my turn to repay that trust. Tell me what I need to do,’ said Logan.
‘Firstly, my name here is Chris. Secondly, see those lights?’ he said pointing to the house. ‘That’s where I live with my Mum. Things are going to seem pretty strange to you, but stick with me and you’ll be okay. Whatever you see, try not to get alarmed, nothing is going to hurt you. Just don’t touch anything, that’s all. Now, I’ve got to get us both up into my room without being seen. Follow me and keep close.’
Chris led the way, up through the orchard, keeping in the shadows as much as he could until they were at the back of the house and crouching beneath the kitchen window. Chris slowly peered into the kitchen. His mother was nowhere to be seen.
‘Right, I’m going up to my room to get changed so that at least I look normal. You stay here and don’t move. Got it?’
Logan looked blankly back. ‘Got what?’ he asked.
‘No, I mean, do you understand?’ said Chris.
‘Yes. You said to stay here and don’t move,’ said Logan.
‘And don’t touch anything,’ Chris repeated.
‘And don’t touch anything,’ echoed Logan
Chris removed his boots and cautiously crept around to the kitchen door. Stepping through into the well-lit kitchen, he reached inside a drawer and fished out a plastic carrier bag into which he stuffed the dirty boots. Tucking the bag under his arm he made for the hallway. He could hear his mother talking on the telephone in the lounge and so he quietly scrambled up the stairs, slipping into his bedroom and closing the door. Switching on the light, he pulled off his Castellion clothes and stuffed them under his bed along with the carrier bag and his sword. Pulling open his wardrobe door, he grabbed a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and changed into them.
‘Chris?’ he heard his mother call as she crossed the hall towards the kitchen.
He rushed out of his room and down the stairs.
‘I’m here, I’m here,’ he shouted, frantically trying to stop her from going into the garden. He leapt the last three stairs and bounded into the kitchen.
She stared at him, angrily. ‘What is going on? What on earth do you think you’re doing?’
‘Just getting changed so I can have my supper,’ he explained.
She scowled at him. ‘Don’t be so ridiculous, get upstairs and take those clothes off. You’re not going anywhere until you’ve had a good scrub in the shower. Look at the state of your face. And those hands, they’re disgusting. Where are your other clothes and where are your trainers? You had better not have brought them into the house with dog’s mess on them.’
‘I’ve left my trainers outside, they were too smelly,’ he said, thinking as quickly as he could.
‘And your clothes? Are they covered in dog’s mess as well?’
‘Yes, yes. I’ve left them with my trainers.’ he panicked.
She turned to go out of the kitchen door. ‘I’ll get them in the washing machine now, it’ll be too late in the morning.’
‘No! You can’t,’ he shouted.
She stopped and turned. ‘I beg your pardon?’
He stood there, frantically trying to think of an explanation. ‘I think that we might have to throw them away, it was a big pile of dog poo and it got everywhere. I really wouldn’t want you to touch them,’ he said desperately.
The look that Chris feared came over his mum’s face. It was the look that said, ‘Now, you really are in trouble.’
‘You haven’t had those clothes for long. We bought that sweatshirt for you in America. Why can’t you be more careful? Right, get up those stairs and into that shower. Now!�
� she ordered.
As Chris was escorted to the shower, he was lectured on how expensive boy’s clothes were these days and finally told that he was grounded. She then left him with orders to scrub himself clean, informing him, as she went, that she would not be retrieving his clothes from the garden and (much to his relief,) that it would be his sole task to sort out, in the morning.
‘Call me when you’re clean and dressed in your pyjamas,’ she instructed.
As soon as he was sure that she had gone downstairs, he undressed, wrapped a towel around him and leant out of the shower room window.
‘Logan?’ he whispered
There was no answer.
‘Logan!’ he raised his voice this time.
‘I didn’t touch anything,’ came Logan’s voice from the shadows below.
‘Good,’ said Chris. ‘Now listen. I’ve got to wash, and then let my Mum think that I’ve gone to bed before I can work out where to hide you. You’ll have to wait there a little while longer.’
‘That’s all right,’ came the reply. ‘I’ll talk to my new companion.’
Chris nearly slipped out of the window in surprise. ‘What, what new companion?’
‘A ginger cat, he’s very friendly,’ said Logan.
Chris exhaled with relief. ‘Tabby. His name is Tabby and he’s my cat,’ he said. ‘He’ll let you stroke him all night if you’re not careful. You stay put and look after him.’
Chris shut the window and caught sight of himself in the mirror. He was filthy! No wonder his mum was so mad. His hair was greasy and matted, his face was so dirty that he hardly recognised himself. He then thought of the mark on his forehead. How was he going to explain that? He splashed some water on his face, rinsing away the grime. The mark was gone, or at least it was no longer visible, and to his relief his eyes had returned to their normal grey colour. Satisfied, he jumped into the shower and turned on the water. Fifteen minutes later, after half a bottle of shower gel and plenty of scrubbing he stood in his pyjamas, staring at his glowing red face in the mirror.
His mum knocked on the door. ‘Come on, you must be done by now.’