It was black as pitch when Nekton ventured outside to see to the horse. There were no stables as such and the only shelter for the horse was at the side of the hut. The horse was tethered to a ring nailed to the outer wall, and she snorted her appreciation when she saw the dwarf approaching with a bundle of hay and a bucket of oats.
‘Easy, girl, I guess you want your supper too?’ he said, placing the food in front of her. He patted her gently on her rump whilst she ate. She whinnied unexpectedly, scraping her hoof in the dirt, and Nekton gave a puzzled expression.
‘What’s troubling you?’ he asked, baffled. ‘Why, you’re not one of those fussy eaters are you?’ The horse became restless and Nekton started to feel uneasy. The horse was sensing something, but what? He shook his head, for he knew there was nothing to fear here. He stroked her strong neck to calm her; she was of good stock and a pure-bred, which could make them temperamental at times. Eventually she nudged him with her warm nose and Nekton forgave her irrational behaviour and headed back inside the hut.
A while later, Amadeus lay on a lumpy mattress rolled up in a horsehair blanket. He was unable to sleep, yet the night was turning cool and windless. He lifted his head when he thought he had heard something and listened – nothing. Then he heard it again. He rose from his bed already fully dressed, just his boots lying abandoned on the floor. He grabbed them and shoved his feet inside, making not a sound when he crossed the wooden floorboards. Nekton lay asleep in a makeshift bed situated on the other side of the room, and for privacy he used an old torn and threadbare sheet for a curtain, which he draped over a piece of taut string.
Amadeus went to the window and looked outside. The night air was becoming sharp like glass and the stars were sparkling in the sky, clear of any clouds which might dare to drift across them and dim their brilliant light. The trees surrounding the hut stood like stone statues in the background, not even the leaves rustled, and then Amadeus saw the eyes. He took an involuntary step back for the eyes had no face or body. He knocked over a chair and sent it crashing to the floor, causing Nekton to jump from his bed, startled by the sudden noise.
‘What was that?’ he called out, pulling back the curtain and rushing to light the lantern before going to Amadeus’s side. Even before he spoke Amadeus knew he would sound crazy, but he knew what he had just seen. ‘There are spies out there watching me,’ he bellowed. ‘I’ve just seen them.’
‘Seen who?’ asked Nekton, confused. He was the keeper and would know if someone approached the hut. ‘There is no one here but us,’ he said, trying to calm him. ‘Perhaps you have had a bad dream?’
‘No,’ said Amadeus turning angry. ‘I was not asleep. I saw with my own eyes three sets of yellow pupils staring through the window.’
Nekton was in despair. Amadeus had obviously drunk too much wine.
‘You must be mistaken,’ he said, taking a tone of voice which he thought may pacify his guest, ‘but if it makes you feel better let’s take a look outside and see if your eyes are still watchful.’ Amadeus walked over to his bed and took his sword from underneath it.
‘You cannot use that here,’ warned Nekton, pointing to the blade. ‘Are you not aware it is neutral soil here and no one must be harmed?’ Amadeus tensed; he knew what he had seen, but he also understood the law of the magicians. If he was to break such a law, he would be punished, perhaps even put to death.
‘Very well,’ he said, sounding resentful. ‘I’ll leave my sword behind and we’ll take a look together.’ Nekton looked relieved.
‘Come on then,’ he urged, opening the door, ‘you go first.’ Amadeus shot Nekton an expression of distrust, which spread like butter over his face.
‘If there’s nothing out there, then why don’t you go first?’ he asked, a hard look reaching his eyes.
‘Fine, I will,’ Nekton snapped. ‘I just thought because you are a warrior and I’m a dwarf you would wish to defend me. I haven’t a problem with who goes first as I don’t believe anyone is actually out there.’ Amadeus gave a broad grin. Nekton was right; how could he even think of sending out the dwarf? What on earth was he thinking?
‘You’re absolutely right, my dear fellow,’ he said, genuinely ashamed of his outburst. He targeted Nekton with a hefty slap on his back, almost sending him reeling out of the door.
‘Hey, stop that,’ said Nekton, looking unamused. ‘I’m only little.’
The two of them walked outside, keeping a few feet apart, with only the lantern and the stars to help illuminate their way. The warrior and the dwarf checked the area for anything suspicious. At last Amadeus was satisfied they were alone and called to Nekton to call it a night.
‘Well, I won’t say I told you so,’ said the dwarf, grinning with satisfaction. ‘And, now that we’ve cleared that up, I’ll just check your horse one more time before I go back to bed.’ Amadeus nodded, appreciating his consideration, and made his way back to the cabin.
He entered the doorway and felt fatigue fill his bones. He sat on a chair to take a moment’s rest and a cold warning rippled down his back. They were both ill-prepared for the attack. Flashing their silver swords, strange shadows came out of the trees and headed straight for the hut. They were practically invisible to the naked eye, using forbidden magic on the orders of their king. They had been waiting to attack the soldier, Amadeus, who was known to be a mighty warrior and who would not be taken without a fight.
They had not planned to take the dwarf but now realised they had no choice. It would be easy to capture him, although this would cause a great calamity if the wizard of Raven’s Rainbow were to find out who had taken him. Without a sound, they edged themselves closer to the keeper and three of them surrounded him without him being aware. Another four waited for the signal that Nekton was captured before attacking Amadeus.
They pounced on Nekton, causing him to fall against the horse. She whinnied a warning for the second time that night, but it came far too late. Invisible hands grabbed him from behind and another covered his mouth so he could not alert the warrior. They gagged him with thick material, his teeth biting down on the cloth, forcing his lips apart and causing his mouth to turn dry. They tied his hands together with rope, tugging sharply to make sure he could not make his escape. Fear showed in Nekton’s beady eyes. This was Fortune’s End, the one place in the extraordinary world where no one could be harmed, and yet here he was being exactly that.
Moments later Nekton heard a cry, followed by heavy scuffling. The sharp noise of glass crashing to the floor made him flinch; they had attacked the warrior also. It took the assailants only a few minutes to defeat Amadeus. He could not see them and although he put up a brave fight he was no match for their illegal magic. He was pulled out of the hut in the same way as Nekton, bound and gagged. Fury burned in his eyes and hatred showed in his twisted features when the same invisible hands pushed them to the cover of trees.
Their captors made them walk only a few feet before coming across a group of horses. Nine stallions stood fastened to a rope that had been tethered to the branches, and Amadeus and Nekton were forced to mount, then their hands were bound to their saddles. More rope was used to tie two horses together whilst a leash was stretched from the leader’s horse to their own. A cry echoed through the forest and then they were gone.
The party travelled for miles and was following the main route out of Raven’s Rainbow when the enemy removed the spell that had given them anonymity. Amadeus was confused when he clapped eyes on them, instantly recognising the crest of the Nonhawk embossed on their armour. He was no fool and soon calculated the reasons behind his capture. These were Forusian’s men; they had captured him before he reached the wizard Bridgemear.
He rode along the bumpy road with his mind racing ahead. There was something going on here more than first met the eye. For the Nonhawk to break the sacred laws of the land and risk the wrath of the wizard Bridgemear, it had to be something extremely serious. It was clear to him that Forusian did not want Bridgemear to know his
daughter had arrived in the extraordinary world, but why? This was the burning question to which he had to find the answer. He knew he must stay alive at all costs, for he realised that King Gamada had never needed him as much as he needed him now.
Chapter 9
Tremlon awoke in his chamber to find the sun was rising and Arhdel to be sitting beside him.
‘You have a terrible fever,’ Arhdel told him, turning to pick up an empty cup and fill it from the pitcher that lay next to him. He placed the cup to Tremlon’s dry lips and he drank thirstily.
Tremlon’s head was throbbing with a terrible ache and the pressure behind his eyes gave him cause to believe a hundred elves were slamming pickaxes on the top of his skull. He was also suffering from the symptoms of hypothermia, and even with his bed full of blankets and the warmth of the sun flooding through the window he shivered with cold.
Arhdel gave a solemn rasp.
‘It’s just as I thought,’ he said, pulling a blanket under Tremlon’s chin. ‘You are seriously ill and we must get the healer to you as soon as possible.’
He glanced over at Matt who stood waiting for him in the bedroom doorway.
‘It’s the effect of being in the snow for so long,’ Arhdel explained. ‘Warriors are very versatile to the bitter weather – we adapt according to our climate with ease, but Tremlon is no warrior, his inner strength is not the same as the soldiers’ and he was unconscious in sub-zero temperatures for far too long. To be honest, it was a miracle either of you survived.’
Matt looked gravely at the shape-changer lying in his bed, sick and helpless. He had started to like the temperamental shape-changer who clearly suffered with a bad case of attitude, but he had concluded that he was just a strange bird-man burdened with a heavy conscience.
Arhdel called out to a passing servant and whispered urgent instructions. She hurried away, making her way down the polished marble steps and through the long corridors to seek out the king’s healer, Sawbones.
It wasn’t long before the healer arrived laden with a long, willowy stick and a brown leather pouch and he proceeded to the bedside table before opening the drawstring bag and delving inside. Pulling the bed covers away from Tremlon and placing them down to his waist, he listened to his patient’s wheezing chest with mounting concern. Tremlon’s breathing was becoming irregular and his skin was grey and clammy. Sawbones held a small red bottle in his hand and he dislodged the cork with his teeth. He continued by pouring a thick, brown liquid onto his fingers before smearing it over Tremlon’s chest.
‘It will help his breathing and make him sleep,’ he explained to Arhdel when he caught him staring. ‘This elf is in a critical condition and we have no time to lose; we must take him to the Altar of Vitality and ask the guardian of the catacombs for her help if he is to have any chance of survival,’ he continued, replacing the cork. He didn’t wait for Arhdel to speak before collecting his belongings and replacing the covers over the shivering body. Matt was numb. He had never seen anyone look so poorly, even when his granny suffered a stroke. She had died at the age of seventy-two in her sleep, but even in death she hadn’t appeared as grey or as lifeless as Tremlon did now.
‘The king must be notified at once,’ Sawbones added, moving towards the door.
‘Yes, of course,’ Arhdel agreed. ‘I will go immediately and tell him myself.’ He turned to Matt. ‘Can I trust you to escort Tremlon to the Altar of Vitality whilst I report to the king of Tremlon’s sudden deterioration?’ Matt nodded, with keenness glowing in his eyes.
‘Good, it is settled then; I will meet you there.’
‘Is he going to die?’ Matt blurted, swallowing hard. Sawbones took a deep breath and puffed out his chest to show his authority.
‘I’m afraid it isn’t looking good; unless we can convince the guardian to use her powers to restore his health, he won’t stand much chance of recovery. However, I must warn you that these types of elves – shape-changers – are not good at fighting infection and her powers will only bring him back from the shadowy place where his soul is lurking if it is not his time to leave us. If she agrees to help us and manages to bring him back, he will still be weak and in need of much care.’
Two guards with strong arms and rippling muscles entered the chamber. They had been assigned by Arhdel to transport Tremlon to the altar. The altar was set only a stone’s throw from the palace in a small catacomb carved deep into the rock close to the mountain and the guards laid Tremlon down on a stretcher, ensuring he was secure before making any attempt to move him. Matt picked up the blankets that had fallen to the floor and fussed over him like a mother hen making sure he was kept warm, but Tremlon’s symptoms were changing and he was becoming hot. Instinctively, he kicked at the blankets to cool himself and beads of sweat wound their way down his forehead to soak his pillow.
Matt watched Tremlon finally fall asleep and in a sombre procession they made their way to the catacomb. When they entered, the cool air was a welcome kiss on Tremlon’s clammy skin and for the first time the shape-changer looked at peace in his induced sleep.
Once inside the catacomb, the air became damp and the earth underfoot changed to an orangey red. Matt noticed the healer was already waiting for them by a table made of rock; he had changed his clothes and resembled a Benedictine monk with his long, brown robe, short only of the halo of shaved hair. The catacomb was eerie and smelt of decomposing matter; Matt saw that long hollows had been dug out of the rock and what looked like mummified bodies were wrapped in decaying cloth, protruding like trophies of death.
‘Bring him to me,’ said Sawbones with a new urgency to his voice. ‘We have little time to spare.’ The two stretcher-bearers gave a deep bow before proceeding to the table. With gentle hands for such strong elves, they placed the shape-changer onto the cold slab. Matt was surprised to see the shape-changer didn’t awaken when his body touched the cold limestone or cry out with shock; instead, he lay perfectly still. Sawbones began the ritual by placing Tremlon’s hands palms down upon his chest and then sprinkled a handful of what looked to Matt like some sort of blue powder over his abdomen. A deep groan slipped from Sawbones’s lips and he waved a shaking hand over the whole of Tremlon’s body.
Candles in many different shapes and sizes adorned the cracks and crevices of the catacomb, creating an aura of artificial brightness all around them, but a sudden gust of wind blew down from the abyss above, causing the candles to flicker and all but a few were extinguished. The healer, clearly unfazed by the strong blast of air and consuming darkness, continued to chant. Then the strange powder changed colour, glowing silver like the moon, and a ghostly apparition materialised before their eyes. The figure shimmered, illuminated by the bright glow until the light faded away to reveal an old crone. Matt thought her appearance was completely unnerving. She was nothing less than grotesque, and her wizened and gnarled body shot painful messages of unbearable ugliness to anyone who had the misfortune to place their gaze upon her. Her face, pockmarked and red-veined, showed years of neglect. Bony hands tapered to scrawny fingers, with long, blackened fingernails displaying razor-sharp points, which could evidently be used as instruments of destruction if she so desired.
The guardian stood by Tremlon’s feet whilst she waited for the healer to acknowledge her and, once he had done so, she took a step forward to take a better look at the sick elf.
‘Who is this creature?’ she hissed, her voice hoarse with age.
The healer cleared his throat; he had great respect for the guardian, but feared her sometimes volatile behaviour.
‘His name is Tremlon; he is a shape-changer and he is extremely ill.’
‘And what do you expect from me?’ she asked, whilst a cunning smile played along her purple lips.
‘We ask for you to use your magnificent powers to heal him,’ he responded with a bow.
‘And what will I get for me efforts?’ she asked, with a shrewd glint in her eye. Sawbones smiled, already one step ahead of her.
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��I have brought you a gift in return for the favour we ask of you.’ The old crone shot him a look of interest. ‘Show me your gift!’ Vanishing behind the altar, he reappeared with a crisp white cloth held in the palm of his hand. He peeled away the corners to reveal a small, perfectly formed butterfly. The colours and size Matt could not see from where he stood, but the hag sucked in a gasp of sheer delight. She was known to desire living creatures, fascinated with their beauty, craving vibrant colours from outside her world which consisted only of misery and semi-darkness.
‘What do you say, guardian? Is it worth the trade?’
‘Oh yes, yes, definitely yes,’ she said with obvious glee. ‘I have always wanted one of those; why, just look at the fine, elegant structure of the wings.’ Her eyes became hard. ‘Can I have it now?’
‘No!’ said Sawbones, withdrawing his hand. ‘Do we have a deal or not?’
‘Very well,’ she sniffed, ‘I will see what I can do.’ She turned her attention to the motionless body lying before her.
‘He’s close to death,’ she told the healer, her voice flat. She watched his face tighten like a clenched fist. ‘I will not make any guarantees to save this elf. The decision will rest upon the effect of the poison when it reaches his heart.’ Matt, who had been silent up to that moment, took a step forward and challenged the guardian.
‘You can’t use poison on him or you’ll kill him!’ he roared in panic.
The crone spun round on her heels with startling speed and faced him, her mouth twisted in a bitter grimace.
‘And what do you know of my ways?’ she spat, causing droplets of saliva to be sprayed from her mouth into the atmosphere. Matt was repulsed, but stood his ground. He had to try and protect Tremlon from this evil witch.
‘Do not meddle in matters that are way beyond your understanding,’ snapped Sawbones, furious with the mortal for interfering. ‘The poison will either kill him or cure him, it is not for you to decide,’ he fumed and whilst he apologised to the guardian for the mortal’s behaviour, Matt moved back into the shadows.
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