by Marc Secchia
“Why do you keep speaking his name? It’s dangerous – his is a common name, right? Like mine. Or is there a chance it’s a Fire-name or …”
Jesafion shook his mane, jingling the chains. “I cannot say. I stand corrected, filly. Trust me, we Pegasi have known of an impending invasion from this Hooded Wizard for many a sunspot-cycle. It is imperative that the Pegasus High Council hears all that we have seen here; that we give them the very best intelligence we can.”
“Unless you can chew through metal, you aren’t going anywhere anytime soon,” she pointed out.
“I know. That’s why I’m sending you.”
She stamped her hoof angrily. “You’re impossible! First I’m insane, now I’m your right hand or hoof or whatever? You’ve a fine way of asking for help, Prince Jesafion!”
“So I do.” Now his dark eyes fixed upon her, liquid with pleading. “Zaranna. I could speak of the horrors of war and the travails and torment you might prevent. I could describe the lesser races and creatures to you and recount what Darkwolf Clan have done to them in times past. You have not seen the reality of warfare, little filly, nor should your innocence so be sullied. But I would not manipulate you. Go of your own freewill, or do not go. I will think no ill of you.”
Yet she would think ill of herself. Zaranna Inglewood was not so ruddy innocent as to be prepared to stand idly by when a Wizard who had so gleefully tortured her, and perhaps sent his creature Rhenduror to murder her and her mother on Earth, roamed free. If only for the sake of her family, she would go. But for the sake of many creatures, which she had never met and did not know, who apparently lived on another world? Even that choice was easy. Illume had spoken wisely. She had the power to Dream, the power to influence even Storm-Pegasi – for despite Jesafion’s denials, she knew the truth. The Storm-Pegasi had answered her desperate call. Was this the fate which the Dragon had mentioned? That she should struggle and perhaps perish for the innocent creatures of Equinox?
Mercy, how sanctimonious did she sound now? She would do her best. Beings greater than Zara could worry about the metaphysical ramifications.
“If you could spirit me through these bars, Jesafion,” she said carefully, “what do you expect of me? To escape this fortress guarded by Dragons, negotiate these mountains and trot cheerfully through the deadly Outland back to Sentalia Vale, where I shall convince the High Council of Pious Pegasi to listen to a little Plains Horse? If I accomplish all this, will you believe me then?”
He said, “With all the modesty which is clearly my strongest character trait, Zaranna, these bars present no challenge at all. The real challenge is as you outlined. Now, I have some ideas on how you can put your best hoof forward, so to speak, and a number of points of intelligence to convey. But first I need to give you one vital piece of information which will convince the Pegasi that you speak with my mouth.”
“Which is?”
“My Soul-name.”
Zaranna gasped, “But couldn’t that be used against –”
“Aye.” He bowed his head. “I wish you to comprehend the depth of my trust in you, Zaranna. You don’t need me to believe you. You need to believe in yourself.”
If he truly believed she was insane, wasn’t this a form of madness at least equal to her own? Zara wished she understood the first thing about this Pegasus Prince. Never had she felt further from understanding the ways of Equinox, never more isolated, never more alone.
All because of a dream.
Chapter 13: Angels and Darkness
Heathrow Terminal two was heaving. An unexpected early December snowfall had combined with a breakdown of the baggage handling system to leave thousands of passengers stranded or delayed. Anger and resignation soured the air. Already, Zaranna had seen four passengers shouting at staff, and at the security check-in, she overheard a passenger swearing under his breath at her as Alex wheeled her to the front of the queue.
Zara reached back to lay her hand on his tense fingers. “It isn’t worth it, Alex.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No. Mostly because I’m desperate for the toilet.”
“And you’d like to arrive in South Africa minus a delay caused by me thrashing someone in a fit of overzealous-protective-boyfriend rage?”
She laughed at his wry humour. “Sounds good to me.”
“Tell me about – Nonno, do you call him?”
“Yes. Here’s my bag for the scanner. Nonno’s eccentric, that’s for sure.” She giggled as Alex’s droll ‘hmm’ suggested the rest of her family might long since have earned the same label, plus a few extras. “Picture a tanned, wrinkled, sixty-something surfer with straggly blonde hair and these blue-in-blue eyes, a bush of a beard and a habit of smoking a pipe with some weird brand of tobacco which stinks up the whole house. He prefers jeans ripped in indecent places and I’ve never actually seen him wear shoes. Oh, and he plays war games across the kitchen table, reads obscure fantasy authors no-one has ever heard of and rides like a Centaur in man’s clothing.”
“Hard act to follow,” said Alex. “Does he have a name?”
“Uh … don’t be silly, of course he does. Luciano. But everyone calls him Whiz, apparently because at school he was some kind of super-genius. He has something like four PhDs. Yols got his brains, of course. Between Gramps and Dad, she had no chance.”
“As if your family isn’t intimidating enough. Coffee?”
“Can I powder my nose, please?”
“Are you nervous, Zippy?”
“First flight minus my pins. I don’t know. Just jumpy.”
Back on Equinox, her horse was catching a few winks, as she and Jesafion had decided to wait for a break in the guards’ schedule before commencing his magician’s act. A bored-looking soldier had appeared to watch them; the Pegasus kept whispering his instructions at length, filling her head with instructions and knowledge to take back to the Pegasus Clans. Late in the evening, she had managed to nod off despite the pain from the bruising above her left eye.
Zaranna said, “Hold my hand down the aisle, Alex? Promise?”
“Cross my heart and hope it’s worth a kiss.”
Forty-five minutes later, Zaranna was sobbing tears of humiliation and Alex was leaning over the information desk, red-faced from yelling at the desk clerk. She could not believe herself. One touch of meanness and she fell apart? What was the matter with her? It was just a ride down the ramp and help into a seat in Economy. What was so terrifying about that?
Yet she had this gut-wrenching sense of impending doom …
“Alex, honey. Please.” She tried to take his hand.
“No, Zara. They need to apologise! I am not, ‘taking advantage of my girlfriend’s condition to board early!’ That’s unacceptable! Surely helping you to your seat is not too much to ask.”
At least a hundred passengers were staring. The equally red-faced desk clerk, a Miss Baxter of scraped-back hair and Nazi demeanour, remonstrated furiously, a few steps behind the desk, with a colleague who appeared to be trying to talk her down. Zaranna’s gaze flicked to a lady passenger, a very petite but neatly turned-out redhead standing nearby, who like many others had overhead the altercation and now appeared to be fiddling with her Smartphone – recording the two airline staff? She blinked. What?
Eventually, in a low hiss that carried perfectly to Zaranna and Alex’s ears, Nazi-Baxter said, “Fine. You handle Mister Indignant and I’ll manage the grumpy disabled girl.”
A flash of heat rolled up her body. Zaranna saw butterflies. Furious cascades of hot-amber wings raged across her vision like autumnal leaves snapped up by a gale and blasted through a bare-limbed forest. Through the freakish rush of wings she saw Alex’s temper rise visibly, a wash of red creeping up his neck with an awful swelling and pulsing of veins; he stepped around the desk, fists balled, only to bump into the redhead.
“Sorry,” Alex growled.
“Allow me.” The tiny lady shouldered past him. In a loud, clear voice, she said, “Lynette Sharp wit
h the Evening Standard, Ma’am. Would you care to comment for the record?”
She thrust the Smartphone toward Miss Baxter’s chin.
Had the airline attendant been a Doberman, the hand holding the phone would not have survived the experience.
“Evening Standard readers would love to hear more about your views on the disabled – Miss Baxter, is it?” insisted the redhead. “Do you think disabled people are especially grumpy, Miss Baxter? Do you think they feel entitled to special treatment?” The phone waved about; Zaranna watched in a kind of horrified fascination as the reporter ripped into the desk clerk. Words like wolves’ fangs. Incredible. “My readers would love to hear why British Airways staff can’t treat disabled people with the same courtesy as other passengers. Ma’am, are you feeling grumpy today? Is that the problem?”
The other clerk stepped forward. “That’s enough. I apologise …”
Too painful for comedy, too hilarious to laugh at – Zaranna did not know whether to burst out laughing or be violently sick.
“I’m waiting for your comment, Miss Baxter,” said the lady, staring hard-eyed at the attendant. “Millions of Londoners are dying to hear your opinion. Or shall I just leave the recording to speak for you?”
Alex said softly, “I think Miss Baxter needs a different job.”
The desk clerk whirled and fled, to a rousing cheer from the waiting passengers.
Oh, she was doing her best tomato impression as Alex wheeled her down into the huge jet; the tomato persisted for some time as the passengers boarded a little later and she received many a sympathetic pat on the shoulder or a knowing glance as people filed by.
Alex nudged Zaranna. “That’s her.”
The redhead leaned over them, and said breathlessly, “I am Lynette, but I’m only a Junior Accountant and I’ve always wanted to do something like that.”
“You’re a hero,” said Alex. “Thank you.”
She clasped hands briefly with Zaranna. “Actually, the phone was switched off. Couldn’t get it to work.”
“You were totally fearsome. Had me convinced,” Zara smiled.
Kindred spirits? The power of connection? Leaning back in her seat and closing her eyes, Zaranna wondered what moved a Lynette to stand up against the world’s cruelty. To become a stranger’s angel. To be a glimpse of light, a heavenly intervention at a dark moment.
Perhaps that was what Equinox required. Perhaps that was Alex’s gift to her.
* * * *
Being hypnotised and turning herself into an inch-tall Amethyst Tenflower Miniature Pony was definitely a novel experience. Jesafion’s technique apparently allowed her to channel Pegasus abilities, at least for a short period of time. An unspecified period, Zaranna reminded herself. She needed to fly out of the fortress as quickly as possible. A shame the Jez-Master couldn’t channel or transfer his own magic, but it was a uni-directional trick Pegasus foals played on each other for fun – a branch of magic called Shapeshifting. An intriguing connection for a girl-turned-horse.
“Shake a hoof,” he called after her.
Did that mean good luck? “See you soon,” she squeaked in her ridiculously high soprano voice.
She winged away with an inept mastery of her equally miniature, hummingbird-swift wings. Alright, flying was coolness personified. Wow! No wonder Jesafion liked to show off. She flitted down a long stone corridor, her amethyst wings just a blur either side of her body, which was a very light lilac dotted with ten-petalled amethyst flowers, hence the classification. His Princely Self suggested that this particular species of Miniature Equine was native to the sprawling Obsidian Highlands, the mountainous and largely unexplored area where their misadventures appeared to have landed them. All she had to do was head East until she found one of the Vales Jesafion had described to her in his usual toe-curling detail.
Not that she had toes, either on Earth or on Equinox.
Fluttering like a butterfly in a stiff breeze, Zaranna worked her way free of the dungeon levels. Every impeccably turned-out guard stared at her with alert attention; not one paid her the slightest regard after a cursory once-over. She shook her tiny muzzle slightly. Goodness, they even polished the brass handles of the dungeon gates and doors down here. No rats. No damp. No dust … honestly, this place was starting to freak her out.
She flitted up a broad staircase, trying to hide in the shadows and avoid the oil lanterns, each ensconced in a beautiful filigree ironwork bracket. She would frazzle like a moth if she was not careful.
The Miniature Equine emerged into a broad corridor decorated with wood-carved frescoes depicting violent battle scenes – Dragons tangling with eagle-headed Gryphons, wolves mobbing and tearing down a Pegasus, Humans fleeing a marauding Dragon. Approaching from her left, the booming tread of many boots shook the corridor. Armour and metal jingled. Swiftly, she flitted up to a roof-beam to watch the soldiers marching through. A team of Twisted led a column of Human soldiers. The black boots tramped in perfect time. Every second man on each side of the column, which marched eight abreast, carried a flaming torch held above his head. She counted ranks, losing her concentration as she spied a notable creature marching behind that first cohort of Worafion’s soldiers. He was Twisted, a wolf-man, but he stood head and shoulders taller than any of his comrades. His features were closer to a man’s than a wolf’s; though shaggy, his face was curiously compelling, a mixture of great intelligence and rampant cruelty. He moved with the power of a rhinoceros and the lithe stride of a wolf, and his armoured shoulders seemed as broad as the bonnet of a small car.
The Amethyst Miniature fluttered along near the roof. Curiosity. Impulse. Recklessness, perhaps, drew her to trail the black-clad soldiers. She noticed a strange sigil on their crimson uniform epaulettes – a black torch? Sun-rays? She could not be sure. Behind the giant wolf-man were a dozen more of his kin, Darkwolf Clan half again the size of those she had faced in Sentalia Vale, heavily armoured and wearing double-bladed axes in their broad leather belts. They wore wolfskin, the pelts of their own kin.
Ahead of her, the tramping column marched in lockstep around a corner. She coughed on the fumes of their torches, and as she rounded the corner, found herself caught in an unexpected cross-breeze. She yelped, tumbled and lost control. Her spluttering flight ended in a dull, small slap against a dark robe, just where the breast pocket would be. Cool fingers trapped her body before she could wing away. Upon one finger, the man wore a ring Zaranna recognised instantly – the stylised Red Dragon.
Worafion!
“An Amethyst Tenflower Miniature,” said a well-remembered voice. “You’re far from your mountain home, little one. Swept here in a storm?”
She was utterly mute; only the quivering of her body betrayed her dread.
Even she could feel the strangeness of his ring-stone, a percolating awareness not of evil, but of influence. The kind of power that could delicately persuade flesh to divorce itself from bone, or the mind to conform to Escher-like distortions of reality. As before, she perceived nothing but shadows beneath his heavy cowl. The man’s skin, though warm, was strangely white and scaly, almost reptilian. Briefly, she felt a touch like whetted steel against her mind. Zaranna thought of flowers. Flowers and food, and pretty, frivolous play, just as Jesafion had instructed.
“Equines are so inane,” said the man. But his fingers did not release her.
“High Wizard!”
The big Darkwolf crashed his clenched fist upon his breastplate. His voice was breathy and deep, the growl of a large, very dangerous animal.
“Tayburrl Darkwolf. How fare my new troops?”
“They are ready but unblooded, High Wizard,” snarled the huge creature. “We must accustom them to the taste of Human flesh and Horsemeat.”
Worafion said, “They can have the Plains Horse for a snack. Rhenduror still bothers me like a gnat in my ear about this supposed Human Dreamer. It’s impossible.”
“How so, Wizard?”
“None can pass through, for I h
ave sealed the portals with my own hand. No Dreamer has ever been powerful enough to break directly through Equinox’s perfect natural force-shield and the equinoctial storms. The Plains filly is nothing. How many guard the Pegasus Prince?”
Tayburrl turned to a uniformed soldier standing nearby. “How many, Captain Hane?”
“One, Commander – urk!”
The Darkwolf’s fist snapped out quicker than Zara’s eye could follow, plucking the hapless Captain several feet into the air. The beast roared, “How many?”
“The P-Pegasus Prince is s-secure, my –”
“FOOL!”
Again, she could not follow the speed of the creature’s strike. Blood splattered the Human troops; the Captain clutched a gaping hole in his stomach. He gasped, the breath whistling strangely in his throat, then he convulsed, making a long, drawn-out gargling noise that Zaranna knew would remain seared in her memory as long as she lived. Tayburrl dropped him with a snarl of disdain and retracted his gore-splattered paw-talons unhurriedly. The Captain landed with a thump like a wet sack of grain.
Worafion’s forefinger stroked her back, along the spine between her wings. Her pony-self shivered. “There now, Tayburrl, you’ve frightened this little creature.”
The Commander roared, “You men! Lick this craven fool’s blood off the floor. My Darkwolf Clan will not taste the blood of a fool and a traitor.”
She could only gasp and cough in horror as the Human troops fell to with a will, even though their former Captain did not appear to be fully dead as yet. The High Wizard shifted his perfectly buffed black boot an inch, so as to avoid the spreading pool of blood.
Worafion said, in a deadly-quiet voice, “Mind your manners, Tayburrl. You almost dirtied my boots. I will interrogate this presumptuous Princeling myself. When will the army grow to maturity? I grow impatient.”