by Gray, C. M.
‘I love magic,’ whispered Loras. He walked to the far wall and eased the arrow from the wood. The moth dropped into his outstretched hand and fluttered feebly. He cupped both hands around it and a blue glow shone from between his fingers. Opening his hands, the moth fluttered free, unhurt from the experience and sensible enough to head straight for the porthole. The boys all faced Tarent.
He studied his friends; all changed but still the same. Friends he had known for such a short time, yet felt he had known forever. He turned to the new page and, sure enough, the text was there. He read aloud in a steady voice:
With a hand that shook, Tarent reached out and felt a warm blue mist enfold him as energy coursed through his body. Understanding dawned upon him as if a veil had been drawn from his mind and a smile lit up his face.
He knew himself to be in the Source, the source of all light and love. He was part of the Source and as one with the Source. A feeling of completion and belonging enveloped him and he understood the direction he must travel. After what felt like an age later, he opened his eyes to see his friends staring at him. Glancing down he saw brown robes and a long cape and was holding a wooden staff gripped in both hands. He twisted it and the two halves separated, twin blades flashed into the room. He replaced them expertly and returned the smiles of his friends.
The cat stood and stretched, then changed into the girl they had seen before. She smiled around at them. ‘I have been waiting nearly a thousand years to meet you all and it is a real pleasure to do so at last. Magician, Fighter, Thief and Priest of the Source; it is such a thrill to see you. Magician Pew described you so well. Let me try to give some small explanation of what is happening to you.’
‘Long ago, in a time now known as the Great Age, a future was foreseen by several of the leading magicians. They saw a day when the world would be at the very tip of all that was good and on the first slippery slopes of decline. For this world as we know it to exist, there has to be a balance, think of it as good and evil, positive and negative, or Order and Chaos. All are similar and related, yet each is completely different. There is the necessity for a little Chaos in the world to complete a balance, but no room for evil in the hearts of man. What the magicians of old foresaw was a point of balance between Order and Chaos, the forces of nature. That point of balance, if allowed to pass, would mean Chaos becoming greater and greater, gradually leaving no room for Order. However, if the battle between the two could be halted at the right time, then a period of perfect balance, of peace and plenty, could continue indefinitely.’
‘To accomplish this, a great spell was needed. This spell was conceived by my master, Magician Pew, one of the greatest magicians of all time.’
‘And you were there to see all this, a thousand years ago?’ asked Loras.
‘Oh yes, I was there,’ Mahra confirmed. ‘Many years of work went into the spells casting and placing into three crystal skulls, but to complete it, someone had to wait for the right time to unite the skulls. That time, it would seem…is now. The Book of Challenges was created and heroes plucked from the future to use it. You are those heroes. You are the soldiers for Order, you must complete the challenges to finish the spell and stop the world from slipping further and further into the control of Chaos and the dark days of true evil.’
‘We already have a mystery soldier recruited to Chaos, although he may not even realise it. I believe he is the one who now tracks you, and Chaos will be aiding him in every way that it can. For now at least, it would seem the balance remains.’
The stars shone down brightly and an orange moon hung large and low on the horizon, its glow scattered on the water’s surface. Tarent was leaning back against the mast; he shivered as he sought the omen in his head - A Hunter’s Moon. He instinctively knew this omen prophesised trouble and, more to the point, that a demon would walk the earth. Well isn’t that wonderful, he thought. Just what I needed to know; magic, danger, and now demons, what joy knowledge can sometimes bring.
****
Matheus Hawk was not a happy man. He’d tracked the thief easily enough to a boat anchored in the harbour. A simple ‘find’ spell had allowed him to trace the boy who had been in the merchant’s room and a morning’s vigil had singled out the old hulk, hiding in the corner with several youngsters living on board. Matheus had a horrible reputation, which he was always careful to nurture. It paid to have people fear him in his line of work; however, setting himself and his methods loose upon children was lower than even he had been prepared to go. He had decided to wait until the boat was empty, search it, retrieve whatever was the merchant’s and leave. If the merchant didn’t like it, then so be it; they were, after all, only youngsters.
It had started to go wrong when nothing of the merchant’s could be found on the boat. Magic didn’t seem to work and even the listening spell he’d placed had failed to perform, which was strange. The final thing to take the edge from his humour had been the sight of the boat slipping out to sea early the next morning. He’d learned a valuable lesson in underestimating the thieves simply because they were children. Had they been adults he would have confronted them from the moment he’d traced them and slaughtered them without a regret, thought or prayer. He vowed to chase them down and children or not, he would show the world once more that being tracked by Matheus Hawk meant you should live what little remained of your life in absolute terror.
****
Chapter 5
Set Course For ‘The Isle of Skulls’
The book was now starting to fill, and each of the boys spent time reading through it. The fifth page after the introduction was now visible and causing much heated discussion.
Pardigan looked over at Mahra. ‘Well, what does it mean?’
‘You can’t need my help already surely?’ she purred. Lifting her hand to her mouth, she began to lick it, then remembered that she wasn’t in cat but human form and frowned. ‘It means my little group of heroes that the first challenge is to get yourselves to the Isle of Skulls and find the…skull that…’ She waved her hands in the air absently. ‘...that it links to Magician Pew...somehow. Listen, I don’t pretend to understand everything that you’re supposed to do,’ she added in an irritated tone. ‘Magician Pew was never the clearest person with his language. And apparently, for some reason known only to himself, he decided that he had to write your instructions in rhyme. This, remember, was all conceived over a thousand years ago and was probably necessary for the spell...I don’t know!’
The boys glanced at one another and Tarent shrugged. ‘Mahra, we’re not asking you to know everything, just to help us as much as you can. How far is this island? I don’t think it’s on the charts, and have you any idea what we can expect when we get there?’
‘It’s not on your charts for the same reason that the next page isn’t in the book before it’s meant to be read. Simply sail north-east and after a day or two I’m sure we’ll find it.’
‘Sure we’ll find it?’ echoed Quint. ‘You don’t know?’
‘No,’ said Mahra. ‘I don’t know. I also don’t know what to expect when we get there, but I seem to be remembering things when the need arises. My mind has probably been affected in the same way as the book and the island. Which means the spell is still active and extremely powerful.’ She paused for a moment. ‘When we get to the island, either I’ll know a little more, or we’ll just have to follow our instincts. I’m sorry but that’s all I can tell you for the moment.’
They realised that although thin, it was all they had. As for the agent of Chaos that followed; not much could be done except stay ahead of him and act with the best of their new abilities, if and when he did show up.
The next morning Quint and Pardigan went ashore to buy provisions and have a last look around the town of Sterling. Quint reluctantly left his bow and sword on the boat, but both boys carried knives.
‘I’ve never carried a blade before,’ said Pardigan. ‘It’s strange, I’d feel quite naked now if I didn’t have one with m
e,’ he felt the knife under his cloak and sighed. ‘A wise man once told me never to carry a blade. He said there would always come a time when you’d cross paths with a person that has a greater ability, who’d take it away from you and… ’ He left the sentence unfinished, drawing a finger across his throat theatrically, and then shrugged his shoulders.
‘Do you really feel different?’ asked Quint. ‘I mean me, personally, I feel…strange. I know I’m me, but I’m not the me that I recognise…do you know what I’m talking about or am I babbling?’
‘Yeah, I feel the same as you. I guess we all do, but I think we’ll get used to it; I hope so anyhow. I do like feeling a little special. My only worry is whoever’s following us. Knife thrower or not, and I don’t care if I can go invisible, he scares me. I’m not sure why exactly, but he does.’ They continued to walk into town chatting in low voices, so as not to be overheard.
By mid morning, they were back on the boat and The Griffin got underway, heading once more for open sea.
****
Matheus Hawk sat huddled in concentration over a cast-iron brazier – the hot coals painting his face with an orange glow. He added another pinch of powder from a bag, and smoke billowed up, filling the room and stinging his eyes, but he was past the point of caring. The spell he was casting was a seeing spell and it wasn’t working. He was searching for the boat that housed his quarry, yet time and time again it was proving to be unsuccessful. His patience was growing thin as he watched visions change in the coals through red-rimmed eyes. He’d been doing this for several turns of the glass and was becoming extremely fatigued, but still he pushed on. Constantly the visions moved from boat to boat, as scene after scene was shown to him, yet nothing appeared that was remotely like the boat he had entered in the port.
At last he could take it no more. Turning from the brazier he stood and stretched. Clenching and cracking his knuckles, he strode to the window and threw the shutters wide. Smoke billowed out allowing light and air to flood back into the room. Breathing deeply, Matheus stood staring down into the street. Knowing his tactics would have to change he contemplated his options. This was no ordinary matter of tracking down some common thief or fugitive. Magic was involved here, potent magic, and if Matheus had come to enjoy one thing beyond all else, it was his magical skills. The chance that he could acquire new knowledge was even more tempting than any reward the fat merchant could put in front of him.
There was a powerful spell that Matheus had used only twice before and was hesitant in using again, but he was considering it now. To request the aid of demon kind was fraught with peril. Matheus knew he was a powerful magician, but was also aware of his limitations and knew even he would have problems controlling a demon, but if an agreement of some sort could be made …
After eating a sparse meal of raw vegetables and cold rice, he spent the afternoon in meditation. By nightfall he was decided, ready and prepared.
The brazier was re-lit and several clay bowls of carefully prepared herbs and powders set to the side. Placing the brazier in the centre of the floor, he then spent some time and care, drawing a series of complex patterns and designs around it. While he worked, his mind went back to the sessions with the one he had called ‘the magic man’. The crippled magician, desperate for medical aid, food and water, had begged Matheus for help, but had received only the bare minimum necessary to keep him alive; alive enough for Matheus to extract the information he craved. He’d written these scraps of knowledge down on small blocks of parchment and he was now studying them while scratching his charcoal stick on the floor, sending whirls and spirals off to the four corners of the room.
Energy began crackling along the charcoal lines changing from intense blue, the colour of Order, to a dark crimson red, the colour of Chaos. Matheus was sweating freely in the stuffy atmosphere, yet he pulled the hood of his cape over his head, to better concentrate on the complex rituals of the incantation ahead. He had read and re-read the passages necessary several times over, and felt confident in his ability to perform the task. Yet, he remained uncertain of what direction to take once the task was complete; that of calling the demon into this realm.
Much would depend upon careful negotiation to see if he could persuade the demon to do what he wanted. If all else failed, he had set call-back spells at various stages of the pattern and was confident he could return the demon should anything go wrong.
Still, it was with some measure of uncertainty that Matheus finally took his position, sitting cross-legged in front of the brazier. Drawing several deep breaths, he commenced a deep rhythmic chant. As the brazier smouldered, he dropped different herbs and mixtures onto the glowing coals, repeating this at odd intervals. Around him shadows and lights danced upon the walls, smoke moved in patterns through the thick air and the energy in the room grew until every hair on his body was standing on end. Even the dust on the floor was dancing, drawn along the patterns as the energy crackled and glowed. It was becoming less and less blue, and more and more the deep crimson red of Chaos, as the spell’s energy sank through the layers of awareness and into the realms of darkness. Down and down, sinking lower and lower, Matheus moved through the darkening mists, seeing strange beings and spirits. Some noticed him but most did not, each caught up in their own private nightmares. The chant no longer resembled a collection of words, but had become a vibrating mixture of energy and sound that twisted together controlling the spell. Window shutters, that had been carefully closed and bolted before he’d begun, now rattled and banged with an urgent fury.
Drawn by the noises and the strange glow coming from the room, the landlady of the hostel was trying to force her way in, but the normally flimsy door wasn’t budging. It now seemed fixed as if made from iron. A mixture of concern for her room and fear of the strange noises, smells and lights from within lent her a reckless courage as she tried with all her might to gain entry. After a particularly loud ripping noise and a further shaking of the building, which sent plaster and dust raining down over her head, she finally gave up and ran shrieking down the stairs. In her wake she passed several guests peeking round their doors with white scared faces and large fearful eyes. Violent crackling and rumbling sounded like thunder throughout the building, as if a violent storm were confined and dancing within the small upstairs room. Cracks began appearing in the walls and roof tiles were now raining down, smashing onto the street below.
Completely unaware of his surroundings or his slumped body, Matheus had become one with the spell as he continued down through the ever-spiralling levels of spirit, seeking the lowest realms of darkness - the place where the demons dwelt.
****
Water washed back over the deck, as another wave was met head on. The Griffin seemed to come alive at times like this, attacking each new wave with a crash and a slap that sent water spraying over the delighted crew as the deck bucked and fell beneath them.
Quint was standing at the wheel teasing every bit of speed from the old boat, while Loras, who had been sent forward to stand on the bowsprit, kept watch for any logs that could still be a hazard to them this near to the coast. Loras didn’t like this duty much and was holding on in fear; his cold wet fingers locked around the safety rope as the bucking boat nearly tossed him overboard for the umpteenth time.
Pardigan and Tarent were perched along the topside of the boat adding their weight to allow her all the speed she could muster. They hung over the side, leaning back with outstretched fingers competing to touch the rushing waters that sped past beneath them. Free from the cares and worries that life had recently brought them, the crew of The Griffin sailed on in search of a magical island.
When Loras crawled back into the wheelhouse, Quint could see how green he was so sent him below to change into something dry. The rest of the crew were enjoying themselves, feeling free for the first time in days. Thoughts of people following them, new magical abilities and mysterious challenges were thankfully forgotten for a time as they busied themselves with the familiar tas
ks of helping to keep The Griffin sailing hard. The land was soon lost behind them and after several turns of the glass the last of the gulls that had been following also departed.
Open water was a terribly lonely place and Quint felt himself fighting down the worries that came bubbling up, doubting his ability to navigate and never finding land again. On this heading he had no idea when land may be reached and had the worry that if it was a small island, they might miss it altogether, especially if they arrived in darkness. He continually kept an eye to the compass and also to the wave tops to try and guess where the tide and currents were pushing them. Despite the burden of command he still managed to enjoy the sail and kept most of his fears at bay knowing that if they did go on and on, then in two or three days they could turn around and come right back the opposite way. For now, it was simply a great time to be alive and he smiled as the spray washed back over the boat. It was all too much for Quint and it wasn't long before he called for Tarent to take over at the wheel. With a last look at the compass and instructions to keep the boat on course he pulled off his shirt and made his way carefully to the bowsprit to take up his favourite position. Tying himself securely to the safety rope and bracing himself against the rise and fall of the boat, he lifted his arms high in the air and once again laughed and shouted his defiance at the sea.
****
Having waited for a rich victim all evening and now most of the night, the two thieves standing quietly on a dark street corner were becoming increasingly frustrated. They stepped back into the shadows and watched as three more people left Blake’s and walked up the cannery towards Market Square. Driven by desperation, they quietly followed, keeping a safe distance behind. Halfway up the Cannery the three stopped, exchanged a few final words, and the tall skinny fellow broke from the other two and headed down Weaver Street, his companions continuing on up towards the Square. Seeing their opportunity at last, they hurried to the corner of Weaver Street and peered around. It was dark, the oil in the street lamps long burnt out, but they could hear the shuffling sounds of their victim as he ambled along towards his bed.