A Portion of Dragon and Chips

Book one in the Robot vs Dragons trilogy

Copyright © Simon Haynes

v 1.06

"Laugh after laugh, dark in places but the humour punches through. One of the best books I've read in 2018 so far. Amazing! "

★★★★★

Bowman Press

Stock images copyright depositphotos.com

Map of the Old Kingdom

Guaranteed to help tourists find the right spot

Chapter 1

Rank Arbumen, High Priest of Chatter's Reach, stood at the window of his opulent apartment, shivering in the night-time cold. He wore the black robes, lead-plated chain, wooden sandals, leather armbands, green sash and bronze-plated head-piece afforded his exalted position, but given the amount of time it took him to get dressed every day, he sometimes wished he'd taken up some other calling … like acting.

The head-piece was fashioned from a single cast, with mounting holes around the base intended, in less enlightened times, to literally screw the heavy device to the wearer's skull. It was supposed to mark the High Priest out in a crowd, something it achieved with a huge degree of success, since the head-piece evoked an oversized pair of rabbit ears, one of them tilted forward to give the impression the wearer was listening intently.

The origins of the device were lost in the mists of time, but apparently a miserly king of the era had sacked all the proof readers in the land, declaring them a waste of money. So, when a motion came before the High Chamber, instead of suggesting a head-piece which would lend an air of gravitas to the High Priest, it instead recommended a headpiece which would lend him a 'hare of gravitas' .

Repercussions of the king's unwise move were not limited to funny headgear. Indeed, the monarch's tomb, slowly crumbling with the passing years, still bore his subjects' well-meaning epitaph:

Here lies king Taipo, beloved of all. May he rest with angles.

Ironically, burial custom of the time required that kings and queens be interred in a sitting position, so the epitaph was more accurate than even the High Chamber intended.

Arbumen shivered again. There was no glass in the window, which wasn't surprising because panes of glass hadn't been invented yet, and thus a strong, salt-laden breeze cut through his ornate robes as though they were fashioned from gauze. He gathered the robes tighter, trying in vain to warm his bones, and gazed out on the city.

His suite was on the top floor of a converted bell tower. The bells were long since gone, melted down to forge weapons for some long-forgotten war, and the view from the window was breathtaking. Torches and lanterns flickered in the darkness below, their dim glow barely illuminating the streets and alleys. Further in the distance he could see the first of the city walls, where moving specks of light revealed the guards patrolling the battlements. He'd often wondered whether that was wise, since it gave a concealed enemy something to aim a bow at, but he'd been assured that statistically speaking they lost fewer guards to stray arrows than they did from guards taking a wrong turn in the darkness and plunging to their deaths. So, the lights stayed.

There was a rustle of bed sheets behind him, and Arbumen smiled. The lass warming his bed had been particularly vigorous, as promised, and he decided she would receive her second tip of the night when she left.

Arbumen shivered again, and was about to turn away from the window and engage in more warming pursuits when he happened to glance down into the town square. An elaborate wooden stage had been constructed in the centre, with lanterns hung from poles illuminating the large chopping block which had been brought up from the cells for tomorrow's executions. The timbers of the stage were fresh and raw, but the chopping block was streaked with dried blood, black and foreboding in the darkness. The lanterns would be taken down at dawn, the poles ready to receive their new and far more grisly decoration as each execution took place.

"I thought this kind of thing was banned for priests?" said the woman suddenly, interrupting his sombre thoughts.

Arbumen knew what she meant, but he shrugged off the question. "It is not written so."

"But the teachings of Zephyr clearly state that fornication—"

"Do you presume to lecture the High Priest on such matters?"

"I've got a copy of the Windfast," said the woman doggedly. "And I can read."

"Is that so?" Arbumen turned to face her. She was sitting up in bed, naked to the waist, and with a sudden stirring he realised she'd probably get more than two tips that eve. "Which edition do you possess?"

"I don't know, do I? It's got half the pages missing, but the bit about priests is pretty specific."

"Does it mention magic, perchance?"

The woman gasped, her chest moving in a most alluring fashion as she raised one hand to her mouth.

"I thought so. You have an early edition, possession of which could lead to your arrest." Arbumen gestured towards the window. "Half the people decorating those poles tomorrow will be executed because of a similar crime."

"I would never attempt … magic," whispered the woman .

"Of course not. It's banned." Unwillingly, Arbumen's glance travelled over his ample bookshelves, all crammed with tomes on spells, potions and hexes. Most of the spines had titles in the Ancient Tongue, which is why he kept them to hand instead of locking them away. However, just to be on the safe side, the next time he paid for companionship he was going to choose a wench who couldn't read. "It will not surprise you to learn that my knowledge is more extensive than yours," he continued pompously. "Priests may avail themselves of all manner of carnal delights, provided they don't cast spells at the same time. May Zephyr strike me down if I am wrong!" He thought that was a nice touch, then realised he was wasting his considerable verbal skills on a mere courtesan, educated or not. He turned away and quickly forgot the woman as his gaze roved further afield, past the city walls to the edge of the cliffs which protected the city from seaward attacks. And beyond that, out to the horizon, stretched the sea itself, shimmering silver under the light of the primary moon.

He wondered whether there was anything out there, beyond the vast ocean. Scholars insisted the Old Kingdom, huge continent though it was, was the only landmass in the world. Others pointed out that larger landmasses, other civilisations, and treasures beyond compare, could lie just over the horizon. Unfortunately, with gigantic sea serpents roaming the ocean, swallowing everything in their path, there was no way to find out.

There was a flash to his right, far beyond the walls on the opposite side of the city, and moments later it was followed by rumble of thunder. Arbumen frowned at the noise. If the executions were rained off, the peasants would be revolting in the streets. On the other hand, if the peasants got a good drenching they might be a little less revolting than usual .

Praise be to Zephyr.

There was another rumble of thunder, and Arbumen saw a star flickering and flaring on the horizon. The heavens were familiar and well understood, especially by someone in his position, and one didn't want to see new stars popping up unannounced. For one thing, it made it next to impossible to find a stable for his horse.

The light grew brighter, until he was forced to shield his eyes from the glare. As it grew larger and larger, Arbumen realised he could actually hear the thing whistling towards him. Wide-eyed, he could only stare as the bright spark of light revealed itself to be a tumbling, glowing boulder as big as a house.

* * *

As the High Priest stood in the window, his companion for the night was calculating the distance from her position in his comfortable bed to a spot between his shoulder blades. It was too far for a killing throw, and Tiera wasn't sure she could make it on foot before he heard her and turned around.

But killing him by the window would be so convenient! She could tip his body out and flee before the guards showed up. Or, if anyone looked in just after the deed, she'd tell them the High Priest had gone to empty his bladder. His bladder and all the rest of his organs, given the long drop to the paving stones below, but she needn't go into excessive detail.

However, such a lie which would be less convincing if the High Priest were lying on the rug in a pool of blood. The city guards weren't known for their mental prowess, but even they knew the difference between the various bodily fluids.

Tiera reached under the bed, her fingers closing on the hilt of a stiletto smuggled in by a serving boy. It had been concealed inside an erotic carving, a carving consisting of twelve inches of polished hardwood, with a removable base into which the dagger fitted smoothly. A carving which, quite frankly, had put the High Priest's manhood to shame.

As she took up the dagger, Tiera considered her escape plans. Some assassins went down with the ship, so to speak, but she always felt that was a criminal waste of talent. Live to kill another day, that was her motto.

She threw off the bedclothes and got up, dagger behind her back. The High Priest was still gazing out the window, and Tiera estimated he'd be dead in twenty seconds. If the stiletto didn't stop his heart, the paving stones of the city square below would certainly finish the job.

In the end, her estimate was out by ten seconds. She'd only taken the first light step towards the High Priest when there was a distant whistle, which grew quickly into a ground-shaking roar. The High Priest was illuminated by an eye-watering glare outside the tower, and then, with an explosion of bricks, shattered timbers and fluttering books, fully half the apartment vanished in the blink of an eye. One second the High Priest was there, the next he'd simply disappeared.

Tiera was thrown backwards, into the bed, and her stiletto went flying. Masonry, rubble and rat droppings rained down on her, and with wide, startled eyes she saw the main supporting beam falling towards her. It was thick and strong enough to support two massive bells, and as it filled her vision Tiera rolled aside desperately. She went over the edge and landed on the floor with a jarring thud, and the bed vanished under the weight of the beam. There was a splintering crash as the floor gave way, and Tiera leapt up, running up the slowly inclining floorboards like a rat charging up the deck of a sinking ship. The floor tilted further, and at the last second Tiera sprang for the nearest window, clawing at the sill with her fingers. She slammed into the wall, the rough stones grazing her naked chest, the impact winding her badly. As the floor collapsed around her, she managed to hold on, until she was dangling from the windowsill with her bare feet at least twenty feet above the next floor.

Slowly, with muscles straining, she pulled herself up until she was squatting on the sill, perched between a twenty-foot drop on one side, and a hundred-foot drop on the other. As she hunched there, shivering with cold and shock, she saw at least one bright spot in the savage destruction. Nobody could accuse her of killing the High Priest, but by Zephyr she was still getting paid for the job.

Chapter 2

Lonta Spadell, captain of the city watch, took the bell tower stairs one by one, making his way slowly to the top. He'd already had several eyewitness accounts on his way over from the barracks, near the main square, and it seemed there was little need to hurry. Some were whispering about a forbidden spell gone wrong, but in a land where dragons occasionally flew overhead — here, he paused to lick his lips — it wasn't unusual for things to fall from the sky. In fact, given the way most dragons were treated, slurp , it was a surprise they hadn't bombed every settlement in the Four Kingdoms to rubble.

Maybe it was true. Maybe they really were extinct in this part of the Old Kingdom. Maybe they really had seen the last of dragon pies, dragon steaks, dragon burgers and dragon kebabs. By now Spadell's mouth was awash with saliva, and he spat noisily on the steps. He couldn't help it, none of them could, because dragon flesh was the most succulent, tasty, fulfilling morsel ever to melt on a human tongue. Just the thought of it, never mind the heady smell, was enough to have Spadell stumbling up the stairs in a dream, barely noticing where he was going. When was the last time he'd tasted dragon, he wondered. Two years ago he'd ridden four days from the city, chasing rumours of an inn selling dragon broth. The thin, watery soup had been diluted so much it was impossible to tell whether it was real or fake.

Well, if a dragon really had destroyed the bell tower and killed the High Priest, he, Lonta Spadell, captain of the watch, would be happy to pack a portable oven and make it his sworn quest to hunt the dragon down and eat it to death.

His thoughts were interrupted as he came across a heavy beam. It had fallen through the ceiling, jamming the stairs, and he realised it was going to take some pretty impressive machinery and a lot of muscle to shift it. Or, he could climb over it.

The obstruction passed, Spadell reached the remains of the top floor, where a freezing wind ruffled the pages of fallen books, which were scattered around like a flock of dead seagulls.

"Help!" said a voice.

Spadell glanced across the gaping pit where the floor used to be. On the far side, huddled on the window sill, was an athletic-looking woman in her twenties. She was naked, and he could see old wounds on her arms and legs, wounds he recognised all too well, as he'd collected the same in various battles over the years. Sword fights. Knife fights, perhaps. The winners always bore scars. The losers were just … dead.

Spadell judged the distance. Most of the floor was missing, but the heavy beam was sticking up like a drunken tree. If he climbed to the very top and laid a plank across the gap to the sill, the naked girl might be able to cross to safety. Or she might fall to her death, but since he was going to have to execute her anyway, it didn't really matter. When someone important died, all bystanders were put to death as a matter of course. Even if they weren't responsible, they still should have done more to prevent the tragedy .

"You're under arrest," he said. From the look in the girl's eyes, it was pretty clear she knew her fate already. In fact, he saw her take a long look through the window, at the ground far below.

"I wouldn't," said Spadell gently. "The axe will be much quicker, and you'll get a hot dinner in the cells tonight."

The girl turned to him, her face tear-stained. "I didn't do anything!" she sobbed. "He … did things to me , and I'm c-cold, and the wall just blew up, and …"

Spadell's heart went out to her, but the law was specific. All she could hope for was a cell on her own, instead of being bunched up with a dozen drunken murderers. If he could, he'd see to it. "You there," he said to one of his men. "Fetch that plank down there. The long one." The rest of his men were gathered in the doorway, all five of them, dressed up in leather armour, with their hands on their sword hilts. What they expected to fight wasn't quite clear. "The rest of you go with him. You can start tidying up."

They left without a murmur, and Spadell smiled to himself. They were well-trained and obedient, which wasn't surprising because the punishment for arguing was death. In fact, the punishment for pretty much everything was death.

Spadell watched his men shifting the falling timbers, and he frowned as he spotted something. It glinted in the lantern-light, and he put his fingers to his mouth and blew a piercing whistle. Everyone froze, staring up at him, and he pointed to the object. "Bring that to me. Quick, now."

Seconds later, one of his men handed him the object. It was a stiletto, about ten inches long, with a barrel-shaped handle and a long, well-used blade. It wasn't a foppish play-dagger, or some expensive letter opener. This was a tool … an assassin's tool. He dismissed his man, then turned to the window. Eyes na rrowed, he studied the naked woman. "Yours, I presume?"

"It's a fair cop," said the girl, and she gave him a smile before looking down at the square far below. "Thanks for the offer of a meal and all, but—"

"No, wait!" said Spadell urgently. There was a clatter as the first guard showed up with the thick plank, and Spadell took it from him and sent him away also. He needed to speak with this woman, and he didn't want to be overheard. Carefully, he climbed the angled roof beam, sliding the plank ahead of him. All noises below had ceased, and he realised everyone was watching, holding their breath. "Back to work, you laggards," he snapped. "Twelve lashes for the first slacker I lay eyes on!"

The cleaning up noises resumed immediately, louder than before, and Spadell continued to inch forwards with his plank. When he reached the end of the beam he angled it over the gap, the end just reaching the windowsill.

"You expect m-me to run a-across that?" asked the woman, her teeth chattering. "I can't even f-feel my legs."

The captain stood up, balancing on the roof beam, then stepped onto the plank. It wasn't quite square and it wobbled underfoot, but it seemed secure enough. With a few light steps, he crossed the plank to the windowsill, where he stood on the end of the plank and braced himself with his hands on the rough bricks above the window. Then he looked down, and saw the woman eyeing him curiously. "You're an assassin, right?" whispered Spadell.

"Sure."

"Good, because I may have a job for you."

"You can't a-afford me, Sergeant."

"It's Captain, and I'll pay you with your freedom."

The woman looked thoughtful, then shrugged. "Okay."

Smiling, Spadell shrugged off his jacket and draped it around the woman's shoulders. Then, carefully and courteously, he helped her up. She almost fell, and he wrapped his arm around her and held her tight as her legs buckled. He could feel the chill in her flesh, but he also felt a warmth of his own as she pressed against him. "I'm going to have to carry you," he said.

She eyed the drop below them. "Better g-get your m-men out of the way."

He obeyed, then swept her up in his arms in a single move. Balancing carefully, he took a step onto the plank, and heard it creaking underfoot. The floor was twenty feet below them, and while they'd probably survive the drop, there'd be broken bones for sure. That would mean the end of his career, and he'd spend the rest of his life begging for scraps.

As he stood there, balancing, he realised she was freezing cold to his touch, still shivering. He felt a certain responsibility towards her, as though her life was in his hands.

"That's my butt," said the woman.

Reddening, Spadell shifted his hand to her equally shapely thighs. Then, with a deep breath, he took the half dozen steps to the roof beam. They arrived at speed, and, losing his footing, he sat down with a thump, the girl still in his arms. The beam was worn smooth from centuries of use, and they slid down it at a fair clip, before hitting the floor below and tumbling over and over in a tangle of arms and legs. Spadell ended up on his back, with the girl lying prone on top of him. She gave him a wink, then stood up, still naked from the waist down. Spadell saw his men nudging each other and grinning, and so he whisked a fallen blanket off the floor and wrapped it tightly around her.

"Dawson. Smith. This lady is under arrest. Take her to the cells, but lock her up alone, is that clear? "

"Yessir," said Smith smartly.

Dawson looked troubled.

"What is it, man?"

The guard looked up the damaged tower with its missing roof. "Were it witchcraft, sir?"

"Not a chance," said Spadell firmly. "It was a natural disaster, I'm sure of it. Now follow your orders, man, or you'll be heading up the executions on the morrow."

"Yessir," said Dawson, knuckling his forehead.

"Do not lay hands on that woman," said Spadell.

"Nossir," said the guards, as one, and they left with their charge. Spadell took out the dagger and inspected it thoughtfully. Then he held it under his nose and sniffed, frowning as he caught a whiff of expensive scent. When he'd carried the girl to safety, her head snug against his shoulder, he'd smelled the same scent on her. The stiletto was enough to condemn her, as if another reason were needed.

He glanced at his men, to make sure he wasn't observed, then slipped the dagger into his coat. Afterwards, Spadell decided to head back to the barracks, but first he took one last look at the shattered brickwork overhead. It looked like a giant had bitten into the tower, tearing out a rounded chunk before spitting the bricks and timbers all over the circular room. The High Priest hadn't stood a chance, and the irony was that even if by some miracle he'd survived the explosion, he'd still have died at the hand of the assassin.

One way or another, Zephyr the wind god had obviously intended for the High Priest to be blown away.

Chapter 3

The city guards stood at their posts, either side of the main gate. They'd been turning away gawkers and rubber-neckers since daybreak, and they'd also had their eye on a gaggle of shady-looking characters selling trinkets from their ramshackle hand carts.

"High Priest knee joints. Get your knee joints here. Special offer, today only, three for the price of two."

"Lockets of hair for sale, ladies and gentlemen. Long and straight, one shilling. Short and curly, five pence! Guaranteed holy relics or your money back."

"Put a zing in your step with High Priest brew, fresh today. You sir, I bet you could use a little pick-me-up!"

The guard's stern gaze shifted from the merchants, and he took in the three odd characters approaching along the clifftop path. He'd never seen their like, not in these parts, but he'd heard tales of wandering adventurers who sold their skills to the highest bidders across the land. Or perhaps they'd come to gather High Priest relics, like half of the beggars in the city. He glanced over his shoulder, gazing up at the shattered bell tower, and made a wind sign with his left hand. Some were already whispering that the High Priest had been studying magic, and if that were the case the bell tower wouldn't be the last to be broken by the wind god.

The adventurers didn't seem to be interested in fossicking around in the bushes, so the guard assumed they were visiting the city on other business. He gazed upon the three of them, trying to determine their roles in the party. One was a mountain of a man, with oiled skin, a mane of platinum blond hair, and a loin cloth which was barely up to the task. He carried a huge two-handed sword on his back, the pommel sticking up over his head, while at the other end the broad tip was almost dragging on the ground. From these subtle clues, the guard judged the man to be a fighter.

Beside him strolled an elderly man wearing a cape and a large, floppy-brimmed hat with a peak that rose to a point fully two feet above his head. The cape and hat were both adorned with a bewildering array of runes embroidered with gold and silver thread. The old man was clearly lame, because he walked with the aid of a long stick, almost as tall as he, with a silver demon's head stuck on the top. He looked like an entertainer, perhaps on his way to thrill the local children, although the old guy would have to go some to top an exploding bell tower and fields laced with body parts. Why, some young scamps were already drying scraps of flesh on the bushes, aiming to sell them in a week or two as holy priest parts.

Finally, trotting along beside them was a halfling. His tousled head barely reached his companions' loins, and his green and brown clothes were dusty and stained with sweat. The expression on his face was a mixture of anger and lots more anger, and he didn't look like the sort of halfling who invited you to his birthday party and offered you a pipe. In fact, he looked like the type of halfling who stuck a dagger into whichever part of you happened to be within reach, and then made off with your purse while you bled to death. A thief, then.

As the trio got closer, the guard noticed a bleak expression on the old guy's face, frighteningly intense despite the ridiculous fancy dress, and he'd seen a blank stare like the muscle-man's before as well. Both spelled trouble with a capital T.

The guard decided it was time for his tea break, and so he nodded to his companion and legged it for the guard house. Someone else could tell those three they weren't welcome.

* * *

Runt trotted along beside Hurm and Father Mephistopheles, breathing hard. "Strange people, this. Why are they drying their beef jerky in the bushes?"

Hurm shrugged his massive shoulders. He paused chewing long enough to say "Hurm like," and then his chunky jaws resumed their grinding.

Father M ignored them both. The road had been long and hard, and he was looking forward to a nice cool drink at the local Mages' Guild. He was running low on supplies as well, and he was itching to spend the small purse of coin they'd earned from a recent quest. The coin purse should have been much larger, but the quest-giver had lied through their teeth about the bountiful riches, and the tax collector had taken a sizeable bite as well. Never mind, Runt and Hurm had lied about killing the vicious werewolf terrorising the town, so the tax collector was likely to get another sizeable bite in the near future .

Now they had a new quest, their goal to relieve the Mollister queen of an ugly-looking necklace. The three adventurers had no idea why someone wanted the necklace, but theirs was not to reason why … they just had to lift the jewellery, or run away before they were caught in the act.

As they approached the gate, a jaunty young man in a straw hat ran up and waved a bloodstained knee joint under Father M's nose. "Knee of the High Priest sir? Genuine relic, fresh only last night."

"I'm a vegetarian," said Father M.

"What about you, sir?" asked the man, approaching Hurm.

Hurm took the knee joint and sniffed at it, then spat out the stringy jerky and tasted the broken end of the bone. "Hurm not like," he said, and gave the bone back. Then he sought out his chewed jerky, dusted it off and popped it back in his mouth.

"Don't bother," said Runt, as the man turned to him. "I don't like goat."

"Goat!" exclaimed the man. "Goat, he says. Why, I guarantee this is finest quality High Priest, and my life on it if I'm …" His voice tailed off as he saw something extremely dangerous in the halfling's steady gaze. "I mean, I'll give your money back if I'm wrong."

"You won't have to give it back."

"No?"

"Of course not, because I'm not stupid enough to buy in the first place." Runt twirled his dagger. "At my size, you get to see a lot of knees up close. With and without flesh, if you get my meaning."

The man backed away. "I'm sorry to trouble you. Welcome to our fair city, sirs, and please, enjoy the executions."

There was a grunt from the halfling, and the three adventurers approached the gates, where a solitary guard was standing with one hand on his sword hilt. "Who goes there!" he shouted, the effect spoiled a little by the quaver in his voice.

"Three for lodgings," said Father M, his voice silky and persuasive. "We mean no harm. We're merely passing through."

"These are not the wanderers you're looking for," added Runt, then winced as Father M elbowed him in the ear.

"You mean no harm," said the guard. "You are just passing through."

"And you want to give us all your money," said Runt.

"Get lost, shorty," remarked the guard, without taking his eyes off Father M. He stood mesmerised, entranced, but not that mesmerised.

Runt considered stabbing him, but that sort of thing was best left until their departure.

Meanwhile, the guard stepped aside and waved them through. "The tournament is at eleven, warm-up acts from nine."

"Tournament?" said Father M. "What tournament?"

"Why it's the biggest event of the year! All comers may challenge the Queen's Champion in single combat." The guard gave Hurm a once-over. "Your companion here, surely he's participating?"

"He is now," said Father M.

"Excellent. I'm sure they'll give him a decent burial." The guard called out as they entered the city. "Mind the rubble, we're still tidying up after last night."

"What happened?" asked Father M, gazing up at the ruined tower. "Dragon? "

The guard looked at him hungrily, and very slowly, he licked his lips. "Have you seen one around these parts?"

"No, I just wondered whether —"

"Oh, that." The guard looked around, then lowered his voice. "They say it was magic , but of course it can't have been."

"Why not?"

"Because it's banned, of course! Banned across the entire kingdom!" The guard looked at them like they were dumb, which in Hurm's case wasn't far off.

"No it isn't," said Runt, gesturing at Father M. "I've seen him knock an— ouch ."

Father M stopped grinding his elbow in the halfling's ear. "Of course it's banned. That's what my somewhat rationed companion meant to say."

Fortunately the guard was still under a powerful, and apparently illegal, form of mind control, and he didn't join the dots. "Well, you go off and enjoy yourselves. I'd show you round, but my duty is to gather a few more support acts for this morning's executions. I'm to stand here and arrest mages, witches and the like."

"I'll tell you if we see any," said Father M, and with a twirl of his magic cape and a clatter from his magic staff, he led the others into the city, hoping to find lodgings for the night.

Chapter 4

While the rest of the city was looking forward to participating in the big festival, if not the tournament and the executions, two guards were on duty at the foot of the huge cliffs, far below the city walls. There was a broad swathe of sand between the rocks at the base of the cliff, and the limp, oily sea which lapped half-heartedly at the beach.

Some said the oil was the result of sea battles, where ships were doused with barrels of the stuff before being set alight. Others said it was runoff from the old dragon processing stations in the next bay. Wiser heads pointed out that barrels of oil tended to burn up after being set on fire, and that the processing stations hadn't seen the inside of a dragon for years. These well-educated men and women also pointed out that ships hadn't existed for hundreds of years, not since humongous sea serpents had infested the coast. Nobody likes a know-it-all, so these wiser heads were usually told to shut up, or quietly stabbed.

The two guards meandered across the gritty sands from the rock-hewn steps, pausing now and then to poke at potential treasures with their swords. Usually they found dead jellyfish or pieces of burnt oil barrels, but occasionally the seas gifted them a trinket which they could polish up and present to their wives, girlfriends, mistresses or some lady of the night who wasn't satisfied with the usual half a crown.

Every now and then they glanced at the horizon, but as usual it was completely empty. Their orders were clear: patrol the beach, and keep a special eye out for any bastard who may be rowing around on the ocean.

As the months went by, both guards became convinced they'd been given a joke of a task. At any moment, they felt, their watch commander would leap up from behind a rock, blow on a party favour, and yell 'Fooled you!'

After the first few weeks they'd stopped looking behind the rocks. Now, in the depths of winter, Pentonville and Islington were blue with cold, and they were bored with their commander's little game.

"Pentonville, do you feel your life is being wasted?"

The second guard considered the question carefully. "I'm not sure, Islington. To be honest, I'd rather patrol an empty beach than escort prisoners to their deaths, or participate in a pitched battle. This is a far better alternative to being wounded or killed."

"You make a fair point, Pentonville my friend. Only …" Here Islington paused, considering the matter. "… Do you not get the impression our skills are being under-utilised?"

"That is a good question."

"To which your answer is?"

"Mayhap." Pentonville skewered a jellyfish with his sword, and flung it into the ocean. Not that he was particularly obsessed with clearing every jellyfish from the sands, but occasionally one found a coin underneath. He'd once posited a theory, whereby jellyfish mucus appeared tacky enough to hold coins fast to their flesh, thus making it worthwhile inspecting each such find. His friend had then tested said theory by attaching several coins to a jellyfish and placing it in the ocean. The coins promptly fell off, and Pentonville was forced to admit his money snot was wide of the mark.

They continued with their patrol, until Islington let out a cry of delight and bent to pluck something from the sand. It was a human finger, which wasn't a particularly unusual find at the foot the cliffs. What made this one special was the expensive-looking ring still attached to the pasty flesh. Islington pulled the ring off with some effort, threw the finger into the ocean, and began polishing his prize on his tunic.

"That is a fine ring," said Pentonville slowly, unable to keep the tinge of jealousy out of his voice. "Some might say precious."

Islington slipped the ring onto his middle finger, and completely failed to disappear. Even so, the ring was rather impressive despite its lack of wearer-hiding properties. "This is a fair valuable ring," he said, and his eyes gleamed as he took in the thick gold and the large, expensive ruby.

"We could both get laid many times with such a ring," said Pentonville.

"How would that work? We can't share it out amongst all the hookers in the city."

"Nay, we'd have to elect a treasurer, who would pawn the item and remit funds on a monthly basis, proportional to the amount of time each member spent on her back with us."

"What do you mean, us?" said Islington. "If you recall, I found the ring."

"Yes, but—"

"But nothing, my friend. If you spent less time molesting jellyfish with your weapon, trying to prove your crazed theory on the adhesion of pocket change to their air-dried yet still tacky flesh, you might have found the ring first. "

Pentonville said nothing.

"Look, I'm a fair man. You can keep whatever we find next." Islington cast a sidelong glance. "Even if you're playing with a jellyfish, and I'm the one doing the finding."

After a pause, Pentonville nodded. It was fair, and they might find an even better ring. And, if that failed, he knew where Islington lived. He ought to, as he'd bedded the man's wife often enough, and it barely cost him a jellyfish-scented coin each time.

* * *

The guards strolled further along the beach, swatting away hungry seagulls and picking at the flotsam with their swords. Occasionally they swatted at the flotsam and waved their swords at the seagulls, but that got messy fast.

Sadly, the sands failed to reward them with further jewellery, although they did find another finger.

"Shipwreck, do you think?" asked Islington. He knew the Old Kingdom had no ships, but he'd grown up entranced by tales of naval warfare and he had an active imagination. Plus, the Kingdom had fire-breathing dragons, elves and massive sea serpents, so big wooden ships battling just over the horizon were hardly a stretch.

Pentonville studied the finger, then turned to look up at the cliffs. He could see the city wall along the clifftop, and beyond, in the distance, the very tip of the High Priest's shattered bell tower. The sound of the tower's destruction had woken the entire population, and rumours as to its cause had spread all over the city … much like the unfortunate High Priest .

Slowly, Pentonville raised one hand, extending thumb and forefinger until they bracketed the wall. By calculating the angle of impact, the freshness of the finger, and adding a huge amount of wishful thinking, he decided the finger might actually belong to the late High Priest, and surreptitiously slipped it into his waistband. If he was right he'd be able to sell it as a holy relic, but he had no intention of telling Islington about it. The man had promised him the next find, and he didn't want it to be a severed finger. Then he remembered the first finger, the one which had borne the ring, and he wondered whether it was still bobbing around in the ocean. The only thing better than finding one holy relic on a boring guard detail was finding two holy relics.

"Where are you going?" Islington asked him.

"Thought I saw a coin stuck on that last jellyfish. The one I chucked in the sea."

Islington made an exasperated noise, and continued up the beach. Meanwhile, Pentonville did indeed see the finger, and after wrenching it from the claw of a large crab, he set off in pursuit of his fellow guard. He'd only taken three paces when his heart almost stopped as he spied a glint of gold. A mangled headpiece was half-buried in the wet sand, with a heavy metal base and a pair of rabbit ears on top. The thing was buckled and twisted, but melted down it would be worth an absolute fortune.

Pentonville glanced towards his fellow guard, but Islington had his back turned. So, he hurried over and crouched to inspect the treasure, ready to cover it with sand at any second. Unfortunately, he quickly discovered the item was not fashioned from gold, nor even plated with the stuff. No, it was a worthless piece of junk, with not a single embedded jewel he could prise free and sell. With a muttered curse, Pentonville got to his feet and kicked viciously at the sand, spraying it far and wide.

Angrily, he turned and paced along the shore. To have such riches snatched from his grasp, twice in one morning, was almost too much to bear. However, his mood changed as he spied a large bank of seaweed floating just past the breaking waves. Seaweed was a common sight along the beach, and was often used as a fertiliser. Unfortunately, it didn't pay well enough to drag it from the ocean and then cart up the long flight of steps to the city.

However, it wasn't the seaweed Pentonville was interested in. No, he could just make out a bronze-coloured flash of metal amongst the matted green strands. That was odd in itself, because anything metal should have sunk to the ocean floor.

The matted seaweed rode a wave, and as the angle changed, Pentonville realised the flash of bronze belonged to a figure lying on the natural raft. From the parts he could see, the figure appeared to be armoured from head to toe. Even if it wasn't wearing any valuable rings, its armour might fetch a pretty penny. More importantly, it would be one in the eye for Islington.

He was about to dash into the sea and pull the matted seaweed to the shore, thus claiming his prize. However, he was still irked at Islington, and he decided they might as well both get wet. So, he blew a piercing whistle, and when his fellow guard turned to look, Pentonville pointed at the seaweed. He saw Islington look, then look again, before hurrying into the surf. The water quickly reached his waist, and Pentonville realised any rings the figure might be wearing could vanish into Islington's pockets first. So, he threw aside his sword and charged into the water, gritting his teeth at the freezing cold.

They reached the seaweed together, and Pentonville's hopes were dashed. It wasn't an armoured figure lying face down on the raft, it was some battered old statue. Discoloured, dented and worthless, it had obviously been discarded years ago. He took one of its hands in his, raising the arm with effort, and scowled. The thing didn't even have any rings on.

"There you go," said Islington, with a laugh. "I said you could have the next find, and I'm a man of my word."

Pentonville shot him a venomous glance. The ring was a far better find, the dented statue so much junk, but he wasn't about to admit it. "Bet it's worth more than that tatty little ring. Hey, maybe it's got emeralds for eyes!"

"Don't be ridiculous."

Even so, Islington lent a hand, and together they rolled the statue onto its back. The eyes were yellow, and they stared at the sky with a look of resignation. They were surprisingly life-like, and they certainly weren't gems.

"I wonder who it belonged to?" said Islington.

"Who cares?" snapped Pentonville. "And who'd want it back? Look at the state of it!"

"It's a pity it wasn't rowing a boat. We could have filed our report and got back to the watch house in time for cards."

Pentonville groaned. Reports! This dented statue would take hours to write up, and then there was the question of carrying the thing all the way up the stone steps to the city. "I wish we'd never found it," he muttered.

They looked up the beach. They looked down the beach. They were alone.

"We could bury it," suggested Islington.

"You're joking! Have you ever tried to dig a hole with your sword? "

"Sure I have. Do you remember that guy who was sniffing around my daughter?" Islington nodded towards a large rock at the base of the cliff. "He's buried over there."

"Really? How long does that kind of thing take?"

"Well, it depends on the width of the blade doesn't it? That, and the composition of the soil. Take your ordinary garden soil, now. That's easy to shift but the stones are murder on your average blade. Sand now, that's gentle on the blade but much harder to shift in bulk."

"I can see you've put some thought into this."

"It's been a rich field of study for some time." Islington shrugged. "I once had a lot of enemies."

"All right, let's get on with it," said Pentonville. "It's mock dragon stew for lunch today, and I'm not missing out again."

They hauled the statue to the beach, where they laid it out next to a suitable spot and got their swords ready for digging. Before they could start, there was a hair-raising groan from the statue. Slowly, they turned to look at it, the hairs on the backs of their necks standing on end.

Before they could run away, chop its head off, or throw it back into the sea, the statue sat up, raised a hand to its forehead, and then studied them with its glowing yellow eyes.

"Ub glub orsook," it said, and dirty seawater bubbled from its mouth and cascaded down its chest.

Chapter 5

It took almost two hours, but Father M finally located a tavern with a spare room. There may or may not have been blackmail involved, and it wasn't much of a room, but at least it was indoors and had a roof on top. After travelling through the countryside, sleeping rough, it was all Father M could ask for.

Now, having inspected their lodgings, Father M, Hurm and Runt took their places at a long, wooden table. Runt perched on his stool, barely clearing the tabletop, and he took in the dingy tavern with a look of disfavour. In the back, he saw a young man with a mop of dark hair pointing at him, and there was a burst of laughter as the man made a cutting remark to his friends. "Remind me again. Why did we come to this god-forsaken land?"

"Money. Why else?" murmured Father M.

"Well if I don't get some cash, and soon, I'll tell 'em all you're a wizard. Then we'll see—"

Father M made a casual, two-fingered gesture, and Runt clutched at his throat, wheezing and straining as his windpipe was squeezed shut. Once he'd got the message, the wizard released him.

"Don't be so touchy," grumbled Runt. "I was only teasing."

"Hurm drink," said the big fighter, whose big, muscled rear was perched on a stool which looked like it was going to collapse at any second.

Father M sighed and took out a handful of pocket change. "Get a round in. I'll have a peppermint brandy."

"Beer," said Runt. "And make sure there's no fruit in it."

Hurm thought on this for a few moments, then stood up. He cut an impressive figure as he strode towards the bar, towering over the other patrons by a head. Unfortunately he was too tall for the thick beams holding up the roof, and his skull went thunk-thunk-thunk as he walked straight into each heavy timber. Completely oblivious, he reached the bar, where the barkeep was looking up at him apprehensively. "Can I help you, sir?"

"Drinks," said Hurm.

The barkeep smiled. "Of course, sir. What particular beverages would you like?"

"Ale." Hurm's brow wrinkled as he tried to remember the rest of the order. Then his face cleared. "Beer with peppermint. Brandy with fruit."

"Coming right up, sir." The barkeep busied himself behind the counter, then came back with a tankard of ale, a tall glass of ale with a sprig of mint sticking over the rim, and a brandy glass brimming with ale and sliced banana. "Here you are, sir. That'll be a half-crown, a shilling and sixpence."

Hurm opened his huge fist and examined the coins in his palm. There were bronze ones, and silver ones, and even a sort of greenish one, and they all had different images engraved on the faces. "Huh?"

"A half crown, a shilling and sixpence," repeated the barkeep. "Or, if you like, I can take that worthless green one instead."

"Mine!" said Hurm. He'd never seen a coin that colour before, and he wasn't going to waste it on drinks. He knew you could buy the company of a woman if you had enough money, and the green coin might be enough for two, or even one. He was a little hazy on the math, truth be told, but it was days since he'd last polished his sword, and such a fine weapon needed much care and attention.

"Okay, okay. If you don't have a shilling, that's thirteen pence extra. And half-crowns are ten shillings each, unless it's a dragonhead, which is worth eleven." The barkeep paused to lick his lips, then continued. "So that's a hundred and fifty-six pence, thanks."

Hurm put two of the silver coins on the counter.

"And a bit more," said the barkeep.

Three more coins joined the first, one of them etched with a dragon's head. The barkeep swallowed, then smiled encouragingly. "Almost there."

Hurm added all the coins except the green one.

"That's it!" said the barkeep. "Enjoy!"

As he reached for the coins, Hurm took his wrist with a grip of steel. "Wait!"

"Y-yes?"

"Change!"

"Oh, you're right, silly me." Carefully, the barkeep separated one of the copper coins from the rest, and handed it back. "There you go."

Satisfied, Hurm gathered the drinks and took them back to the table, where the reception was less than enthusiastic. Runt sniffed his beer, tossed the mint spring away, and took a tiny sip with his tiny mouth. "I've drunk better ale from the bottom of a toilet bowl," he remarked, after pursing his tiny lips.

Meanwhile, Father M fished a brownish slice of banana from his 'brandy' and held the glass to the light. He'd never seen brandy with a full head on it, but every land had their own local variety, and perhaps this fizzy brew would be the most memorable beverage he'd ever tasted.

It was.

Father M spluttered as the banana-flavoured ale hog-tied his tongue and administered two dozen lashes to his taste buds. They weren't the wishy-washy lashes you got from a lover with a whip fetish, these were the kind of lay-open-the-flesh and expose-the-bone lashes you got from a bosun with a bad temper and a thick right arm. To scour the awful taste from his soul, Father M fished around on the sawdust-strewn floor until he located Runt's sprig of mint, then chewed on the herb like fury.

He was so intent on cleansing his palate, he barely looked round as a group of men entered the tavern. Vaguely, he noticed one of the men was of generous proportions, to put it mildly, and was squeezed into a set of bronze armour which made him look like a metal-plated egg. The armour was immaculate, without so much as a scratch or a dent, and Father M knew instantly this man had never seen combat.

The men accompanying him were another matter. They were hard-faced veterans, with an impressive collection of scars, and they wore battered armour which was in complete contrast to that of their master.

"Make way for Sur Cumfrence!" shouted one of the men. He had a stern face, bisected by an ancient scar which ran from temple to chin, and his tone brooked no argument. His armour was of better quality than the others, his sword longer and more pointy, and it was clear he was the leader of the bodyguards. The tavern patrons obliged by clearing a path. A very wide path. "Barkeep, a keg of ale and twelve of your best pies."

"And what are the rest of you having?" called some wag from the shadowy depths of the tavern.

There was a sudden hush.

"Who said that?" demanded Sur Cumfrence. He spoke with a breathless, high-pitched tone, and he sounded like a petulant child. "Step forward this instant!"

Nobody moved.

"Half a crown!" shouted Sur Cumfrence. He delved into his generous purse and came up with a silver coin. "Half a crown to the man who identifies the trouble maker."

Still nobody moved. The bodyguards were growing restless, their hands on the hilts of their swords, their gazes roving the tavern as they sought out the wag … or a scapegoat. One of them studied Hurm's huge muscled torso and gigantic two-handed sword, quickly moved on to Father M, then … stopped on Runt. "There, sir. The tousle-headed imp sitting beside the circus performer. He has the look of a troublemaker, and no doubt about it."

Runt lowered his minty beer. "Me?" he said, aggrieved. "How could it be me? The voice came from the back of the tavern!"

Father M would have leapt to his defence, but he was still in shock at being called a circus performer, and the sprig of mint was making his tongue tingle in a most peculiar fashion.

"Titch has a point," said Sur Cumfrence mildly. "I distinctly heard the voice coming from over there."

"Sire, I know his kind," said the bodyguard urgently. "They're tricksy little blighters. He probably used a magic ring or something."

There was a gasp.

"I mean, not … m-magic," said the bodyguard quickly, all flustered. "That doesn't exist, of course. But perhaps an optical illusion?"

"I was holding a glass of beer!" protested Runt. "How could I possibly sneak across the tavern, call out an insult, and sneak back here again without spilling a drop? And all in under ten seconds!"

Sur Cumfrence realised they were getting nowhere. So, he raised a meaty arm and gestured towards the rear of the tavern. "Round them all up, and take 'em to the holding pen. We're short of heads today, they'll be most welcome."

There was a chorus of protest from the condemned men. "I ain't done nuffink!" shouted an elderly, one-legged man, as he was grabbed by the bodyguards. "It weren't me what insulted yer honour, it were Ralph the Mouth."

"Wait!" shouted Sur Cumfrence. He raised his hand for silence, and was mostly obeyed. "Take this Ralph person to the pen. The others may go free."

"What about my half crown?" demanded the old man, as a youngster with a mop of black hair was dragged protesting and struggling from the tavern.

Sur Cumfrence shrugged and tossed him the coin. "Now, where are those pies? I grow weary of this theatre."

Father M watched the party settling at an empty table, then turned to the others and lowered his voice. "A narrow escape, my friends. We shall have to be more careful in future."

"You're not wrong," said the glass of banana ale on the table.

Father M scowled at Runt. "Quit that before any more innocents lose their heads," he muttered.

"Innocent? He was mocking me to his friends." Runt drew a grubby thumbnail across his neck. "Let's see how he likes being shorter than everyone else."

Chapter 6

Tiera's cell was on the ground floor of the barracks, the tiny window open to the town square. By standing on the slops bucket she could just see the executions taking place, with a rising oooooooOOOOOOHHHH from the crowd as the axeman raised his weapon for the killing blow. Then, a split second of silence as he hesitated, followed by a whoosh as the axe came down. Then there was a loud thud as the blade sank into the chopping block, a quieter thud as the head dropped clear, followed by wild cheering.

The pattern was repeated over and over, with the axeman playing to the crowd by hesitating longer and longer, the axe poised above his head as the crowd stretched out their ooohs until they were red in the face.

She heard someone shouting near her window, and craned her head to see a man in a tattered hat taking money and handing out tickets. "Place yer bets, place yer bets. Closest to the mark takes all. You sir, what'll you have?"

"I'll take an 'I didn't do it!' for number sixteen, and a prayer to Zephyr for the one after."

"I'll give you ten to one on the denial, evens on the prayer."

"Evens!"

"Seventeen is a priest. You're lucky to get that. "

There was a grumble, money changed hands, and the punter left with his betting slip.

"Come on, come on. Place yer bets! Winner takes all!"

The next prisoner was hauled to the stage, and as he was pushed roughly to his knees he started shouting that he didn't do it. Tiera heard the bookie swearing under his breath.

There was an ooh, a thud, and the bet was settled.

Sudden death didn't prey on Tiera's mind, which wasn't a surprise, her being an assassin and all. But even so, she turned from the window and her view of the wanton bloodshed, and stepped down from the slops bucket.

"Psst!"

The sound came from the door, which was a thick wooden affair with a small window. Tiera's sombre mood improved as she realised help was there at last. She'd begun to doubt the Captain's promise to set her free, especially as the line for the axeman's block had shortened considerably since she'd been watching, but now it seemed things were finally moving. She crossed to the door, expecting a hand to appear through the tiny barred window, perhaps holding a weapon, or a disguise, or a key. Instead there was another hiss.

"Psst! What are you in for?"

With a sinking feeling, Tiera realised the youth in the next cell was about to waste his last few breaths trying to chat her up. She'd seen the lad on her way to her cell the previous night, the lithe young man in his loin cloth having been chained to the wall with rusty manacles. He had long dark hair and a cheeky grin, despite his dire surroundings, but Tiera had passed by him without a second glance. Not that she had anything against teenagers, since they were invariably willing and vigorous, but this simply wasn't the place. "Murder," she replied, not even bothering to keep her voice down. With the racket outside, there was no point.

"By the gods, that is a wicked crime indeed!" said the youth.

Gods? "You're not from around here, are you?"

"Nay, I am a simple farm boy, dragged from my village in the middle of the night."

"Why?"

"I stand accused of performing magic."

"Oh. Did you?"

There was a pause. "I may or may not have uttered a spell which collapsed our family home."

"Are you sure it wasn't termites?"

"I am fair certain, since it was a stone-built home crafted from the finest materials by our most accomplished builder, Plais de Brick." The lad hesitated. "There were no survivors."

"Except you."

"Yes, the gods be thanked." The lad hesitated. "I am Thonn. By what name are you called?"

"Tiera."

"Why, our names start with the same letter. T'is a sign!"

"If you're going to go with the farm boy defence, I wouldn't let on you know the letters of the alphabet." Tiera smiled to herself. What was she doing, helping the dolt? What business of hers was his fate?

"Thank you, fair maiden. I am in your debt."

"I'll be sure to ask for your help, next time you're not chained to a wall."

"These bonds cannot hold me forever. I am Thonn. I have the power of magic."

"Well, why not give your wand a twirl and get me out of here? I'll make it worth your while."

"Give me a few moments to prepare myself. "

"Take all the time you want," said Tiera drily.

There was a roar from outside as a particularly unpopular prisoner met his fate, and, distracted by the noise, Tiera almost missed the rattle of keys behind her. Like lightning, she moved away from the entrance to her cell, hiding behind the thick door even as it swung open. She stood in a killing stance, ready to sell her life dearly, then froze as she recognised the man in the doorway. It wasn't a guard, it was Captain Spadell, and he was carrying a rough cape over his arm.

"I told you I'd get it open," called Thonn, from the cell next door.

Spadell ignored him. "I thought you might be getting cold…" he began, then glanced round, eyebrows raised as he saw her crouched behind the door. "There are thirty guards between here and the entrance. Even if you made it out of your cell, how did you expect to escape?"

"They believe me to be a courtesan, is that not so?"

Spadell allowed that to be true. Several would have fallen before they realised what they were dealing with, but the rest would have killed her in time. "Why would you seek escape? I said I would free you."

"Men say many things. Few are to be trusted."

"Says the woman who beguiles them with her charms and then sticks a knife in them." Spadell held the cape up for her, and she accepted it gratefully. The cell was cold, and she wasn't exactly dressed for prison.

There was an ooooh from the square, followed by raucous cheering.

"Tell me, why the High Priest?" Spadell asked her. "As holy men go, he wasn't that bad. His vices were moderate, and he barely broke any laws to speak of. "

"I accept payment and do my job," said Tiera loftily. "The reasons are not always known to me."

"I'm not a fool, and I know a professional when I see one. You spent three months preparing for this, so don't give me that spur of the moment crap."

"You are well informed." Tiera hesitated. "There's another who wished to become High Priest, but first the position had to be vacated."

"If it's the person I'm thinking of, he has no money. I'm afraid you were fooled."

Tiera frowned. "My client promised ten guineas. I saw the coin myself."

"Ten guineas!" exclaimed Spadell. "For that amount I'd have slept with the High Priest myself, and murdered him afterwards into the bargain. Or vice versa, for that matter. Ten guineas is a small fortune. Who around these parts has that kind of money to throw around?"

"Lord Chancellor Regis," said Tiera quietly.

Spadell snorted. "Half crowns plated with gold, no doubt. I know the man, he's completely untrustworthy."

"Are you sure?"

"He's the one who told me you were planning to kill the High Priest," said Spadell softly. "Of course, he waited until you were actually in the tower, at a time when he estimated you'd already done the deed."

Ooh! Thud.

"Regis will die for this," muttered Tiera.

"You forget who you're talking to." Spadell hesitated. "So, about that little job you promised me."

"Release me, and then we'll discuss matters."

"Er … no. I don't think so." Spadell took a seat on the rough wo oden bunk. "There's a certain person I want … removed. I don't care how it's done, but she has to go."

"Oh. A wife, is it?"

"I'm not married."

"Boyfriend?"

"If it were someone close to me, I would not need a professional to handle the deed."

"Who, then?"

Spadell hesitated, knowing the next words out of his mouth could have him kneeling on the rough blood-soaked stage that very afternoon, awaiting the keen edge of the executioner's axe. That is, if they didn't hang him first, chop up his body and feed the bits to a pride of mountain lions. But really, he had no choice but to trust this self-confident, capable woman. "In return for your freedom, I want you to kill the queen."

Ooohh! went the crowd.

Thud! went the latest victim's head.

* * *

The bronze 'statue' sat on the damp sand, looking up at the two humans which had pulled him from the sea. Nasty stuff, seawater. It had seeped into his very core, although he was well built and the salty water could never actually harm him.

After coughing up a bucket-load of ocean, Clunk shook his head, blew out his cheeks and tried speaking again. "Hello. My name is Clunk and I'm grateful for your assistance."

The men were staring at him in terror, and clearly didn't understand a word. Clunk tried to access the local network, in order to download a dictionary, a map, and the route to the nearest space port. Unfortunately he couldn't even detect a carrier wave, let alone a signal, and with a sinking feeling, he realised the planet was populated with simple beings. In fact, judging by their armour and weapons, their technology was not much more advanced than that of moderately intelligent crows.

Then one of them spoke, with a string of guttural syllables followed by what had to be a question mark. Clunk repeated the words back to them, and the two men took several steps backwards, muttering under their breath.

Clunk had already applied his considerable brain power to their language, and when he stood up they rewarded him with a stream of new words to process.

"Stay bzzzt or I'll bzzzt your bzzting bzzzt off!" said one of the men, brandishing a sword.

"Peace," said Clunk. "No harm."

"I'll no harm you, you bzzting hunk of bzzzt."

Clunk raised his hand and slapped himself on the side of the head. His vision shook, but when he lowered his hand again he realised he could hear a little better. "Take me to the nearest stables," he said. Then he frowned. Stables? He hadn't meant stables, he'd meant the nearest spaceport. "I need a strong donkey to take me to the moon."

The men looked a little less fearful now, and a lot more amused. "It would have to be a strong donkey indeed," said one of them.

"Do you have any precious rings about your person?" asked the other.

Clunk ignored them and tapped himself in the chest. "I am Clunk. I am Sur Roybot." No, a robot , he thought to himself, and then he realised the problem. He could think whatever words he wanted, but their language simply didn't have the vocabulary. No matter what he said, his inbuilt translator would approximate the best it could. That meant he couldn't discuss technology, space travel, or advanced machinery of any kind. If he tried to say computer, the words out of his mouth would be … "Mechanical book."

"He's cracked," said one of the men. "We should throw him back quick."

"No chance!" said the other. "He's worth a fortune! And he said he was a knight." He turned to address Clunk. "Sur Roybot, from whence do you hail?"

From an interstaller freighter on a cargo run, Clunk wanted to say, at least until the cargo hold fell open in hyperspace. However, there were two problems with this. One, he didn't have the words, and two … those were the sum total of his memories. Before that moment there was … nothing. With fumbling fingers, he opened a small chest compartment and peered inside. Sure enough, most of his data storage was missing, the empty sockets mocking him with their gaping holes.

All Clunk knew for certain is that he'd arrived on this planet from the stars, and that meant he'd have to return to the stars to locate his missing memories. Then he heard a strangled noise of surprise, and he saw the two men staring at his chest in fascination. Quickly, Clunk closed the compartment and sealed it.

"W-where do you come from?" asked one of the men, speaking slowly.

Clunk raised his finger until he was pointing at the city walls, and the bell tower beyond.

"Oh, someone tossed him off the cliff," said the first man. "Told you it was a bzzt of garbage. Come on, back in the sea with it. "

"I'll throw it in the sea if you bzzt that ring in after it," said the second man waspishly. "You're just piffed because my spit hot bzzt mechanical man is worth more than your fudding bauble."

Clunk realised he was still losing words in the translation, and he gave himself another swift knock to the head. After that, he understood everything but their swearing, and he figured that was as good as it was going to get.

Suddenly, the second man pointed to Clunk. "You are Sur Roybot. I am Pen-ton-ville." Then he pointed to his companion. "This fudder is called Is-ling-ton."

"It's a pleasure to meet you both," said Clunk. "Now, if it's not too much trouble, can we leave this beach? I'm not overly keen on seawater."

"Fudding hell," remarked Islington.

"By Zephyr's hairy bells," said Pentonville in delight. "You can speak properly after all!"

"My … dictionary was … faded." Clunk frowned as he struggled for the right words, and he realised he was facing a very tough situation. Not only would he have to educate these people, he'd also have to advance their civilisation to the spacefaring age before there was any chance of leaving the planet.

Unfortunately, a strong donkey just wasn't going to cut it.

"Come, come with us," said Pentonville, beckoning with both hands. "We must take you to the captain of the watch, for he will know what to do with you."

Clunk nodded, and together the three of them set off across the sand to the steep flight of steps leading to the top of the cliff … and the city beyond.

Chapter 7

The support acts had gone off without a hitch, as had their heads, and many of the pikes around the blood-soaked stage were topped with grisly new ornaments. Tax evaders, bent shopkeepers and beggars weren't much of a draw, and so their heads were round the back of the stage. The poles at the front were reserved for the main event.

The town square was packed. For once, people were taking a break from their hard, unforgiving lives, and they were eager to make the most of it. Aside from the thrilling spectacle on the main stage, there were also sideshows and displays dotted around the square, and entertainers wearing all manner of bright clothing danced, juggled and sang for their suppers.

Occasionally some poor soul would be accused of picking a pocket, or short-changing a customer, and with a growing roar of excitement they'd be dragged off to the side of the stage, where, protesting and pleading their case, they'd be chained to the rest of the prisoners. Many rivals — both in business and in love — were dispensed with in this fashion. Also cheating husbands, unfaithful wives and unloved priests … all despatched so quickly and efficiently it was a surprise there was anyone left to watch their demise.

A guard stepped onto the stage and had a quick word with the axeman, and there was a brief pause in the executions. The guard stepped to the very front of the stage and, cupping his hands to his mouth, shouted loud enough for the entire crowd to hear him. "Make way there! Make way for Lord Chylde of the glorious and renowned Mollisters, master of the golden sceptre, first uncle to the holy regent, second in line to the crown, and beloved ruler of our fair city, Chatter's Reach!"

The crowd fell silent, and even the bookies conducted their business in whispers. A pair of huge iron gates creaked open, and a resplendent figure strolled into the square. Lord Chylde was in his late fifties, tall and thin with iron-grey hair and battle-worn features. He wore a suit of ceremonial armour, the chest region designed to expand as one ate a hearty meal, rather than deflect arrows and sword points. Chylde was flanked by four elite guards, their armour polished to a sheen.

The procession advanced through the crowd, which parted before them, eyes downcast. There was almost total silence, and the thump of the guards' boots was loud on the cobblestones. Slowly, they made their way to a fenced-off section under a marquee, where tables had been laid with snowy white linen, expensive cutlery and flagons of fine wine. It was close enough to get a good view of the stage, and also set back far enough to avoid any splatter.

Lord Chylde took the second-best seat at the table, near an elaborate gilded throne which had been drawn from storage and polished up only that morning. He eyed that throne with a heavy heart, as his chances of attaining it were growing slimmer with each passing year. His niece kept a firm grip on power … indeed, she kept a firm grip on pretty much everything within reach, if the rumours were to be taken seriously. An heir would eventually be produced, and with that, Lord Chylde would lose his tenuous grip on the throne .

He'd barely sat down when there was an ear-splitting fanfare from a dozen trumpeters, and when the raucous notes finally died away, Queen Therstie Mollister made her way across the town square. Not for her the slow walk, nodding and smiling at her subjects. No, she was seated in comfort, with four strong men bearing her aloft inside a lacquered, gold-trimmed palanquin, with silk curtains to keep away the insects. Two dozen guards walked alongside the sedan chair, twelve either side, all of them wearing elaborate ceremonial uniforms and fur-trimmed helmets. They were taller and more impressive than Chylde's men, and at their head strode the queen's champion, Sur Loyne. Resplendent in combat-ready armour, with his fabled longsword at his side, he cut a dashing figure. The man was rumoured to sleep with that sword, which didn't surprise Chylde because Sur Loyne was rumoured to sleep with just about anything … including the queen.

Bringing up the rear of the procession were several lesser knights, a couple of whom he could not place. He did recognise Sur Tainty, the scholar, and Sur Reptishis, the creepy assistant spymaster, and he thought one of the others might have been Sur Blyme, the foppish young knight who'd defected from a northern Kingdom and pledged his sword to the queen.

Then he spotted the final member of the queen's party, and his stomach clenched. It was the feared Master of Spies, Lord Varnish. Sunlight gleamed from his bald pate, and he wore the silky smooth coat of his office like a badge. The man was renowned as a polished speaker, and was unwavering in his devotion to the queen.

The bearers paused, lowering the palanquin to the ground, and Varnish hurried forward to offer his queen assistance. She took his hand and stepped from the sedan chair, a vision of splendour which dimmed the uniforms and fancy clothes of everyone around her. A striking blonde, she had piercing blue eyes and features which were rumoured to owe more than a little to a wandering elven princeling. Her father had been a troll of a man, and the idea that such delicate loveliness could spring from his loins was, quite frankly, unbelievable. Having elven blood would also explain Queen Therstie's penchant for wood.

"Your Majesty," said Chylde, bowing deeply.

"Well met, Uncle. You're looking very well."

Chylde straightened with an effort. "And how is my nephew?"

"Tyniwon?" A shadow crossed the queen's face. "He's not been seen for months. I suspect the Barks may have taken him."

"To what end?"

"We'll find out soon enough."

Chylde frowned, for the news was disturbing. He had little regard for his nephew, the bastard's difficult birth having ended his sister's life. At age six, Tyniwon already towered over most men, and the last time Chylde had laid eyes on the strapping nineteen-year-old he'd been seven foot tall if he was an inch. For this Mollister, at least, there had been no slender elf stirring the pot, for Tyniwon was the spitting image of his beetle-browed father. Rumour had it Tyniwon had fair split his mother in half during his birth, although they were careful not to discuss such matters in Chylde's hearing.

Ironically, even though Tyniwon resembled his father, and queen Therstie did not, it was the lad's parentage which had been called into question while the queen's heritage was accepted without question. Such were the vagaries of royal lineage .

As the Queen stepped from the carriage a minor noble hurried forward, bearing a small gilded cage. "Your Majesty, may I present you with … ulp!"

He was still several paces away when Sur Loyne, the champion, stepped into his path and dropped the man with a straight-fingered jab to the throat. The knight caught the gilded cage even as it fell to the ground, peered at the canary inside, then shrugged and offered it to the queen.

Meanwhile, the noble tried to resume his carefully prepared speech, which was less than successful since Loyne had sorely bruised his windpipe. Eventually he got up and retreated, still retching and gasping.

Queen Therstie took the cage and fixed the canary with an intense look of dislike. Then she passed the cage to Varnish. "Dispose of this."

"Are you sure, Your Majesty?" said Varnish unctuously. "The locals might be disappointed if their gift is spurned."

"Kill the damn thing, and be quick about it." Therstie sniffed. "I shouldn't have to tell you again. A Mollister always slays her pets."

Varnish took the cage and, reaching inside, despatched the hapless canary with a practiced tweak of his fingers. Then he set the cage on the ground and followed the queen to her throne, where he laid his elaborate coat over the seat cushion.

"Thank you, Varnish," murmured the queen. "I never can tell who's been sitting in my chair." She sat down and reached for a glass. "Fill me up, and be quick about it."

Wine was poured, and Therstie drained the glass with a flick of the wrist. "Again."

The second glass followed the first, and after dragging the back of her hand across her mouth, Therstie belched and turned her attention to the blood-soaked stage. "So, who are we topping today? Anyone of note?"

"Lord Greyfinger, Your Majesty," said Varnish.

Chylde frowned at this. "I thought Lord Greyfinger was a valued member of the High Chamber? Why are we executing him again?"

"We can hardly execute him again," said Varnish, his pale eyes expressionless, "since we have yet to execute him for a first time."

"You know what I meant," snapped Chylde petulantly. "Don't treat me like a fool."

"I would only ever treat you as you deserve," replied Varnish silkily.

Chylde reddened at the brush-off. Varnish was skilled at verbal jousting, with a vast store of wit to draw on, and it had been a mistake to goad him.

"Relax, uncle. It was Lord Varnish's idea. Grayfinger is a sneaky little spit, and we're better off getting him out the way at the start, instead of letting him go around plotting our demise for months on end." She looked up as Sur Loyne approached. "Yes?"

"My queen, I would like to prepare myself before the tournament."

"Of course, of course. Go buff your mighty weapon, my champion."

"Yes, Your Majesty," said Sur Loyne, and he bowed deeply before backing away.

Queen Therstie gestured at the nearest guard with her wine glass. "You there. Let the execution proceed."

"Let the execution proceed!" shouted the guard.

The large crowd fell silent, all eyes on the raised platform in the shadow of the castle wall. Standing proud in the middle of the stage, resplendent in polished black armour, was the executioner, double-bladed broad axe casually resting over one shoulder. Kneeling on the platform, far less resplendent in his tattered, dung-stained clothes, was the condemned man. His clothes had been fine once, as befitting a noble, but weeks cowering in a filthy dungeon had knocked the sheen off. Not to mention several buttons. His arms were tied behind his back, and when the axeman put a boot between his shoulders and pushed, Greyfinger toppled forward, his chin just overhanging the edge of the blood-soaked wooden chopping block.

Without ceremony, the axeman hefted his weapon, sunlight glinting off the blade. It had already ended many prisoners that day, but the edge was still razor sharp, and it would have no trouble despatching another helpless victim.

Greyfinger closed his eyes, accepting his fate. He could have ruled the Four Kingdoms, had his machinations born fruit. He might have sired a dynasty which stood for a thousand years, had Lord Varnish been slightly less observant. But it was not to be, and instead Greyfinger was about to die like a common criminal.

He heard the executioner grunt, the crowd giving him a rising ooooOOOOHHH! as the weapon rose in preparation for the killing blow.

Then … someone screamed. The piercing, terrified shriek was followed by more screams, and Greyfinger opened one eye, barely daring to hope. Was it a rescue party, come to save him from the axe? But no, instead of a cadre of noble knights on prancing horses, he saw a pair of city guards escorting a curious bronze figure into the town square. The figure walked with a stiff-legged gait, as though its joints were seized, but it wasn't the gait that caught Greyfinger's attention. No, it was the strange, full-body armour the figure was wearing, en casing it from head to toe.

If he didn't know better, he would have described it as a mechanical man, perhaps driven by clockwork … or even magic .

* * *

"Why do you want me to end the queen?" demanded Tiera.

Spadell shrugged. "Does it matter?"

"Sure. I don't work for crazies." Tiera studied the captain closely. He didn't look like a nut job, but some men were born stalkers, and when they chose the wrong woman … look out. "If this is some kind of payback because she refused your advances—"

"Me and the queen?" Spadell snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. I wouldn't sully myself with that woman."

"Revenge, then." Tiera saw the guess shoot home. "She had someone killed. Someone you cared about."

Spadell's lips thinned, and for a second she thought he was going to strike her. He was obviously carrying a deep hurt, and in her experience that made people careless. "My motives aren't relevant," he said at last. "Can you do it or not?"

"Let me get this straight. If I say no, you'll have me executed?"

Spadell nodded.

"And if I say yes, you'll release me?"

"That is the deal."

"Well, in that case, of course I'll murder the queen."

"You seem very confident. "

"I once trained as an actor. Plus assassins don't tend to be shrinking violets, as a rule." Tiera hesitated. "I'm going to need a little time to plan this through. One does not simply walk up to the queen and stick her with a dagger."

"I don't care if one drops a rock on her head while she's using the privy," growled the captain. "She dies, and that's final."

"It usually is." Tiera hesitated. "I usually plan for the first three months, but in this case I can cut it to one or two months of—"

"Sorry, I wasn't clear. You have to do it today."

Tiera laughed, long and hard. When she recovered, she dashed the tears from her eyes and shook her head. "I was wrong. You are nuts."

"You don't understand. She's only visiting the city for the tournament, and tomorrow …"

His voice tailed off as he heard a commotion outside the cell, and he frowned as a guard skidded to a halt outside. "Captain, some big guy just showed up at the barracks. Says he's got an appointment."

"He hasn't. Tell him to go away."

"He says we're to let him in, by order of the queen."

"What's his name?"

The guard thought for a moment. "Sur Loyne, captain."

Spadell swore. "The queen's champion? What does that giant waste of space want?"

"I could go ask him."

"No, let him in. I'm finished here."

The guard eyed Tiera. "Really? Can I go next?"

"Hold your tongue and do what you're told," snapped Spadell.

"Yessir!" The guard left at a run, and once he was out of earshot, the captain addressed Tiera. "Do we have a deal? "

"The chance of success is somewhere south of zero, but sure. We have a deal."

"Good. Sit tight, don't make a fuss, and I'll have you out of here soon."

Before Spadell could leave, the door swung open and he was confronted by the queen's champion, Sur Loyne. He knew the huge, muscled fighter to be a big man, but he seemed twice as tall and wide in the confines of the cell. "Spadell, am I right?"

"I am Captain Spadell, yes."

"Good. I want to see a couple of prisoners."

"Which ones?"

"I don't care. They're just a warm-up before my tournament."

"I thought it was at the queen's tournament?" said Spadell softly.

"Don't get smart with me, man." Loyne glanced at Tiera, then looked her over more carefully, his gaze roving from her head to her toes. "By Zephyr, you're a sight for sore eyes." He stepped towards Tiera, towering over her. Roughly, he took her chin in one hand, forcing her mouth open to inspect her teeth. Then he ran one hand down her side, squeezing her buttocks. "When the tourney is over, I'll be back to sheathe my sword in your scabbard," he said. "If you know what I mean."

"She's being released today," said Spadell quickly, before Tiera put the big man's eyes out with a fingernail. "A misunderstanding, since cleared up."

"I'm sure you can hold her for a couple more hours." Loyne gave Spadell a meaningful look. "That wasn't a suggestion, by the way. That was an order. I want her waiting for me when I return." Then he clapped his hands together, making his biceps bulge. "Now, where are my prisoners? Surely they deserve a moment of glory before their executions? "

Reluctantly, Spadell handed him the keys to the cells, and after a lingering look at Tiera, the queen's champion left.

"I'm going to kill him," said Tiera quietly.

"You'll have to, because he stands between you and the queen."

They heard a shout, and then the sound of some hapless prisoner being punched. There was a cry of pain, and Tiera's eyes glittered as she recognised the voice. It was Thonn, the stripling of a teenager chained to the wall in the next cell. "No charge for the champion," murmured Tiera, her eyes intense. "I'll do him for free."

"I expected nothing less."

"There is one more thing." Tiera nodded towards the door. "The kid, Thonn. He comes with me."

"Sure, if there's anything left. But why?"

"He might be useful in my … quest."

Since Tiera wouldn't elaborate, Spadell left, pulling the door shut behind himself. Moments later he returned with the keys, and she heard the lock shooting home. In the distance she could hear Sur Loyne laying into another prisoner, and she vowed to make him pay with his life.

Chapter 8

Queen Therstie approached the living statue, swaying slightly from the effects of the wine. As she got closer, she took in its graceful lines, and she realised it was undoubtedly the work of advanced craftsmen. That meant it hailed from distant lands, because the craftsmen in her kingdom were barely capable of assembling a chair with the correct number of legs. Then, she recalled a distant memory. Her nanny had once told her a story, in which a siege had been broken when an army poured from a giant horse. Quite how the army had entered the horse, and from which part of its anatomy they'd emerged to claim victory, her nanny wouldn't say, but the story had remained with the queen over the years. It was one reason she refused to accept pets from anyone, no matter how innocent-looking they might be.

This mechanical man, though. It was too small to hold an army. Indeed, the walking suit of armour was barely large enough to hold a single man, and there was no room for a weapon of any kind. She lowered her gaze to its waist, and sighed at the lack of any visible manhood. A clockwork man with a big hard sword? Now that was a gift she would gladly have accepted. "Does it talk?" she enquired at last.

"Indeed, Your Majesty," said one of the guards. "He calls himself Sur Roybot."

"Roybot? A curious name for a curious creature."

The queen advanced until she was standing face to face with the metal man. It regarded her with warm yellow eyes, then bowed deeply. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, majesty."

"By the Four Kingdoms!" exclaimed Chylde. "What a marvellous voice! What diction!"

"There is but one Kingdom, and I am her ruler," snapped Therstie. "There exists but a temporary truce, and once our armies are back at full strength, the rest of the Land will be mine."

"Apologies, my Queen. I cast no shade on your reign. It was merely an expression of surprise."

"Of course, of course," said Therstie vaguely, and she turned her attention to the curious contraption standing before her. "Tell me, what are you doing here? What is your purpose?"

"I have no purpose, ma'am, other than to serve you. As for my presence, it was by way of an accident, but I must declare it a happy turn of events now that I have experienced your august and overwhelming presence."

Therstie laughed, and turned to the royal party. "By Zephyr, Lord Varnish. This creature is smoother than you, I swear! More of this sweet talk, and he'll soon be wearing your coat."

Varnish looked sour. Alongside him, Lord Chylde couldn't hide a sudden smile at his rival's discomfort. Then, with a cunning look on his face, he stood up. "Majesty, I trust my gift pleases you?"

Everyone stared at him.

"It is but a token of my esteem," continued Chylde. "A mere trifle, to be sure, but a valuable one nonetheless."

"You got this for me? Uncle, that's so sweet! "

Varnish looked like he was about to burst into flames, while Chylde glowed with pleasure. "Indeed, my queen. I am only sorry he arrived in such a state." Here, he scowled at Islington and Pentonville. "I assure you those responsible will be punished."

"If I might just say something in their defence," began Clunk. "It was not—"

"Silence!" shouted Lord Chylde. "Do not trouble the queen with your fancies. You may only speak when given permission."

Therstie looked the mechanical man up and down, then gestured at a guard. "Have him cleaned up, feed him whatever he desires, and bring him to me after the feast. I may have a use for this metal man yet." Up close, she'd spotted a small panel set into Sur Roybot's pelvis, right around where the pubic bone ought to be, and she found herself wondering what precisely that panel might conceal.

As Sur Roybot was bustled away, Therstie saw her champion approaching across the square. He had a satisfied look on his face, and he was busy wiping bloodstains off his armour with someone's ragged shirt. Then Therstie glanced towards the stage, where the executioner was waiting patiently with his victim. Lord Greyfinger's face bore a mix of apprehension and hope, and at the sight Therstie felt a small crumb of guilt. The man had proven useful over the years, and she only had Varnish's word that he'd tried to betray her. Well-used to intrigue, Therstie knew Varnish might be getting rid of a rival, and while she usually rewarded such initiative, in this case she felt the Master of Spies might be taking things a little too far. "Halt the execution," she said to a waiting guard.

"Halt the execution!" shouted the guard.

There was a groan of disappointment from the crowd, quickly silenced, and then a thud as Lord Greyfinger fainted on the stage, toppling sideways and hitting his head on the bloodstained timbers.

"We'll hold the tournament next," said the queen. "You can lop Greyfinger's head off afterwards."

The crowd cheered at the good news, throwing their hats in the air as the unconscious Greyfinger was temporarily carted away. Then the crowd backed away from the centre of the square to give the combatants room to fight.

"The rules are simple," said the queen. "Any man or woman may take up a sword and face my champion. Defeat him, and you will become the new champion. Lose, and you die." She looked around the crowd. This was the tricky part, because it would take a truly stupid man, or woman, to face Sur Loyne in single combat. And, if there were no takers, there would be no tournament.

People shuffled their feet, looked at the ground, and generally acted in the manner of school children who had not completed their homework. They were desperate not to be noticed, because they guessed that if none volunteered, opponents for the hulking, expert champion would be selected at random.

Therstie was about to single out a strapping young lad as the first victim when the crowd parted and an old man with a walking stick was thrust forward. He tried to return to the crowd, but willing hands pushed him into the ring. "He said he'd fight Sur Loyne!" shouted someone.

"No I didn't!" shouted the old man.

"Oh, yes he did!" shouted the crowd.

"I didn't! I didn't!" shouted the old man.

"Oh, yes he—"

"Silence!" Therstie raised a hand. "This tournament is an equal opportunity event, and the old and infirm will not be excluded. Please, sir. Take up a weapon."

Gamely, the old man gripped his cane.

"Ten shillings on Sur Loyne," shouted someone. There were no takers.

Therstie closed her eyes. The crowd wanted blood, even after all the executions, but she could have taken the old man herself, bare handed. A one-sided contest would earn Sur Loyne no repute, and she was of a mind to halt the bout.

Unfortunately, Sur Loyne didn't care about his repute. He strode into the arena, drew his sword and cut the old man down where he stood. The crowd roared their approval, and as Therstie eyed the twitching corpse she realised she might have left it a bit late to call the fight off.

Another unwilling participant was propelled out of the crowd, and Sur Loyne cut her down before she'd opened her mouth to protest. Then, crazed with bloodlust, he started cutting people down at random, until there was pandemonium as the shrieking peasants ran to and fro, trying to avoid his flashing blade.

"Sur Loyne, there is no honour in your actions!" snapped Therstie. "Desist!"

The champion stopped beating a man's head on the paving stones, and stood up to face his queen. "Yes, Your Majesty. As you command."

"Resume your seat, for I have need of food and I wish to dine."

"Was I victorious, majesty?"

"Yes, yes. You won the first round. Congratulations."

Sur Loyne bowed deeply. "I will treasure this victory, for it was amongst my finest."

Therstie spotted the guards leading her new mechanical man away, and had a sudden thought. "Actually, belay that. I believe there is another who might yet challenge you."

"Indeed? I welcome the chance to prove myself."

"Good, because this fight might test your mettle, so to speak." With that, Therstie put two fingers in her mouth and blew a piercing whistle. The guards accompanying Sur Roybot turned, and she beckoned to them. They returned to the marquee, and she faced the mechanical man once more. "Do you know how to use a sword?"

Sur Roybot glanced at Lord Chylde, who nodded his permission for the robot to speak.

"I understand the basics," said the mechanical man slowly. "However, it is not in my … nature … to cause harm to others."

Therstie rolled her eyes. A pacifist at a tournament. Perfect, just perfect. "Look, get out there and defend yourself. Is that clear?"

"This I can do," said Sur Roybot, and he accepted a sword from the guards and strolled into the middle of the square.

* * *

The crowd was hushed as the combatants squared off. Sur Loyne loved to be the centre of attention, and he circled the makeshift arena with a confident swagger. He believed people watched him because of his manly physique, chiselled features and exquisite sword-play, but in fact people were just hoping someone, anyone, would one day grind the arrogant bully's face into the dirt.

Meanwhile, Clunk stood rooted to the spot. He'd already weighed the primitive sword they'd thrust into his hands, calculated its centre of gravity and plotted its maximum reach. Now he was doing the same for Sur Loyne's weapon, although his figures were rubbery because he couldn't very well ask to measure the man's sword before they began.

Clunk was still trying to estimate the weight of jewels attached to Sur Loyne's hilt when his enemy let out a battle-cry and charged him, sword drawn back for a strike. He came running at Clunk, neck muscles corded as he yelled with all his might, trying to put his opponent off.

Clunk waited until the last second, side-stepped Sur Loyne's charge and ducked effortlessly under the wildly-swung sword. He straightened, completely unharmed, and there was a titter from the crowd. The laughter was quickly stilled as the big fighter ran a fierce, angry gaze over the watching faces. Slowly, Sur Loyne turned to face the robot, his forearms bulging as he took a strong grip on his sword.

Meanwhile, Clunk swung his weapon in one hand, spinning it so fast it turned into a whirling, gleaming disk. The metal blade hummed loudly as it cut the air, and when he'd judged the sword's balance to his satisfaction, Clunk finished with a flourish, the tip pointing at Sur Loyne's throat. Clunk stood there, as rigid as a statue, while his opponent frowned and took several steps to the side. Then Sur Loyne took out a small dagger with his left hand, and prepared for a double strike.

Varnish leaned forward eagerly. "Now we'll see the colour of that abomination's insides!"

"Don't be so sure," said Lord Chylde. "The mechanical man could be even faster and stronger than it looks. Sur Loyne wants to be careful, or the metal man will take his head and crush it like a melon."

"There's more chance of finding a maiden in the slums."

"Five guineas says the creature ends Sur Loyne with a single blow."

"I do not gamble," said Varnish softly.

"I'm not surprised. You don't really do much of anything."

Clunk and Sur Loyne were still facing off, although the human was now circling the robot, weapon at the ready. He darted in suddenly, aiming a blow, but Clunk deflected it easily. Sur Loyne stood his ground, aiming frantic swipes at the robot, but every single one was blocked. He even tried the dagger, intending to slip the wicked point between gaps in the robot's armour, but that too was blocked effortlessly.

By now, Clunk had gathered the information he needed. His opponent's sword was forged from mild steel, and weighed slightly more than two kilos. The effect of the sword on his plasteel skin would be negligible, and so the next time Sur Loyne aimed a swipe at his chest, Clunk merely raised his arms.

Clang!

The crowd gasped as the sword struck home.

Snap!

As Clunk expected, the blade broke against his hardened shell, and Sur Loyne staggered back with the useless hilt in his grasp. The rest of the blade clattered on the paving stones, gleaming and sharp, but totally useless.

"By Zephyr!" whispered Lord Chylde, eyes wide. Sur Loyne's blade was famed for its strength and quality, and yet it had snapped like a stick on the metal man's armour. He'd thought the metal man a curio, some wind-up mechanical toy discarded by a wealthy princeling. Now it dawned on him that he had been a little hasty giving the thing to his niece, for a metal man such as this, at the head of an army, would be nigh invincible. Why, a Lord might even consider taking back the Four Kingdoms, uniting them under a single banner !

Lord Chylde glanced along the table, worried his treasonous thoughts might be plain to all. Fortunately, most were engrossed in the one-sided fight. Sur Tainty and Sur Reptishis were watching the duel avidly, while Sur Blyme and Queen Therstie only had eyes for the half-naked beefcake strutting around the arena.

In fact, Chylde only knew of one man with sufficient wit to come to the same conclusion as himself, and, sure enough, when he met Lord Varnish's gaze it was obvious the devious, traitorous wretch was thinking along the same lines. "A night time meeting in my chambers, do you think?" murmured Chylde.

Varnish tilted his head in acceptance.

"You there!" shouted Sur Loyne, making them both start guiltily. The fighter wasn't about to expose their duplicity, though, he just wanted the lend of a new weapon. "Your war hammer, and quick!"

A guard tossed his hammer, Sur Loyne snatching it from midair and twirling it around expertly, getting a feel for the balance. Then he advanced on the robot once more.

Chylde watched the metal man parrying the blows with ease, and decided to up the challenge a notch or two. He turned to a guard, who was standing to attention nearby. The man had a bow slung over one shoulder, a quiver of arrows at his hip. "A guinea if you can land a shot on that metal creature."

The guard looked startled, then nodded and unslung his bow. He drew back and fired with one fluid motion, and the arrow sped across the square towards its target.

Clunk was busy fending off blows from the hammer, but he perceived the arrow in flight and plucked it from the air with a lightning-fast move. Then, with more urging from Chylde, half a dozen guards took up position and began to loose off arrows, all desperate to claim a gold coin. Unfortunately, their hopes were in vain, because Clunk handled the rapid volley with aplomb, until the arena was littered with spent shafts. Also, several dead spectators, as a number of arrows missed the mark and plunged into human flesh instead.

Eventually, Chylde halted the archers. It was clearly a waste of time, and if one of them shot Sur Loyne by mistake there would be hell to pay. He saw Varnish smirking, and frowned at him. "What?"

"You're going to need a bigger bow," said the Master of Spies.

By now, the combat had been going on for twenty fruitless minutes, and the surviving members of the crowd were getting bored. Their taunts were ignored, the robot could plainly handle anything thrown at it, and Sur Loyne was panting and red-faced as he struggled to hit the metal creature with his war hammer.

The queen judged the mood, and decided to end it. She stood, and with a curt command she brought the fight to an end. "Well done, very well done. I declare the result a draw."

Clunk nodded politely to his opponent and returned to the marquee, splintering fallen arrows underfoot. He returned the sword to its owner, then eyed the queen, trying to decide whether he'd earned her favour. After all, he'd done his best not to hurt her champion.

Behind him, Sur Loyne rested on his war hammer, struggling to get his breath back. He had a face like thunder, and his eyes glinted dangerously as he watched the robot.

Chapter 9

Father M stood on tiptoes, trying to see over the crowd of people trying to get into the city square. Runt stood on tiptoes as well, and an ant might as well have climbed onto a toothpick to get a better view of the horizon.

Cunning merchants had blocked most of the alleys and byways leading into the square, with the result that everyone had to pass through the same narrow gap. Two smart operators were manning a hastily-erected ticket booth, while a couple of guards stood nearby ready to move them on if a superior showed up. The unofficial ticket booth was raking in the pennies, and it was obvious the guards were in on the take.

Every now and then a clash of swords, a shout of triumph or a cry of despair could be heard in the town square, the latter frequently cut short with a gurgle and a roar from the crowd.

"Hurm fight!" muttered the big fighter. He was practically dancing from one foot to the other, bumping into people and knocking them into barrels of produce, traders' handcarts and fresh pats of horse manure. Several bounced up, eager to have words with the clumsy oaf after losing their place in the slow-moving queue. Then they became aware of his granite-like physique, and wisely moved to the back of the queue, wiping horse muck from their clothes.

"We should have got here earlier," muttered Runt.

"Yes, well perhaps you shouldn't have messed with Sur Cumfrence."

"Maybe you shouldn't have split the barkeep's lip with your stick."

"Did you try those drinks? Anyway, it's not a stick, it's a magic wand."

"Not in this city it isn't," snapped Runt. "Use magic here and they'll chop your head off."

"I'd like to see them try," muttered Father M, but all the same he drew his embroidered robes tight around his gaunt frame. If anyone searched him, they'd find enough hundred-proof potions, suspicious herbal ingredients and explicit etchings to have him up for every vice under the sun … and both moons.

"Hurm fight! " grumbled their companion, and having completely lost his patience he began to push forwards, elbowing aside the packed ranks of locals. Runt saw his chance and nipped in behind the human, following in his wake. Father M was about to protest, then realised it was pointless, and so he followed as well.

They reached the ticket booth, where a snaggle-toothed man held out a blank scrap of paper. "Ten pence for entry."

There was a riiissskkk as Hurm drew his sword, still in full flight, and with a swish the top came off the kiosk. The same could have been said for the ticket seller, had he not ducked at the last second, and as he cowered on the cobblestones the rest of his kiosk was chopped into kindling around him. As for the guards, they took one look at the big fighter's sword and walked off, one whistling tonelessly while the other began discussing the weather.

Hurm charged into the square with Runt hot on his heels. The halfling couldn't see where they were going, but he did take the opportunity to relieve the ticket-seller of his weighty purse.

The rest of the people in the alley, initially inclined to object to this blatant queue-jumper, now realised they'd saved themselves a month's wages, and followed him gratefully.

As Father M brought up the rear he saw something that made his eyebrows lower until they were almost covering his eyes. Said eyes glittered with suppressed anger, and he paused in the alley to look at a boarded-up shop. Not just any shop, this, as the faded sign said 'Mages Guild & Supplies'. Someone had painted a red pentagram over the sign, and the boards covering the entrance were likewise marked. Through a gap he saw a counter inside, charred and broken, with traces of ingredients and broken glass trampled into the dirt floor.

His lips set in a firm line, Father M turned away and followed the others into the square.

* * *

Clunk watched the queen sink several glasses of wine, and when he judged the time was right, he approached to ask his favour.

"Sur Roybot," said one of the guards, as though the queen might mistake Clunk for anyone else. Then again, after a few more flagons of wine she might think him to be the wind god Zephyr made whole. Such mistakes had been made before, only to be discovered with much embarrassment the next morning.

"Your Majesty," said Clunk quietly, with a bow .

"Speak up, speak up," said the queen irritably. "Can't stand mumbling."

"Might I beg a favour?"

"Depends," said Therstie, and she took a decent slug of wine from her glass. "What's in it for me?"

Clunk hesitated. What did he have that an all-powerful ruler might desire? He knew a few card tricks, and he believed he could pilot a spaceship, but neither were likely to find favour. Then he hit upon the perfect answer. "Did you notice how the champion's sword broke on my armour?"

"Did I ever! I thought Loyne was going to burst, he was so angry."

"How would Your Majesty like me to teach advanced metallurgy to your subjects? With armour such as mine, your troops would be invincible."

Therstie paused, glass halfway to her lips. Then, slowly, she put the glass down. "Better armour? Invincible?"

"Indeed. If given access to a forge, I could soon teach them the basics."

"It shall be arranged, Sur Roybot." The queen studied him. "Where did my uncle get you, anyway? He never did tell me."

Clunk hesitated. Lord Chylde had lied to the queen, and Clunk was incapable of doing the same. On the other hand, if he dropped Lord Chylde in it, the man would probably be executed, and Clunk couldn't have that on his conscience either. So, he adopted the middle ground. "I was unconscious, lost at sea."

"Gosh, how exciting. Was it a shipwreck?"

"I fell off a ship, yes." Clunk frowned as he tried to remember more, but he could only recall the same scene, over and over again. A freighter travelling through hyperspace. The cargo doors wide open. Him, either falling out, or being pushed out. And then … darkness, at least until he'd woken on the beach. "I don't remember where I came from."

"Well, you're mine now, so it doesn't matter, does it?" Therstie looked up at him. "So, what do you want, Sur Roybot? What is this favour of yours?"

"Once I build a forge, I would like the use of it from time to time."

"Is that all?"

"Yes, majesty. It pleases me to build trinkets and small devices." Small devices like a refinery, a basic computer and spaceship engines … but he decided not to mention those. Indeed, before he got that far he'd need survey equipment to locate suitable minerals and crude oil deposits, and those would require a flying vehicle of some kind. "Tell me, majesty, has your civilisation mastered the skies?"

The queen frowned at him. "What do you mean?"

"Flight, ma'am. Air travel."

Therstie eyed her wine glass. "Once, kings and queens travelled on dragon-back. Then, during the Great Famine, a remote outpost encountered the fresh corpse of a fallen dragon. Starving and desperate, they cooked the flesh." Therstie ran a tongue across her upper lip. "Once word got out, dragons were butchered and eaten wholesale. Few survived, and the remnants have taken refuge in the rocky wilds of the West."

"I'm sorry, did you say … dragons?"

"Sure. Don't you have them where you're from?"

"My … dictionary … lists them as mythical beings."

"Oh, they exist all right. I saw one once, as a child." Therstie sighed. "It was the last in captivity, and they'd saved it for a royal wedding. There were many guests, and the dragon was young. Alas, we barely got a mouthful each."

Clunk added the valuable information to his store. He would need one of these dragons for his plans, and that apparently meant travelling to the rocky wilds of the West. But first —

The queen interrupted his thoughts. "Sur Roybot, you will have your forge in return for the secrets of invincible armour."

Clunk realised his audience was over, and he bowed deeply before returning to the far end of the marquee. On the way he caught a glance from Lord Chylde, the man clearly worried that Clunk had said too much. Moments later, the queen's uncle got up, collected a flagon of wine, and made his way to the queen's side. They spoke together at length, with both of them casting sidelong glances at Clunk. The queen seemed unconvinced about something, but as the level of wine in the carafe went down, so did her defences, until she waved a languid hand in defeat.

Lord Chylde gave Clunk a victorious smile, then gestured to the guards. Before Clunk realised what was happening, he was surrounded. Then, once he judged it was safe, Chylde came over and explained.

"The queen is concerned that you might be an enemy spy, sent here to learn as much as possible about our kingdom." He raised his voice so that everyone in the party could hear. "Therefore, her majesty has authorised certain precautions. You will be incarcerated until further notice, and any attempt at escape will be met with your destruction. You will be held in isolation, and anyone attempting to communicate with you will be executed. Guards, take him away."

The guards hesitated. After all, they'd been watching when the mechanical man had embarrassed the queen's champion, and they knew their weapons were no match for its speed and armour.

"Forward, men!" shouted Lord Chylde. "Dare you disobey your queen? "

Clunk raised his hands, palms outwards. "I will not harm you," he said quietly.

At that, the guards found their courage, and they surrounded Clunk, hoisted him off his feet, and carried him away to the dungeons. Lord Chylde watched them go with some satisfaction. With the marvellous device locked in his own cells, he'd have full control of the thing … for the time being at least.

* * *

Tiera was lying on her bunk when she heard a key in the lock, and she jumped up immediately. She'd heard the unmistakable sound of a sword fight in the square, as well as the noise of a restless crowd. She knew how these things went, and wise rulers knew that the best way to appease a crowd was to drag a few extra prisoners out and lop their heads off. If Spadell didn't hurry up and release her, some busybody might have her off to the executioner any minute.

So, as the door opened she was once again crouched behind it, ready to sell her life dearly.

"It's just me," said Spadell calmly. "You can come out."

Tiera left her hiding place, and to her surprise she saw the captain had released the youth, Thonn, from his chains. The kid was clutching his stomach, and she could see bruises where the queen's champion had bravely beaten the skinny teenager while he was still chained to the wall. "Are you all right?" she asked him.

Thonn made a rocking gesture with his free hand. The other was still holding his belly, and his face was grey. There was gratitude in his eyes though, and he gazed at Tiera as though she were a vision sent by the gods themselves.

"There's no time to lose," said Spadell. "The men on duty have been told you're both being released, so there won't be any trouble. Head down the passage to the rear exit, and get away from here as quick as you can."

"Aren't you coming with us?" Tiera could just imagine some jobsworth holding them up while he made a show of checking their release details. It was a classic shakedown, and she didn't have any money.

"No. The captain of the watch doesn't escort prisoners. If I made an exception, someone would ask why." Spadell saw her hesitation. "Relax, my men are well trained. They won't question my orders."

She nodded at this, and clutching the rough cape around herself, she guided Thonn into the passage. Before they left, Spadell touched her arm and handed her the stiletto he'd found in the High Priest's quarters. "If you flee the city without completing your … mission … I will understand. But I will not forgive."

"I gave you my word," murmured Tiera, tucking the knife inside her sleeve. "It will be done, and then we will head north, to the land of the Barks."

She left Spadell standing there, watching her. As she led Thonn down the narrow passageway with its worn flagstones and smoking torches, she noticed most of the cells stood open, their occupants already having faced the executioner. She realised her freedom was probably fleeting, and that when her attempt on the queen failed, as was inevitable, she would be back in these same cells facing the same fate as their late occupants. The only difference was that after she tried to kill the queen she'd be tortured … and worse … before they killed her. Wouldn't it be better, she thought, to return to her cell now, and get it all over with?

Thonn stumbled in the near-darkness, and she put an arm around him, supporting his weight. No, she couldn't give up, for if she did, she would be denying Thonn his chance of freedom as well. Once the lad recovered from his beating, he could make for the hills, and he'd be safe no matter what they did to her.

"Halt!" said a rough voice ahead of them. "Who goes there?"

"Tiera and Thonn. Captain Spadell released us."

"Is that so?"

The guard was seated behind a wooden desk, where a huge ledger sat next to an inkpot with a quill. The book stood open, and Tiera could see a neat line ruled through every name … bar two. As the guard studied the writing, his lips moving with every word, she felt an icy chill in her stomach. Now that she'd decided to take her one chance at freedom, putting her trust in Spadell, how cruel would it be if this guard dragged them off to the executioner instead?

"Tiera and … Thonn," said the guard. He was about to check the big ledger when the door behind him opened, and a dozen guards poured in. One held the door, while the rest appeared to be carrying a big bronze statue, although Tiera could have sworn its eyes moved.

"Orders from Lord Chylde," said one of the newcomers. "We need a cell for this."

"Plenty to choose from," said the guard, gesturing at the pages of crossed-out names in the ledger. "We're nearly empty, so take your pick."

The big group of guards departed, their boots echoing off the stone walls. Tiera watched them go, then turned back to their own guard. "Well? "

He checked the ledger, inspected a signature next to their names, then nodded. "You can go."

The icy chill in her stomach dissipated, and Tiera's hand trembled as she opened the rough wooden door beside the guard post. There was a small courtyard outside, and she looked around, fearfully, in case half a dozen archers or swordsmen were waiting to cut them both down. She'd heard of such cruel tricks before.

But no. Across the courtyard there was a double gate, which stood open. Beyond was the city, and Tiera's knees went weak at the sight. Still supporting Thonn, she stumbled across the courtyard, and together they passed through the outer gates into the sunshine.

"I think I can walk unaided," said Thonn, his voice low and weak.

"Nonsense."

"Wh-where are we bound, my lady? I have no lodgings."

"I have a room nearby. You can stay with me."

"My lady!" Thonn looked at her, scandalised. "In my village, such a thing would be unthinkable. Why, the suggestion alone—"

"First off, we're not in your village. Second, I'm no lady. And third, even if you were capable of anything in your condition, I'd gut you before you got your breeches down around your ankles. Is that clear?"

"Y-yes, m-my lady."

"Call me Tiera."

"Yes, my Tiera." Thonn took a painful breath. "I will always be in your debt."

"I know." Speaking of debts, thought Tiera, there were ten gold guineas with her name on them, and the second she'd dropped Thonn at the tavern she intended to collect them. She was still thinking of the fortune in gold coins when she almost bumped into three curious characters. She eyed the tall priest, raised an eyebrow at the beefcake fighter and tried not to stare at the tousle-headed halfling. All three were in a hurry as they headed towards the city square, and she stood aside to let them past.

Then she set off in the opposite direction, towards the tavern. The sooner she got her hands on those guineas the better. And if Spadell was correct, and the gold coins were fake, then her lying scum of an employer would come to rue the day he was born.

Chapter 1 0

"It's time to execute the lying, traitorous Lord," said the queen loudly. Her timing was impeccable, because Chylde turned a ghostly white, thinking she was referring to him.

Then a guard signalled to the executioner, and Lord Greyfinger was dragged from the cells and onto the stage once more. At the sight of the wretched man, Chylde's colour returned, and he aided it by downing two glasses of wine in quick succession.

Greyfinger protested volubly, but was no match for the big, strong axeman. With a nod from the queen, Greyfinger was forced to his knees, and seconds later the axe came down, ending his protests — and behind-the-scenes machinations — for good.

The queen nodded in satisfaction, then looked at the crowd. They seemed a little lifeless now that the executions were complete, much like Lord Greyfinger, and she decided to give them one last chance for glory. Standing up, she walked to the cordon of guards separating the haves from the have-nots, and raised her voice.

"Last chance, my beloved subjects. If anyone wishes to raise a hand against my champion, they might earn themselves fame everlasting. Otherwise, I will declare the tournament ended."

There was no reply from the beloved subjects, who didn't mind seeing someone else butchered, but were a little less willing to put their own necks on the line.

"Very well, I declare the tournament over. Sur Loyne, once again you are—"

"HURM FIGHT!"

There was a commotion from the rear of the crowd, which parted to admit a huge, hulking fighter with a bulging loin cloth and the biggest sword the queen had ever seen. The newcomer's accent, what little she'd heard of it, reminded her of the uncouth barbarians of the North. She'd only seen one, from a distance, and she'd never forgotten his mighty weapon. This man's was twice as large.

"Too late," said Sur Loyne quickly, chilled by the sight of his potential opponent. "Tournament's over. Try next year."

"Hold, Sur Loyne," said the queen. "I am of a mind to permit this newcomer's challenge."

"But I've already started taking my armour off!" protested Sur Loyne, quickly undoing a leather strap.

"Then you can put it back on again," said the queen, unmoved.

Sur Loyne realised he had no choice, but he consoled himself with the thought that a brainless, beefy barbarian would be no match for his years of training in the fine art of swordplay.

Meanwhile, Queen Therstie had an eye on the barbarian's muscled physique. His limited intellect was a plus, too, because there was nothing worse than endless post-coital chatter about the merits of one bladed weapon over another. Of course, before she got that far, this Hurm person had to defeat Sur Loyne. Still, whatever happened it would be a fitting end to the tournament. One always liked to finish the day with a couple of half-naked heavyweights thrusting away.

Hurm drew his sword and tossed the scabbard aside. He was breathing hard from his run to the square, and his bronzed skin was slick with sweat, but he stood ready to fight all the same. Sur Loyne took plenty of time checking his armour, ensuring there were no gaps through which an enemy could thrust a weapon. Then, at last, he declared himself ready.

"Fighters, face off," shouted the queen.

The men strode into the square and readied their weapons.

"Fighters … wait for it, wait for it … NOW!" shouted the queen.

* * *

Sur Loyne put his left hand to his waist, and circled the giant barbarian with his sword expertly wielded in his right. Hurm just watched him, unmoving, unblinking. Loyne found this extremely disconcerting, because he'd expected the idiot to charge him.

He darted forward and tried a feint, drawing the big man's sword, then changed direction and lunged. Instead of finding flesh, his sword met the barbarian's impressive weapon, the force of the clash jarring Loyne's forearm.

Hurm smiled, and Sur Loyne's blood ran cold. He'd faced many opponents over the years, some of them upright and not completely drunk, but he'd never seen any of them smile. He whirled around, then advanced with a flurry, his sword fair singing as it cut through the air here and there. Unfortunately, it didn't cut through Hurm.

Sur Loyne stepped back again, still flourishing his sword even though Hurm was ignoring every feint. The big man had catlike reactions, and clearly wasn't going to be distracted by anything but a killing blow.

However, Sur Loyne had a plan. As he circled his opponent, Hurm slowly turned to face him, and eventually the big fighter had his back to the queen. Sur Loyne looked around his opponent, and put his left hand to his ear. "Sorry, my queen?," he said, barely loud enough for Hurm to hear him. "Oh, you want to speak with Hurm?" He pointed. "The queen wants you, Hurm."

Hurm turned to look, and the second his back was turned, Loyne ran at him, swinging his sword with a vicious, two-handed killing blow aimed right at the thick, muscled neck. Hurm was still looking over at the queen, but he heard the swish of Loyne's sword, and casually raised his gigantic weapon behind his back. The angle was just so, and the heavy blade deflected Loyne's stroke straight over Hurm's head. Then Hurm whirled round and opened Loyne's forehead to the bone, with a touch so delicate the queen's champion didn't realise he'd been wounded … at first. It was only a shallow cut, but it bled profusely, and Loyne was forced to retreat as he dashed the blood from his eye.

Now Hurm moved, advancing with the big sword at the ready. He feinted this way and that, and Sur Loyne parried desperately, giving it everything he had. It wasn't enough, and with a sick feeling, it dawned on him that he was about to die. His opponent might be a brainless oaf, but his skills were sublime, his reactions cat-like, his swordplay just too good. So, Sur Loyne did the only thing he could under the circumstances: he raised his hand, calling a halt to proceedings. "Just a minute. I've got something in my eye."

Hurm paused, his two-handed sword drawn back for a final, devastating strike.

"Finish him!" shouted someone from the crowd.

"Chop 'is 'ead orf!"

Loyne covered one eye and turned to the queen. "Majesty, I think a piece of grit has lodged in my eye, and I cannot see clearly. May we postpone the fight until I am fit?"

The queen sighed. "Sure, I guess."

There was a groan from the crowd, quickly silenced as the guards surrounding the royal party dropped their sword hands to their hilts.

Relieved beyond measure, Sur Loyne gave Hurm a brief nod, then sheathed his sword and strode over to the table, where he pressed a snowy white napkin to his brow. "Such a pity," he proclaimed. "I would have taken him with my very next blow."

"Taken a sword to the gut, more like," muttered one of the guards.

Sur Loyne shot them an angry look, trying to pick out the one who insulted him so, but the guards were all studying the crowd conscientiously.

Meanwhile, the queen beckoned to Hurm. "Come here. Kneel before me."

Hurm approached cautiously. The last time a woman had asked him to kneel before her, strange things had happened to him. However, he did as he was told, going down on one knee before the queen, and bowing his head. The queen selected a silver knife from her place setting, and touched him on the shoulder. "I anoint you Sur Rogate, my substitute champion. All hail Sur Rogate!"

The crowd gave Hurm three cheers, and when he looked up at the queen she put one hand on his shoulder and gave him a winning smile. "Hi, I'm Therstie," she said.

Hurm, ever the gentleman, reached for a flagon and poured her a glass of wine. "Have drink."

"Why, I don't mind if I do."

Further down the table, Lord Chylde watched events with a sour look on his face. Sur Loyne was an inbred bully incapable of giving the queen a child, but this Hurm character looked fertile enough to father a brat with a ninety-year-old crone. He'd have to deal with the interloper, and judging by the queen's behaviour towards the muscle-bound moron, he'd have to deal with him very, very soon. His niece was practically licking her lips, her eyes aglow with passion, and she was acting more like a breeding mare from the royal stables than their divine ruler.

Fortunately, Sur Loyne looked furious at the sudden turn of events, gripping his wine glass as though it were Hurm's throat. The fight with the mechanical man had been a circus, and now he'd not only lost in a straight fight with a fellow human, he'd also lost favour with the queen.

Chylde realised there was a useful ally to be won, provided he handled the situation just right. And if there was one thing Lord Chylde was good at, it was turning a situation to his own advantage.

Chapter 1 1

Tiera was exhausted by the time she reached her lodgings, for Thonn was heavier than he looked, and the further they travelled the more he relied on her to keep his footing. They took the rough stairs to the tavern's second floor, pausing for breath on every one, and finally she managed to tip him into her bed. He lay there, his breathing shallow, his face grey, and she realised there was one more thing she had to do before she could collect her payment from Regis. She had to find a healer, and fast. Either that, or an undertaker, and healers tended to cost a lot less.

"Wait here," she said, and she took the stairs to the ground floor.

The place was deserted, the regular patrons having gone to watch the executions and subsequent tournament. Only the barkeep remained, and he looked upon his only customer with heightened, and misplaced, expectations. "Good afternoon, young lady. What delightful beverage can I serve you today?"

"I need a healer."

"Hmm, I've not heard that one before. Do you have a recipe? Does it perchance involve ale?"

"No, I need a real healer. My travelling companion has been injured. "

The barkeep's face fell, as there was no profit in helping his fellow beings. "Down the street, fourth door on the right. Tell 'em Norm sent you."

"Will that give me a discount?"

No, thought the barkeep, but it would get him a kickback. "Of course!"

"And is he any good?"

"Superlative. And, if the worse happens, he'll get you a fair old rate on the corpse. He's always got buyers lined up."

Tiera felt there was a huge conflict of interest, but time was of the essence so she threw off her doubts and hurried down the street. When she reached the fourth door on the right she stopped in confusion, because she was looking at a man in blood-stained clothes selling choice cuts of meat from a filthy counter. "Excuse me, do you know where I can find the healer?"

The man grinned and wiped his bloody hands on his even bloodier apron. "That's me. Let me get my bag."

Tiera eyed the slabs of meat on display, then shrugged. They'd been carved with great skill, and she supposed dead and living flesh was much the same to a sharp knife.

The man returned, now wearing black robes and carrying a leather case. They hurried towards the tavern, and Tiera noticed the man sported a necklace with a small, grey stone. It was a curious thing, since the stone looked like nothing more than a polished pebble, and was scarcely of value enough to bother mounting on a silver chain.

"What's the case?" he asked her. "Injured in the tournament?"

"No, Sur Loyne beat him with his fists for the fun of it. I'm worried he's got a broken rib, maybe internal bleeding."

The healer tutted and shook his head, but said nothing.

They reached the tavern, where Tiera led him up the stairs to her room. Thonn struggled to sit, but the man put a hand on his chest and held him down. "Lay still, son. I need to examine you." He proceeded to tap on Thonn's abdomen, before pressing his ear to the young man's chest. "Breathe in and out. Steady now."

"I feel better already," said Thonn.

Tiera gaped at him. The colour had returned to the lad's face, and instead of a husky whisper, his voice was almost normal. "Holy spit," she muttered. "Healer, you work miracles indeed."

The man looked confused. "But ma'am … I have yet to do anything!"

Thonn sat up and stretched. "Do they serve food here? I'm fair hungry, my … I mean, Tiera. I have not eaten these past two days."

The healer stood. "I do not know the reason for your little jest, but it will cost you. My fee is five pennies, with one extra for making me run here."

"Sir, I swear …" began Tiera.

"Save it."

Tiera paid the healer, who left in a huff. Then she rounded on Thonn. "I suppose you think it's smart, feigning injury so I'd take pity on you."

"Tiera, I—"

"I carried you halfway across the city, you louse! I gave you my bed, found you a healer—"

"My lady, I was injured, I swear it. You saw the bruising, you heard me struggling to breathe!"

Tiera's eyes narrowed in anger, and she prepared to give him a piece of her mind before kicking him down the stairs. Then, as she saw Thonn's unmarked chest, her eyes opened wide in shock. "By Zephyr, you speak the truth! Your bruises … they are no more! "

Thonn seemed as surprised as Tiera at the strange turn of events, but then a strange look crossed his face. He looked around, even though they were alone, then lowered his voice to a whisper. "The healer … he used magic ."

Tiera laughed. "In this city? Don't be a fool."

"I swear to you, my lady, I have performed magic such as this myself. At the time, I was under the influence of perlstone. T'was but a splinter, but its mere presence was enough to imbue me with powers beyond measure."

Tiera eyed the strip of a youth doubtfully. If there was ever a less likely user of magic, it was this skinny farm boy with his ragged loin cloth. Then again, wasn't the butcher and part-time healer even less likely still? After all, if the man could perform miracles such as this, he would have been executed long ago as a wizard. "This perlstone … what does it look like?"

"It was like the night-time sky."

"Black, then."

"Nay, like the night before it turns completely black."

"So it's dark blue, then."

"Some might say so, but they would be wrong."

Exasperated, Tiera grabbed his shoulders and shook him. "What's-the-damn-colour?"

"Pale grey," said Thonn. "Indeed, it was exactly the same colour as the stone on the healer's necklace."

"So he was a mage," muttered Tiera.

Thonn sagged in her grasp, and she helped him sit on the bed. "What is it? What's up?"

"I weaken, my lady. This occurred once before, when the village elders took the perlstone from my possession."

"So … when you're close to the stuff, your power grows?"

"Indeed. "

"And now he's gone, you're getting weak?"

"Such is the case."

"Do you think … is it possible … you healed yourself?"

Thonn considered the question. "Since the healer did nothing to aid me, that would be the logical conclusion."

"Right, stay here."

"Why, where are you going?"

"First, I want my sixpence back. And second, I'm going to get my hands on that necklace."

"What if he will not sell it to you?"

"Who said I was going to pay for it?" muttered Tiera. Her to-do list was filling up fast, and what with having to murder the queen and extract ten guineas from a lying, double-crossing rat, she couldn't think of a better ally than a young man with boundless magical power and a strong desire to help her. If that meant lifting a necklace from someone who had no use for the thing, so be it.

"But lady, I may become dangerous in the presence of perlstone. Once, when I was afflicted, I demolished a stone house with a gesture."

"I know, you told me." Tiera patted him on the shoulder. "But lest you forget, when you were afflicted just now, you healed yourself."

"This is so," murmured Thonn. Then he frowned. "But—"

"Thonn, don't worry. I'll be around to guide your powers. Now wait here, and I'll get the innkeep to send up some food while I'm gone."

* * *

Tiera slipped out of the tavern in near darkness. The sun had gone down, and merchants were packing up their stalls and heading home for the night. The healer had sold off his stock and was busy locking away his implements when she got there.

"You again," he said, without much enthusiasm. "What is it this time? Another of your little pranks?"

"No, I need a gift for a friend."

"Big meat-eaters, are they? Well, you're out of luck. I just gave the last of it away to the needy."

"Actually, I was taken by your necklace. It's the sort of thing this friend of mine would like."

"Forget it," said the healer, taking the grey stone pendant and tucking it into his shirt. "This is a family heirloom. I'd sooner part with my right arm."

"How about a golden guinea?"

"How about you leave me alone?" Despite his tone, the healer eyed her with interest, trying to work out if she was good for the money.

Tiera recognised his expression, and she realised the necklace was hers. It was just a question of how much, and how long they'd have to barter. "Sorry to trouble you," she said, turning away. "It was just a thought."

He waited until she'd stepped over the threshold before he cracked. "Five guineas."

"Five guineas?" said Tiera, astonished. "That would buy a house around these parts."

"So? Maybe I need a new house."

"Two is my final offer."

The healer shook his head. "I've been thinking about the way that kid got healed so fast. It had a touch of magic about it, if you know what I mean. Be a shame if someone reported it to the guards, wouldn't it?"

Tiera felt the stiletto in her sleeve. She was tempted to kill the man and take the necklace from his corpse, but while she might be a wanted murderer with hundreds of lives to her name, she wasn't a petty thief. Also, she knew he had no intention of reporting her. He was just a skilled negotiator. "Two guineas for the necklace, and another for your silence."

"Done."

He put his hand out, palm upwards, and Tiera shook it. "No, that was for the cash," he said.

"Where do you live? I'll bring it by tonight."

"Sure, and you'll end me in my own bed. Do I look that stupid?"

"We've made a deal and I'll honour it. I give you my word."

"You're not from around here, are you?" said the healer. "Spend a bit of time in this sewer of a city and you'll find out what someone's word is worth."

"Fine. Meet me at the tavern after eleven. It's just me and the boy, and he's no trouble to anyone."

"Eleven it is."

"Bring anyone else, and none of you will see daylight again."

"I thought you said the boy was no trouble?"

Tiera smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Who's said anything about the boy?"

Chapter 1 2

After events in the city square concluded, the royal party retired to Lord Chylde's keep, which was a modest stone structure overlooking the barracks. There was a large dining hall flanked by a kitchen and the servants' quarters, and the party discussed matters of state until late in the evening, with particular attention on the other kingdoms.

"King Elsmer is rallying his troops in the north-east," Sur Blyme told them, his mood sombre.

"From whence this news?" demanded Lord Chylde.

"I befriended one of their watch captains in a … a certain establishment, down by the river."

"I know it well," said Sur Tainty. "Only by repute," he added quickly, as everyone looked at him.

"This watch captain was a mine of information, easily pumped out of him by my tireless efforts." Sur Blyme examined his fingernails. "I would say they're planning a summer campaign, first against the Barks, and then, if successful, against our fair kingdom."

"The Barks!" exclaimed the queen. "Who would confront those maniacs? Why, I hear they wed trees in those parts!"

Varnish frowned at her. "Your Majesty, weren't you betrothed to their king? "

Therstie reddened. "I was but a girl, and it was arranged by my father. Once I took the throne, the mistake was quickly rectified."

"In any case, over-familiarity with trees is a filthy habit of a splinter faction, Your Majesty. In the main, the Barks are sensible folk, stout-hearted and reliable."

"So reliable they hold my dear brother Tyniwon to ransom?"

"That has not been established, and there has been no ransom. Indeed, it is possible he is dead."

The queen frowned at him. "I will not believe such until I see his body."

"Yes, Your Majesty. Let us pray that day never eventuates." Sur Blyme exchanged a glance with Lord Chylde. "As for the Kingdom of Darant, they seem content to remain within their borders."

"Who wouldn't?" muttered Chylde. "As I recall, they are bordered by the icy wastes of the north and the Bark lands to the east.

"Not forgetting the rocky wastes of the west … and the stone kingdom."

"Populated by murderous rock trolls and those thrice-damned dwarves, respectively," finished Chylde. "Didn't they have a dragon problem, also?"

Everyone was quiet, and in the sudden hush there was an audible licking of lips.

"Indeed, my Lord. The hamlet of Yendour was beset by a ravenous beast known only as the Desolator."

"Was? "

"Apparently, three brave heroes dealt with the problem."

"Slashed its head off and ate its remains, no doubt."

"Possibly, although reports are sketchy. It is said there were three, and three was their number," intoned Sur Blyme .

"Oh, for Zephyr's sake," muttered the queen. "Can't you report the news in a song, like everyone else does?"

"Then we have need of a bard, Your Majesty."

"Uncle, where is that singing man of yours? Does he still draw breath?"

"Sudio, Your Majesty?"

"Yes, that's the one. Bring out Sur Sudio, the bard."

Chylde nodded to a servant, and a few moments later a portly, balding man stumbled into the hall, blinking owlishly. "Sudio, we wish you to recount the tale of the Desolator."

"Really, sire? I have not performed such for many a year."

"Well perform it now. The queen commands it."

Sur Sudio nodded, and approached the table. His spine was twisted, his visage cragged and ancient, but when he opened his mouth and began, the sweet tone of his voice was beguiling.

'This is the tale of a dragon, Oh!

As big as a house and as hot as the sun

Skin like bark and legs like trunks

It's the DESOLATOR! Run, run, run!

'For this is the tale of a dragon, Oh! ('Oh!' said the queen, getting into the spirit of the thing.)

As mean as a rat and as old as a rock

Ears like a bat and gnashers of flint

It's the DESOLATOR, and he's after your flock!

'For this is the tale of a dragon, Oh! ('OH!!' shouted everyone at the table.)

And when he arrives, you're fresh out of luck.

He'll snap up your maidens, virgins or whore s

It's the DESOLATOR, and he don't give a fudd!'

Sur Sudio fell silent, and there was a round of rapturous applause. He looked pleased, and as he returned to his quarters there was a spring in his step.

"Well, I believe it's time for bed," said the queen. "Tell me, where is my new champion, Sur Rogate?"

"He is settled for the night, Your Majesty," said Lord Chylde. And well might he remain so, he thought.

"I will speak with him presently," said the queen. The guest quarters were upstairs, and a few moments after the queen retired to freshen up, Lord Chylde decided it was time to put forward his plan. He followed her to the royal suite, and tapped on the door. "Your Majesty, might I have a word?"

The queen was sitting on the edge of her bed, a glass of wine on the bedside table. "If you must."

"I'm sorry, my queen. I know you must be tired, but this cannot wait."

"In that case, proceed."

"It's a matter of precedence. Your knighting of the barbarian, Hurm, may have been a little … premature."

"I'm the queen," snapped Therstie. "I can do whatever I want."

"Nevertheless, in order to qualify as a knight, this … Hurm … must complete a quest. It is written so."

"Very well. He can fetch me a … a wild rabbit in the morning."

"Majesty, I'm sorry, but his quest will be entered into the Book of Legends. Such a trifling errand will not win him the repute he so obviously desires." As he spoke the words, Chylde thought he might have gone a little too far. The barbarian clearly didn't have the wits to understand abstract concepts like honour and valour.

The queen, however, hadn't noticed. "You're right. He needs to do something brave and heroic." Here, she frowned. "I should never have stopped the fight. He would have chopped Sur Loyne's head off."

"One cannot dwell on matters past. However, I might be able to suggest a suitable quest."

"What do you have in mind, uncle?"

Chylde hesitated. He wanted to suggest a mission which would guarantee the big man would never return, such as invading the other three kingdoms and taking on their regents in single-handed combat. However, the queen would object, especially since the four kingdoms were currently at peace, so instead he picked something a little easier. "I believe Hurm is the ideal choice to mount an expedition to the west."

"Really?"

"Indeed. He should travel to the mountainous wastes, where he might secure a dragonling for Your Majesty's pleasure."

"A dragon? For me?" Therstie's eyes shone, but then her face fell as she considered the dangers. "Won't that be difficult?"

Chylde was pretty sure it would be suicidal, given the dragonling's parents would rip Hurm from limb to limb, before roasting the remains and feeding them to said dragonling in barbarian-flavoured chunks, but he didn't think this was the time to reveal such trifling matters. "Indeed, there is a degree of difficulty involved, but Sur Rogate is clearly a match for any dragon."

"All right. He can set off first thing in the morning."

"I believe he should prepare to leave this very eve."

"No, he should rest this night."

Chylde knew resting was the very opposite of what the queen had in mind for the big fighter, unless she meant Hurm was to rest on his elbows while he … Shaking his head, he dispelled the distressing image. There must be no heir, else Chylde's claim to the throne would become even more remote. "I believe Sir Rogate to be a religious man. He must be given time to pray before his perilous mission."

"Fine. Instruct the temple to open at dawn."

"He is more religious than that."

Therstie thumped her fist on the bedside table, almost knocking the wine glass over. "Uncle, you try my patience."

"I'm sorry, my queen, but you know how superstitious these barbarians can be. Without a night in quiet contemplation of the trials ahead, he may believe the mission to be doomed before it even begins. He may … refuse."

"Nobody refuses the queen," said Therstie automatically. Then she sighed. "Very well. Tell him about the quest, and give him time to prepare. I will reward him amply upon his return."

It was all Chylde could do to keep the relief out of his voice. "Indeed, majesty. I will attend to your wishes immediately."

* * *

Between them, Lord Chylde and Sur Loyne had organised Hurm's sleeping quarters, which is how he ended up in a rat-infested stable with a pair of horses for company. Food and drink were clearly not included in the deal, and so Hurm chewed on a somewhat fruity piece of straw as he cleaned his mighty weapon.

"Psst! "

Hurm looked around for a talking rat, then realised such a thing was beyond the bounds of possibility. So, instead, he addressed the horse. "Yes? Hurm listening."

"Are you alone?"

Hurm looked around. He was indeed alone, and given the size of the stallion he was sharing the stables with, he wasn't sure he liked where this was going. On the other hand, he'd been told many times that lying was a Bad Thing. "Hurm alone."

There was a rustle in the big pile of straw near the stable entrance, and Runt's face appeared. Father M's head and shoulders appeared alongside him, and Hurm looked at them in relief. "You are not horses."

The two exchanged a glance. "Er, that's right Hurm. We're not." Father M stood up, brushing straw from his clothes. "I just wanted to congratulate you on your masterful infiltration of the queen's entourage."

Hurm smiled at the wizard's kindly tone, even though the words were about as comprehensible as a whinny from the nearby horse.

"Clearly we must take advantage of this turn of events," continued Father M. "When the queen invites you into her bedchamber, Runt will sneak in behind you and steal the necklace."

"I'll do what now?" said Runt, who was far more intelligent than Hurm. Then again, so was the horse.

"Oh, go on, it'll be easy. Hurm can wear my robes, and there'll be plenty of room underneath for you. After all, you do not have a large footprint."

Runt shook his head. "I didn't get to my age by taking on suicide missions." He jerked a smallish thumb at Hurm. "Plus I'm not sneaking into the queen's chamber with my face in his buttocks."

"Hurm not seeing queen," said the fighter. "Hurm given quest."

"Oh? What quest?"

Hurm dug around in his loincloth and fished out an elaborate scroll tied with red ribbon. Father M and Runt both looked at it, and at where it had been.

"Alas for my aging eyes. I cannot read in this light," said the wizard. "Runt, will you read the scroll for me?"

"What scroll?" said Runt, looking at the horse.

"The scroll with the quest." With an effort, Father M pushed Hurm's hand away until it was under Runt's nose. "The one our noble companion is holding out to you."

Defeated, Runt took the scroll gingerly, unrolling the parchment as though it had already done its duty in the royal latrines. "Holy spit!" he exclaimed, as he read the flowery language. "Hurm's got to bring the queen a dragon! He is to leave at dawn, and they're going to chop his noggin off if he comes back empty-handed."

Father M frowned. That put a spoke in the wheels of his plan, and no mistake. He'd been convinced the queen desired their companion for adventures in the bedchamber, and this new development was both unwelcome and unexpected. Then he spied the signature, and all became clear. "Lord Chylde! Clearly he wishes to keep Hurm away from the royal bedchamber."

"Why?" asked Runt.

Father M had no idea, but he didn't get a reputation as a wise old wizard by going around admitting he was stumped. "Matters of state," he said loftily. "You wouldn't understand."

"Try me. "

"I assure you, the complex machinations would go right over your head."

"Are you trying to be funny?" demanded the halfling.

By now, Father M had given himself enough time to consider Chylde's motivations, and he shared the most likely. "If the queen dies childless, Lord Chylde will be crowned king. Therefore, she needs an heir to consolidate her position."

"So she gets to sleep around until she's up the duff?"

"I doubt the High Chamber would couch the matter in such terms, but yes."

"And her uncle is trying to keep suitors away from her?"

"Indeed. Hence this impossible quest for our, er, ex-companion."

Runt frowned. "What do you mean, ex? We're a party! We stick together through thick and thin!"

"He's going to be eaten by a dragon," said Father M.

"Hmm." Runt scratched his chin. "Supper for two at the tavern, then an early night?"

"A capital idea."

They both got up. "Bye Hurm," said Runt.

"Good luck with the dragon," said Father M.

Runt snorted, and together they strolled off into the night.

Alone once more, Hurm rolled up the parchment and tucked it into his loincloth. He was hungry and thirsty, and the straw was uncomfortable, but according to his good friends and travelling companions, the queen had entrusted him with an important task. He resolved to set aside discomfort and sleep as best he could, for on the morrow he would gather his belongings and embark on the quest of his life.

The last quest of his life, most like, but his valued friends hadn't quite explained that bit and so his mind was untroubled as he laid his head on his arms and tried to sleep.

Chapter 1 3

Tiera and Thonn shared a bowl of stew and a loaf of bread in her lodgings, a meal which took her last few coins.

"On the morrow, I will find work," declared Thonn. "I will muck stables, fetch and carry … even sell my body to strangers, if necessary."

"Whoa, hold up there," said Tiera. "There will be no selling of bodies, understood?"

"But you have spent the last of your money, and we will be homeless without more."

"Don't worry, Thonn. There is a man who owes me a purse of g—" She almost said 'gold', but caught herself just in time. The lad seemed innocent enough, but she'd only met him that afternoon. "He owes me a few shillings, and tonight I collect."

"A purse of shillings! That is good news indeed," declared Thonn. "I shall come with you to the meet, and defend your life if this man proves difficult."

"That's sweet of you, but I can handle myself."

Thonn looked at her doubtfully. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

"But when we met, you were locked in the cells."

Ouch. "That was a temporary misunderstanding, no more. "

Thonn eyed her curiously. "Pardon my curiosity, Tiera, but what is it you do?"

"I, er, sing. People pay me lots for my, er, singing."

"Is that so?" Thonn regarded her with frank admiration. "There was a bard in my village. He was well loved, and they rewarded him well for his songs."

"There you go, then. You know all about it."

"Would you sing for me?"

"What?"

"A heroic song, before you leave. Something about … dragons."

"You want me to sing? Now?"

"Indeed." Thonn coughed pitifully. "It would aid my healing so."

Tiera knew she was being conned, but this was a grave she'd dug for herself. So, dredging up the few fragments of songs she was vaguely familiar with, she began.

This is a tale of the land of old

Where summer was hot and winter was cold

With a sea full of fish and a sky full of birds

and a land filled with cows and a sky … full of … birds.

Into this peace came a wicked old dragon

With fire in his belly, he came seeking a … wagon.

T'was clear from his path that he knew where to go

Because he followed the main road and small roads also.

Tiera paused to see how the song was going down. Not that well, was her conclusion. Still, she soldiered on gamely.

The dragon now, for it was a h e

Chased after that wagon with a tee hee hee

He puffed out his cheeks and spat out his flame

And the little red wagon was seen never again.

There was a lengthy pause. "These people," said Thonn at last. "They pay money for that ?"

Hurt, Tiera gestured at his lap. "Next time, you can sing and I'll eat all the stew."

Mortified, Thonn looked down at the empty bowl. "My apologies! I did not—"

"Relax, I'll get another serve on my return. Now keep the door shut, and don't answer it to anyone." Tiera hesitated. "Actually, if I'm not back by eleven, you can let the healer in."

"He returns? To what end?"

"I said I'd buy something of his. But I should be back before then. If not, ask him to wait." With that, she slipped away, closing the door behind herself.

Meanwhile, Thonn licked the bowl clean, ate the end of the loaf, and then wondered how he was supposed to know when eleven o'clock rolled around.

* * *

Tiera froze as she heard a noise far below her. She was scaling the drystone wall leading to Minimus Regis's quarters, coincidentally located inside another bell tower. This one was shorter and less impressive than the High Priest's, but then the same could be said about Regis.

The Lord Chancellor could be described as a portly man, if one were being diplomatic about it. She'd only met him the once, when he'd given her the assignment and showed her the ten guineas promised in payment. That time she'd been escorted in through the front door, posing as a courtesan as instructed.

This time, she was going in through the window.

It wasn't that she was fond of scaling high towers with her bare hands. She just knew that Regis would probably have her killed or arrested on sight. Even if it cost him a couple of guineas to cover her murder up afterwards, he'd still be well ahead.

Tiera had no intention of getting murdered, and she'd already been arrested enough for one day.

She glanced down … a long, long way down … and saw a couple of guards at the foot of the tower. One of them faced the wall, and she heard him relieving himself. Meanwhile, her fingers grew tired, and she just knew that a stone would work itself loose and give her away.

Fortunately, the cliche was avoided for once, and the guards continued their patrol without stray chunks of stone dropping on them at exactly the wrong moment.

Tiera gave them a few moments to get clear, then continued her ascent. On the way up, she reminded herself that if all went well, she would leave the tower with a fortune. And, if things don't go well, she'd still leave with a fortune, while Regis would leave this world for the next.

A stiff breeze tore at her clothes, and the chill made it hard to feel for gaps with her fingers. It took another twenty minutes, and two more nerve-wracking periods of clinging to the tower while the guards passed below, but finally, her muscles burning from the effort, Tiera reached the top floor windowsill. She clung to the smooth stone and slowly raised her head to peer inside .

The room was in near-darkness, with no signs of life. There was a fire in the grate, but it had burned down to a bed of coals, lending the merest glimmer of illumination to the large, circular room.

Like a flash, Tiera vaulted over the windowsill and crouched on the stone floor, stiletto at the ready. She could hear snoring, and when she turned towards the bed her elbow knocked a candlestick over. She grabbed the base, but the candle fell out and thumped on the floor. The noise was slight, but the snoring stopped immediately.

"You're late, both of you," said Regis sleepily. "Get your clothes off and join me this instant."

Fat chance, thought Tiera.

"Hurry, girls, for I must work later. I have a sermon to write on the perils of sin and fornication."

Tiera realised the man was only half awake, and she darted over to the bed before Regis realised his supposed whores had entered through the window. She found him on his back, eyes closed, and she put the tip of her stiletto to his double chin. "I did the job, Regis," she whispered. "I'm here to collect."

Fortunately, Regis opened his eyes instead of, say, sitting bolt upright and getting the dagger right through his neck. In the dim, half-light he took in Tiera's set face, then swallowed carefully as he felt the knife at his throat. And then, despite his peril, he thought fit to argue. "Did the job, you say? It was not you who downed my rival, it was the mighty god Zephyr!"

Tiera jabbed his neck, drawing blood.

"You stabbed me!" protested Regis.

"That was only a little prick," said Tiera. "Unlike yours, the next one will be a whole lot bigger."

"All right, all right! I allow that you … assisted … in the effo rt," said Regis quickly. "Therefore I'm happy to pay two whole guineas as your reward."

"Ten or you're toast."

Regis blinked, but finally set aside his greed. "Ten. Ten it is!"

"Where's the cash?"

"And have you rob me? Never! I will pay you with my own hand."

Tiera withdrew her knife, keeping a sharp eye out for trickery. She didn't see Regis as a man of action, though, and she was relaxed as he hauled his bulk out of bed and padded to an ornate desk. He opened a drawer … and then spun round on the spot with something in his hand.

Tiera didn't hesitate. She dived to the side, just as Regis fired a bolt from a miniature crossbow. Miniature but lethal, as the bolt was tipped with a rare and deadly poison. She felt the whistle of its passing, and then it struck the stone wall and fell to the bed.

Regis cursed, and, taking out a second dart, he reloaded as quick as he could, almost gibbering with panic. His fingers shook as he got the bolt into position, and then he looked this way and that, seeking his prey. To his surprise, Tiera had vanished.

Too late, he realised she was right behind him.

Tiera drove the knife into Regis's lower back, grimacing with the effort. She gave the stiletto a twist, then yanked it out and stabbed Regis a second time. Without a sound, he slumped to the floor, where he lay still. Sadly for him, the Lord Chancellor wasn't the only one with access to deadly poisons.

Tiera searched the desk, but there was nothing but a few coppers. She looked around the room, then searched a bookcase and a side table before checking under the bed. All the while she kept an ear out for the guards, in case they'd heard anything of the disturbance. The head of the crossbow bolt had made a loud ringing noise as it struck the wall, and the last thing she wanted was a dozen guards pouring in to arrest her.

She checked every likely hiding place, and was just about to give up when there was a knock at the door.

"My Lord, your supper is served!"

Tiera eyed Chancellor Regis, lying on the rug in his nightgown, and realised there was little chance of her moving his body into the bed. It was also unlikely he'd be needing his supper.

Since discovery was inevitable, Tiera gave up on the coins and ran for the window. As she clambered over the sill, her hand encountered a loose stone, and she raised it to see a cavity underneath. Inside there was a small purse, black in the darkness, and as she withdrew it she felt the weight of gold coin inside.

There was no time to spare. Even as she tucked the purse away and lowered herself over the windowsill, the door opened. Seconds later there was a shout of discovery, and Tiera raced down the side of the tower, moving as quickly as possible without actually jumping off.

By the time the Lord Chancellor's guards poured out of the front door, carrying torches and swords, she'd reached the ground. The men were blinded by their lights, and so they didn't see her as she turned tail and vanished into the dark city streets.

Chapter 1 4

The guards had not only locked Clunk in a cell, along with a rough bed and a patently pointless slops bucket, they'd also chained him to the wall. Clunk tested his manacles, inspecting the poor quality iron with a sinking feeling. If this was the best the Mollisters had to offer, his hopes of finding a suitable forge had just taken a huge blow. He needed advanced metallurgy, not this weak, porous rubbish.

At that moment he realised he was wasting his time with the Mollisters. There was some kind of intrigue going on between Lord Chylde and the queen, the kingdom was bloodthirsty and callous, and the worst thing he could do was to advance their technology so that they might impose their iron rule on others. Fortunately, although he'd made a promise to the queen, he hadn't given her a time frame.

The more Clunk thought about the situation, the more his next move became obvious. He would have to inspect the other three kingdoms first-hand, to see if any of them were worthy of governing the entire continent. If he found a fair and just society, he would help them against the others, and in doing so he'd also be helping himself.

That is, if all of this was real.

It had occurred to Clunk that he might be trapped inside his own mind, locked in a detailed and convincing simulation of some savage, primitive era. However, simulations could be ended by pinching the fingers, whereas he perceived no end to this nightmare. Executions! Sword fights! Permanent death! Why, it was like some fantastic computer game made real.

To prove his theory he tried peeling back the layers of the simulation, attempting to expose the code underneath. However, everything was distressingly real.

His final test would be to find a map of the Old Kingdom. If it showed a small area of detail and 'here be dragons' everywhere else, it might prove he was living in a limited simulation. Otherwise, he'd just have to accept that he'd ended up in a medieval society, with little hope of leaving.

His thoughts were interrupted by footsteps, and he saw a couple of guards peering through the barred window set into his door. They studied him in silence, and he stood still and returned their gaze with one of his own.

"Do you think he will?" said one of the guards, a man with a bushy red beard.

"He wouldn't know how," said the other, a blonde lad with a scar over one eye.

"Half a crown says he does."

"I'll take that," said the younger man.

Clunk heard the door bolt, and then the guards pushed a sobbing young woman into his cell. She was dressed in torn sack cloth, and she took one look at Clunk and tried to bolt. Too late, for the guards had already closed the door.

The woman wasn't much older than sixteen or seventeen, and as she cowered on the floor the guard with the red beard called out encouragement through the window to Clunk. "Go on, my son! You know you want to!"

"Don't touch 'er," said the younger guard. "She's got the pox! "

"You wouldn't know the pox if you saw it," said the older man derisively.

They shouted through the bars for another few minutes, but when they realised Clunk wasn't going to do anything, then got bored and left.

"Why do they treat you like this?" Clunk asked the sobbing girl.

"B-begging your pardon, sir, but I—I stole food."

"I'm not surprised. You look hungry."

Clunk's gentle tone gave the girl hope, and she looked at him, a stray lock of hair over one tear-stained eye. "They s—say you're a m-magical being."

"I'm nothing of the sort, but my technology must seem so to your people."

"They're not my people," said the girl indignantly. "I was travelling with my family when we were set upon by a gang of robbers. I escaped, praise the gods, but when I sought refuge in the city I was turned away again and again. Finally, in desperation, I stole food to survive."

During her lengthy speech, the girl's demeanour had changed considerably. Rather than cowering on the floor, she sat up, and her voice grew stronger as she recounted her sorry tale. She was still shivering though, for the cell was cold and she was only wearing clothes made from grain sacks.

"From where do you hail?" Clunk asked her.

"My home is the kingdom of Bark," said the girl. "I am called Millie."

"I'm Clunk."

"Well met, Clunk. You are by far the kindest person I have met in these parts." Millie eyed his restraints. "For what reason have they jailed you?"

"I believe they fear me. "

"I am not surprised, for you have an imposing appearance."

"I have done nothing to earn their displeasure."

"Will they execute you?"

Clunk felt a flash of anger. "I'd like to see them try."

The girl came closer and put her hand out. Gently, she felt his arm. "Why, you are warm and soft! I thought you to be cold, hard metal."

"This material is called plasteel. It's a simulation of human skin, although far stronger."

"I have never seen the like."

"Yes, I'm beginning to realise that." Clunk hesitated. "The Bark kingdom … is it far from here?"

"Several days travel, on foot."

"I should like to visit."

Millie laughed. "Well, when you escape from this dungeon, defeating all the guards along the way, feel free to take me with you."

Clunk smiled at her, then put his head on one side. "Someone is coming."

The laughter was gone in an instant, and Millie looked scared. "The guards?"

"Just one person. Lord Chylde, from the sound of his footwear." Clunk nodded towards the bed. "Get in and cover yourself. He might not realise you're here."

Even as Millie obeyed, the footsteps halted outside the cell door. "Is he secure?" shouted Lord Chylde.

"Yessir!" said a guard, his voice distant.

"Your life if he gets free on me," said Chylde. His face appeared in the barred window, and he studied Clunk carefully, paying particular attention to the chains. Then, cautiously, he unbolted the door and entered. "Well, my fine metal friend. You and I need to talk."

* * *

"Why have you locked me up?" asked Clunk, as Lord Chylde enter the cell.

Chylde was wearing a dark cloak with a hood, and his face was almost completely in darkness. "Matters of state. I doubt you'd understand." The queen's uncle kept his distance, staying about ten feet from the robot. Fortunately, light in the cell was poor, and the elderly man didn't notice Millie hiding under the blanket on the wooden bed. "Sur Roybot, might we speak frankly?"

"Of course."

Lord Chylde nodded, and after a nervous look over his shoulder, he began. "Sur Loyne has been drinking heavily, and it seems he's carrying deep wounds from today's tournament."

"That is not possible," said Clunk. "I was very careful not to touch him."

"He's not suffering physical wounds. It's his vanity. He seeks revenge for his humiliation before the queen. Why, only ten minutes ago I heard him plotting your demise. He intends to destroy you utterly and completely."

Clunk frowned. It was doubtful Sur Loyne could hurt him, but the human might harm himself in the attempt. "What do you suggest?"

"I will not lose you to the queen's champion. Therefore, you must leave the city under cover of darkness, and travel to the westernmost city of Last Hope. Indeed, you must leave this very night."

This was better than Clunk could have hoped for. "I agree," he said quickly. "But tell me, is there a forge in this new city? "

"Oh yes. A forge. Most definitely." Chylde rubbed his hands together. "You will instruct my man in the ways of your people," he continued. "Your strange metals, the armour and weapons you promised the queen. All of this and more."

Clunk decided he would only show this man as much as necessary, but he had no intention of telling Lord Chylde that. "How will I get to this city?"

"I have organised a cart and a guard detail for your journey. You must avoid attention where possible. The people of this land can be superstitious, and we do not want your travels to end with a public lynching."

Clunk looked down at himself. He'd be safe enough after dark, but his battered bronze skin would shine like the sun in daylight. "Is the cart a covered wagon?"

"I see what you mean." Lord Chylde thought for a moment. "You will take this hooded robe to conceal your appearance, and I also have gloves to conceal your hands. You can travel as a holy man on a pilgrimage." Chylde shrugged off his cloak, and threw it on the bed, then laid a pair of gloves on top. "Now, I must take my leave. I will send someone to collect you after midnight."

With that, he left, and Clunk heard the door bolt shoot home as he was locked in again. After Chylde's footsteps faded, Millie sat up, her face red from lack of air. "Tell me, Clunk. Does he always lie so?"

"What do you mean?" asked Clunk.

"I overheard the guards discussing you earlier. They are taking you to Last Hope to be … disassembled? I think that was the word they used."

Clunk frowned. There had been something odd in Chylde's manner, as though he were hiding something. Was this really Chylde's plan? To whisk Clunk away to a remote location and take him apart one piece at a time? "I am more useful to them in one piece," he said softly.

"Perhaps, but you'll be far less dangerous in many pieces." Millie looked up at him. "They are scared of you. They believe you to be a magical being."

"The queen promised me a forge, and now it seems she was lying also."

"They're Mollisters," said Millie scornfully. "You can't trust any of them."

"Then I am lost," said Clunk simply. "I don't even have a map of this place, and without a forge—"

"What is this forge you speak of?"

"It is a type of oven used to heat metals. Blacksmiths use them."

Millie thought for a moment. "My village has a blacksmith. If we were to escape, perhaps he would serve your needs?"

"I doubt it. The kind of forge I need would be much bigger than a village blacksmith would use."

"There is something else … but no. I do not want to waste your time."

Clunk shrugged, making the chains rattle. "I'm in no hurry."

"There were rumours of a magician who lived deep in the forest, north of my village. He was said to be schooled in the dark arts of metals and such."

"Really? What does he do with the metals?"

"I, er, don't know."

"Does he forge alloys?" Clunk asked her. "Does he design machines?"

"Oh yes, all of that and more. He's supposed to be an expert in such things."

"Really?" said Clunk sharply, his hopes rising. This inventor might be the answer to his prayers, and the man might have access to the resources he needed. "We should travel to the Bark kingdom and pay him a visit as soon as possible."

"Alas, we can't," said Millie sadly. "It is all for naught, since they will take you away at midnight, and I am destined for the brothels … or the noose."

"No, you will have your freedom when I leave."

"That's kind of you, sir, but I will not be released."

"Who said I was going to ask?" murmured Clunk. He already had the information he needed, and there was no point waiting until Chylde returned with his guards and carriage. So, he took the chains in his hands and pulled, and the links creaked open as though they were made of straw. There was a tinkle as the metal rings fell on the floor, and then Clunk snapped the manacles at his wrists and ankles, freeing himself. Millie just stared, her mouth wide open in surprise.

Clunk took up the cloak and donned it, tucking the gloves into one of the voluminous pockets. Then he went to the door, gripped the metal bars and wrenched it open, tearing the lock from its mountings.

He heard shouting in the distance, and he thought the noise of the breaking door had been heard. He raised a hand for silence and listened intently, expecting to hear a thunder of footsteps getting closer as the guards came to investigate. Instead, he heard more shouting. "Lord Chancellor Regis has been murdered!" cried a voice. "All guards, all guards to me. There are killers loose in the city!"

Clunk heard a thunder of footsteps fading away, rather than getting closer, and then a door banged in the distance. There was total silence, and to Clunk's surprise he realised the entire place had been vacated. They could simply walk out! Calmly, he beckoned to Millie, and together they strolled out of the cell and headed for the exit.

Chapter 1 5

Clunk and Millie skirted the centre of the city on their way to the main gates, thus avoiding the ongoing hunt for the Lord Chancellor's killer. They could hear shouts and cries as the guards kicked in doors, rounded up suspects, and generally turned Chatter's Reach upside down.

Millie knew their good fortune couldn't last, and she expected to find numerous guards at the gates. There were … six of them in a row, barring anyone's escape with their drawn weapons. "That's it," she muttered, her heart sinking. "We're done for."

"Not quite," murmured the robot. "Wait here until the way is clear, then run for it."

Millie stared at him. "Why, what are you going to do?"

"I will distract them. Do not be disturbed by anything you might see." Clunk removed the cloak and handed it to her for safekeeping. Then she watched, puzzled, as he took an unlit torch from a half-barrel and smeared the sticky black pitch all over himself. Was he trying to cover his gleaming bronze skin so the guards wouldn't see him in the darkness? If so, the cloak would have been the better choice. Before she could ask again, Clunk melted into the shadows with a muted whirr from his legs. Millie stared after him, then turned to watch the guards. They looked nervous, even though there were six of them, and they were all fidgeting with their weapons, adjusting their armour, tightening the straps on their helmets. Then she saw one of them look to the left. He nudged the guard next to him, and that guard nudged the next, until all of them were staring. Millie leaned forward to look around the corner of the building she was hiding next to, and her hair almost stood on end as she saw a burning figure staggering towards the main gate, arms outstretched. A pillar of fire rose above Clunk's head, for it was he, illuminating the surroundings with flickering light. Long tendrils of flame curled and twisted in the air above his head as he moved.

Half the guards seemed poised to help, the other half seemed ready to run. And that's when Clunk charged them.

Millie stared as the metal man race towards the guards, his footsteps thudding on the dirt. They took one look at his gleaming, burning skin and turned tail, fleeing into the city before he could engulf them. Once they were gone, Clunk skidded to a halt before the gates and unhooked the thick wooden beam securing them. He let it fall, pushed the gates open, then turned and beckoned to Millie.

He needn't have bothered, because she'd set off as soon as the guards departed. As the big gates swung open, she ran straight past Clunk and out of the city. The metal man sprang after her, and together they raced along the path towards the woods.

The flames flickered and died as they ran, and after they blew out, Clunk was followed by a long, twisting streamer of smoke. When they reached the river he stepped into the water without hesitation, and he scrubbed himself clean with handfuls of wet sand. Then, gleaming once more, he donned the cloak and gloves .

"That was handily done." Millie felt Clunk's metal skin. "But did the fire not hurt?"

"Do flames harm the kettle, or the cooking pot?"

"They do in the Bark kingdom."

Clunk gave her a look, but there was no time to investigate her curious claim. Instead, he glanced towards the city. "We must keep moving. When the guards return, they will assume the murderer used a distraction to escape. They will almost certainly send patrols."

The two of them headed south along the riverbank, with Clunk using his night vision to guide their way. As they pushed through the undergrowth, they spotted firelight ahead, through the trees. It was near the water, and the only way around was to cross the river or go deeper into the woods to get around the fire.

"Which way do you prefer?" murmured Clunk.

"I'm not sure," said Millie. "I've never fled a city in the dead of night before."

"We could try tossing a coin."

Millie threw a coin into the darkness, and there was a splash as it hit the water.

"That's not quite what I meant," said Clunk, but it was too late. There was a whistle nearby, and suddenly they were surrounded by at least four people, armed with swords.

In the darkness it was impossible to see whether it was the city guards or a group of brigands, but it became clear the moment one of them spoke. "Who's this trespassing on our patch?"

"We mean you no harm," said Clunk. His face was in darkness, still hidden by the hood. "We are just passing through on our way to the city of Branche, in Bark lands."

"Yes, well you've gone the wrong way, haven't you? "

"In that case, if you would just point out the correct route, we will leave you to enjoy a pleasant evening."

"Ohh, don't he talk fancy," said another voice. "And you know what fancy people have, don't you? Money!"

"We have just escaped the city dungeons," snapped Millie. "Do you really think we carry anything of worth?"

Their captors came closer, and she realised there were three men and a woman, all dressed in tattered clothes. "And what business do you have in Branche?" demanded the woman. "Many a merchant claims to be an escaped prisoner, until we find their purse of coin."

"We're travellers."

"Well, now you're victims. Hand over your valuables."

"We don't have any!" protested Millie. "Like I said, we're—"

The woman advanced on Millie. "Look, you, I own this franchise and I'm on a quota here. If I don't turn over a dozen people a day, I might as well pack it in and join the city guard."

"Franchise?" said Clunk, with a frown. It wasn't a term he expected to hear on a medieval planet.

"Yes. I used to run a hot food delivery service, but even if I managed to deliver the stuff, it was usually cold, and then I'd get robbed on the way back again." The woman shrugged. "I figured if you can't beat 'em, steal from 'em, so I set this up instead." She saw Clunk's look of surprise. "Franchising is a new concept. You set up a business, then—"

"I know what a franchise is," said Clunk.

"Well, I divided up the area and sold franchises to entrepreneurial types with dodgy morals. Oh, we have a rewards card, too. Once you've been robbed nine times, you get a free pass for the tenth." The woman handed Clunk a small square of paper. "Now, give us your valuables or you're dead. "

"When the guards hear about this, they'll hunt you down!" said Millie angrily.

"Are you kidding? The guards own more franchises than anyone else. They're great at the old shakedowns." The woman gestured with her sword. "I'm done with chatting. Money and valuables. Now."

Clunk stepped in front of Millie. "No."

"Okay, have it your way," said the woman, and she drove her sword into his belly.

At least, she tried to. The point slipped off Clunk's stomach, and the blade snapped like a twig. Then Clunk reached out and picked her up bodily, throwing her over his shoulder. There was a drawn-out cry, then a loud splash as she went into the river.

Immediately, the three men charged at him, swords swinging. Clunk's hands slashed, quicker than the eye could see, shattering their blades as though they were made from glass. The hood slipped off his head with his exertions, and in the half-light the men stood there, holding their useless sword hilts, frozen at the sight of the metal man.

"Kill them," growled Millie. "Kill them while they stand helpless!"

"I cannot, for the three laws control my behaviour." Clunk advanced on the men, who regarded him like stunned rabbits. "The first law states that I must never harm a human being, unless they irritate me." With this, Clunk grabbed the first robber and threw him into the river. "The second law states that I will never allow a human being to come to harm, unless they deserve it." Clunk took hold of the second robber, and there was a splash as he too went for a late-night dip. Clunk turned to the third robber, who at that moment recovered his senses and ran for it, only to trip on a tree-root and plunge headlong into the swirling waters. Clunk frowned at the rewards card, then tore it in two and flung it after them.

Millie glanced at the white froth in the river, where the robbers were splashing around as they tried to reach the bank. Then she turned to Clunk, her eyes shining. "That was handily done, Clunk. You have enormous speed and strength."

"I was built that way," said Clunk modestly.

Millie shivered, and she realised she was freezing cold. The robber's fire was nearby, and she beckoned to Clunk. "Come, let us warm ourselves at their hearth."

They pushed through the bushes and approached a large fire, which gave out a pleasant warmth. There was a metal pot hanging above the flames, and Millie could smell a delicious aroma of hot food. She had no idea what had gone into the pot, but as long as it wasn't an earlier victim she didn't care. She hurried over, grabbed a wooden plate and a hunk of bread, and tucked in. As she ate, she remembered something. "You said three laws."

Clunk glanced at her. "I'm sorry?"

"What's your third law?"

"Oh." Clunk thought for a moment. "The third law states that my decisions are final, and no correspondence will be entered into."

"Your words are strange to my ear, but I will grow used to them with time." Millie held out a bowl. "Do you want some of this stew?"

"Thank you, but I do not eat." Clunk put his head on one side. "I believe the robbers are coming back. We should keep moving."

Millie nodded, and together they entered the bushes, heading south along the river bank. On the way she finished the stew and mopped the gravy up with a scrap of bread. "That was the first hot food I've seen for days," she explained, as she tossed the bowl into the river. "They might be lousy robbers, but one of them was a fair cook."

An hour later Clunk called a halt. There was a fallen tree nearby, and the undergrowth had covered most of the trunk, creating a natural shelter. They slipped into the dry hollow, and Clunk laid his cloak on the ground so that Millie would have a comfortable bed. Then, once she was settled, he took up a position just inside the entrance to their makeshift tent. There was a curtain of ivy concealing his position, and after parting the undergrowth a few millimetres Clunk sat there, immobile, as he kept watch on their surroundings with unblinking, all-seeing eyes.

Chapter 1 6

When Tiera reached the inn she found Thonn asleep in her bed. She'd barely wiped the last traces of the Lord Chancellor's kidneys off her stiletto when she heard raised voices in the street outside. She stripped off her dark clothing and donned a plain peasant dress before peeking over the windowsill to see guards fanning out to check every building in the street. Three of them made for the tavern, and moments later she heard the thunder of their boots on the stairs.

The door burst open, and a guard barged in. He glanced at Thonn, eyed Tiera in her peasant's garb, and frowned. "What is your business in the city?"

"I am to be wed," said Tiera, in a thick country accent. She lowered her gaze and tried to look like a blushing bride, while simultaneously holding the stiletto ready behind her back. She wasn't sure whether this guard had been present in the High Priest's tower after the explosion the night before, or whether he'd been on duty in the prison earlier that day, and if he recognised her … well, he would not live long enough to raise the alarm.

"Who's that sharing the bed? You got a lover on the side?" sneered the guard.

"I am her brother," said Thonn, woken by the noise. At least, Tiera assumed he'd been woken by the noise. He might have been feigning sleep in order to cop a sneaky look while she'd been undressing.

The door opened wider and Captain Spadell looked in. He spotted Tiera, but managed to conceal his surprise. "What's with the chatter, man? You're meant to be searching the rooms for an assassin, not chatting up innocent young women!"

"Sorry sir."

The guard knuckled his forehead and moved on, and Spadell slipped into the room and pulled the door to. "I might have known," he said, with a shake of his head. "We found a pair of neat little holes in the Lord Chancellor's back, and I'm betting they'd be a match for that fancy sticking-pin of yours. You wouldn't know anything about his death, would you? Collecting a payment, perhaps?" Despite the words his tone was light, and there was a half-smile on his lips.

"Who, me?" said Tiera. "Why sir, I was here tending to Thonn all evening."

Spadell's smile grew bigger, and Tiera realised he was quite good looking, in a captain-of-the-guards-and-therefore-her-enemy kind of fashion. Under other circumstances …

"Well hasn't he made a remarkable recovery," said Spadell, who was now regarding Thonn with surprise. "Almost magical, you might say."

"It's surprising what a woman's touch will do for a man."

"I know, I just saw the touches you left on Minimus Regis's body." Spadell sighed. "Look, I'm not going to arrest you for this. My neck is on the line, right along with yours."

Tiera realised what he meant. "Oh. Of course."

"Why?" asked Thonn. "What did the captain do?"

"Tiera was locked up over the High Priest's death," said Spadell. "She was released by my hand, and a few hours later she goes and kills Lord Chancellor Regis."

"Allegedly killed Regis," said Tiera.

"Let's not play games," said Spadell sharply. "Also, did you forget your promise, or are you working up to your target one VIP at a time? Getting your eye in, so to speak?"

"Yours is next on my list, I promise. I've had a lot to get through."

Unwillingly, Spadell shook his head. "You cannot complete your … task … this eve. The city is on high alert, and there will be a strict curfew, my word on it. The task … I still wish it done, but I cannot in good conscience ask you to attempt it tonight."

Relieved, Tiera nodded her thanks. Topping the queen with a curfew and vigilant guards would have been impossible.

"So, finish it tomorrow," said Spadell, "and then we'll be square."

"Tomorrow!"

"And then you will flee the city, and you'd better take this suspiciously healthy farm boy with you." Spadell eyed Thonn with disfavour. "Your kind is not welcome in the city."

"My kind?" protested Thonn. "What do you have against farm boys?"

"Usually they turn out to be anything but." Spadell lowered his voice. "Like mages, for example."

"Sir, I assure you—"

"Save it, kid," muttered Tiera. "He saw your injuries, remember?"

"When you left the cells you were a dead man walking," said Spadell. "Sur Loyne beat your insides to a bloody pulp, and I let you go that you might die in more pleasant surroundings. And yet now you are made whole, and I'd wager it wasn't due to prayer and bandages."

Thonn was silent.

"If you can use your … powers … to aid Tiera in her task," continued Spadell, "then so much the better. But afterwards, the pair of you vanish. Understood?"

They both nodded, and after glancing around the room, Spadell left.

"What's this task he keeps talking about?" asked Thonn.

Tiera raised her hand for silence, and held it up until the loud voices and heavy boots of the guards had departed the tavern. She heard them moving down the street, and only then did she reply. "Thonn, what are your views on the queen?"

"I have never met her."

"Yes, but how do you see her? Fair minded, perhaps? A benevolent monarch beloved by her subjects?"

"I have never really considered her. She is but a name." Thonn sat on the bed. "Are we going to kill her?"

"Shhhh!" Tiera looked around, horrified. The guards had left, but even so. "Thonn, such matters are discussed in whispers! And why would you think me capable of such a heinous crime?"

"Well, it sounds to me like you've already skewered the High Priest and this Regis guy, and now you're lining up the queen for a little shish kebab party. I may be a farm boy, but I'm not simple, if you get my drift."

"Were you awake when I was getting dressed just now?"

"Of course." Thonn reddened. "I have not yet lain with a woman. I was curious."

Tiera hid a smile. The lad was cunning and smart, and although she preferred to work alone, his skills might be put to good use. Especially if she could get hold of the butcher's necklace, which seemed to lend Thonn additional magical strength. Then she cursed. The necklace! It was gone eleven, she was sure, and the healer would never show with the guards turning the city over in their hunt for a killer.

"So, how are we going to do this?" asked Thonn.

And with that, Tiera put the necklace out of her thoughts and sat down with the farm boy to plot the assassination.

* * *

Hurm opened his eyes. The stable was in darkness, and something was moving towards him through the straw. He'd already despatched two large rats, and he reached for his dagger to get rid of a third. With practiced ease his free hand darted out to pin the creature by the neck … only to encounter a much larger, softer target than he expected.

"Oof!" said a female voice. "Let go of me!"

Hurm frowned, his dagger still poised to strike. This was either a very large rat with the gift of speech, or he'd captured a woman. Either way, it was too valuable to kill. "Who is there?"

"It's me. Your queen!" Therstie pulled a handful of straw out of her clothes. "Did you hear?" she said breathlessly. "Someone murdered the Lord Chancellor! I didn't feel safe in my bed, so I thought you could protect me for a while."

Hurm had no idea what a chancellor was, but he was used to sudden death so the queen's news didn't really bother him. He was far more interested in sharing his bed, because that was something he wasn't used to. Especially with a queen .

The queen snuggled up beside him, her head against his shoulder. "I can't stay long, or they'll realise I'm missing."

Five minutes or five hours, Hurm was pleased with the company.

"I have another quest for you," said Therstie.

"Two quests?" Hurm hoped nobody else approached him, because after two quests came 'many quests', and he wasn't sure he could handle them all.

"You must promise not to tell anyone."

Hurm looked around. Apart from the horse and the rats, who else would he talk to? His long-time companions had left him and he didn't know anyone else. "I will not talk."

Therstie realised Hurm was a man of few words and even fewer friends, so she decided to trust him. "My half-brother, Tyniwon, has disappeared. My spies tell me the Barks have him. If it's not too much trouble, and after you've travelled to the impassable rocky wastes of the West and found me a dragon, could you swing a little detour through Bark territory and find out what happened to Tyniwon?" The queen ran her finger lightly over Hurm's barrel chest. "I'd be ever so grateful, and I'll pay you a lot of cash."

"I find brother," said Hurm.

"You're too kind." The queen lowered her voice. "You know, I've never done it in a stable before."

"Done what?" asked Hurm.

The queen smiled and loosened her robe.

"Oh," said Hurm. "Oh! "

* * *

Sur Loyne stood at the door to the queen's chambers, his hand raised to knock. After the day's fighting, his desires were so heightened he was certain he could finally put a brat in the queen's belly. He wasn't a stupid man, and he knew the chance of an heir was the only reason the queen kept him around. But the weeks and months were racing by, there was still no hint of offspring, and Sur Loyne knew his life of ease and luxury would come to an end any day now. Instead of fine wines and soft beds, he'd be sent off to some deadly corner of the kingdom to scratch a name for himself on the tree stump of history.

He knocked twice and pushed the door open. "Your Majesty, I thought you might enjoy my company."

There was no reply, and Sur Loyne glanced towards the bed. The covers were drawn back, a shaft of moonlight gleaming on the empty sheets. Startled, he hurried forward, laying his hand on the soft mattress. It was cold, and he realised with a shock that the queen must have left some time ago. Then his eyes narrowed as he guessed where the queen might be, and he felt a rising anger. She was enjoying company all right, but is wasn't his. Teeth gritted, he was on the point of grabbing a torch and heading to the stables to burn them to the ground when he heard footsteps.

"I thought I'd find you here," said Lord Chylde. He noticed the empty bed. "Where is the queen?"

"She lies with Hurm," spat Sur Loyne.

"I can see it pains you, my son." Chylde put an arm around his shoulders. "Let's face facts, Hurm is never coming back from this quest, you can be sure of it."

"But it's too late! He's already—" Loyne made a crude gesture.

"As long as you bed the queen in the next week or two, if there's an issue from their … dalliance … you can claim the child as your own."

Sur Loyne felt a ray of hope. "Do you think … would anyone believe it?"

"Of course!"

"But Hurm! He will displace me as the queen's champion!"

"Don't worry about that brainless beefcake," said Chylde. "I've given him an impossible quest which is certain to claim his life."

Overcome, Sur Loyne clasped Lord Chylde's shoulder. "You are good to me, old man."

Chylde gave the queen's champion a fond smile. Then he turned and left the queen's chamber, and as he strode away his smile slipped and his eyes glittered dangerously. The fool of a champion, the queen, Hurm … they must all die, for he, Lord Chylde, was the rightful ruler of this land, and until his rear end was planted firmly on the throne, the Mollister kingdom would continue to flop around like a dying fish.

Chapter 1 7

It was the middle of the night when Tiera's eyes blinked open. She was awake instantly, at precisely the time she'd planned, and she threw off her blanket and stood up, already dressed in dark, tight-fitting clothes. She was determined to finish Spadell's little task that very night, even though the city was on high alert.

It was risky, but she couldn't afford to stay in the city for another day, not with two murders to her name. She could sense the net closing on her, and knew it was only a matter of time before Spadell was questioned. If Lord Varnish, the spy master, used his fearsome torture methods, Spadell would crack. And then they'd come for her.

She checked her stiletto, drew her belt tight and turned to leave.

"Where are you going?" Thonn asked her sleepily.

"I just need some fresh air," murmured Tiera. "Sleep now, we'll speak in the morning."

Thonn muttered something and turned over.

Relieved, Tiera slipped into the hall and down the stairs to the street. The heavy front door creaked open to her touch, and she left the tavern under cover of darkness. She spotted a guard in a doorway and took a detour down a back alley, keeping her head down and moving in the shadows. Once or twice she looked round, thinking she was being followed, but she saw nothing.

She reached the keep without incident. Pausing in a doorway, she donned a skirt and a linen shirt, then made her way to the servant's quarters. It took her but a moment to find a serving tray, a glass and a flagon, and then she walked openly to the stairs leading to the upper floors.

"Where are you going?" a guard asked her.

"Her majesty fancied a nightcap, begging your pardon." She was outwardly calm, but her heart was thudding in her chest. Normally, she'd spend months ingratiating herself into her target's household, learning everyone's names, becoming a familiar figure. Then she'd do the deed and disappear. This time, however, she was forced to improvise, and she didn't like it.

"That lush," muttered the guard. "She hasn't stopped since she got here. I'm surprised she hasn't drained His Lordship's cellars."

Teria nodded, and said nothing.

"When you're done with the queen, come and see me," said the guard.

"Why?"

"You're new here, aren't you?"

Tiera tried to slip past him, but he grabbed her arm. "Just come and see me and there'll be no trouble."

"As you wish," said Tiera, in a low voice. The guard released her and she continued up the steps, her hand shaking as it held the tray. She'd come close to dropping the tray, drawing her knife and ending him where he stood, but she had bigger fish to fry.

She reached the first floor, where the guest quarters were, and strode along the hall. She'd visited the keep before, during her preparation for the High Priest's demise, when she was choosing the best place to take care of that particular business. There was only one room fit for a queen, and as she approached the door her pace slowed. She slipped the knife from her sleeve and held it under the tray, keeping her right hand free. Then, she opened the door stealthily and entered.

The queen was in her own bed, for a change, with the covers drawn up to her ears. Tiera could see the woman's blonde locks on the pillow, could hear her breathing gently. She approached slowly, feeling the floorboards with her toes, trying to avoid creaks. As she got closer she looked down at her victim, and brought the dagger out for the killing blow.

The queen looked like a child in the moonlight, innocent and pure. Tiera stood there, tray in one hand, the other holding the dagger ready. She must have stood there for thirty seconds, and then, without warning, the queen opened her eyes.

"Brought you some water, Your Majesty," murmured Tiera softly. She transferred the dagger to the hand holding tray, then went to put the drinking glass on the bedside table.

"Here, let me help," said the queen, sitting up and taking the jug.

The tray tilted, Tiera lost her grip on the knife, and it fell from her grasp. The wicked blade glinted in the moonlight as it spun end over end, until it buried its point in the floorboards and stuck there, quivering.

Tiera and the queen faced each other for a split second, and then …

"Guards! Murder! Help! Guards! "

Tiera turned for the door, but there was a thunder of boots in the corridor and, in the blink of an eye, she was surrounded. There were three of them, and as they levelled their swords Tiera realised it was all over. Two of them grabbed her, pinning her arms behind her back, while the other advanced, his face set, his weapon ready to strike. Without fuss or drama, they were going to cut her down where she stood.

At the last second the queen's voice cut through the silence. "Wait!"

The guards hesitated.

"I said wait!" snapped the queen. "I wish to question this woman."

"Lord Varnish will get the answers you need."

"Oh, hang Lord Varnish!" The queen glanced at the guards. "Not literally."

"Aye, Your Majesty."

"No, I mean it. It was just a figure of speech."

"Of course, Your Majesty."

"If you do hang Varnish, I'll be very, very angry. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly, Your Majesty."

Having clarified that particular misunderstanding, and thus avoided yet another unpleasant incident where a casual word from a ruler led to some innocent's death, the queen got out of bed, wrapped a night gown around herself and tied the cord. "What is your name?"

"Tiera, ma'am."

"By whose order are you here?"

"This was my own idea, Your Majesty."

"Your Majesty," said one of the guards. "Lord Varnish will get the truth out of her, I promise you."

"Yes, and then Lord Varnish will only tell me what he wants me to hear. Instead, I want the truth from her mouth."

"I will give you the truth," said Tiera. "Majesty, I am not here to kill you. I am here to offer my sword. I wish to pledge myself to your service."

The guards snorted, while the queen raised one eyebrow. "Is that the best you can come up with?"

"I thought, by entering your chamber, I could prove my skills. And had I intended to kill you, you would not be drawing breath this moment."

The queen raised her other eyebrow. "You have a point. But why the weapon, if that was your intention?"

"I thought that if I could get a weapon past your guards, it would prove my worth."

"Hmm."

To Tiera's surprise, the queen seemed to be swallowing her story. To be fair, when Tiera had been standing over the sleeping monarch, her knife ready to end her life, she had decided not to kill her. Perhaps that small grain of truth lent more credence to the rest of her story. "I swear I meant you no harm, Your Majesty."

"No poison in the water jug?"

"I will drink it down this instant, if that will stay your hand." Tiera hesitated. "There is another point in my favour. You are a fair queen, and popular with your subjects. Who would honestly want you dead?"

"Do you want a list?" demanded Therstie. "King Elsmer, for one. Also, the Kingdom of Darant amasses troops, as you well know, and the Barks have my brother, I am sure of it. If they could eliminate me, my kingdom would be theirs."

"I would sooner cut off my arm than deal with those tree-loving savages," said Tiera quietly.

The queen nodded. "Very well. Leave me now, and I will make my decision in the morning. I grow weary and must sleep. "

Tiera couldn't hope for more, and she realised the whole mess might still resolve in her favour. Or at least, it would have, if another couple of guards hadn't marched Thonn into the queen's bedroom at that very moment. Sur Loyne brought up the rear, wearing striped pyjamas and a very sleepy expression.

"Sorry we weren't here sooner, Your Majesty," said one of the men, with a salute. "Only we—"

"I caught another one slinking around in the building," said Sur Loyne. "They must be working together."

Tiera spoke up. "This lad … he's just a simple farm boy. I saved his life, and now I can't get rid of him. He follows me everywhere like a puppy dog."

"I know how that is," said the queen, eying Sur Loyne.

The guard holding Tiera's dagger twirled it one-handed, then approached Thonn. "Soon fix that problem for you, miss."

"Hold!" snapped the queen. "Do you think to murder people in my presence?" She glared at them. "In fact, I will have all of you executed for failing in your duties. Sur Loyne, they're all under arrest."

Sur Loyne had been about to fall to his knees and beg for mercy, but now that he realised he wasn't included, he rounded on the guards. "Lower your weapons this instant. You will be jailed this night and executed at first light."

The guards lowered their weapons … about an inch … and Tiera realised something which was about to dawn on everyone else. There were six heavily-armed guards facing one unarmed assassin, a sleepy knight, Thonn, and a queen in a dressing gown. To avoid execution, the guards only had to cut them all down and run for it. Sure, they'd be hunted down and killed eventually, but that wasn't going to stop a massacre .

"Your Majesty, might I speak?" said Thonn suddenly.

"Oh, why not," said the queen. "Everyone else has."

"Thank you, majesty." Thonn cleared his throat. "If a wolf were to pass through a flock of sheep to take a precious lamb, would you slaughter the flock for their failure to protect it?"

The guards realised they were being compared to sheep, and didn't look happy about it. On the other hand, nobody else was speaking up for them, and they'd have gone down on all fours and baaad for hours on end to avoid the noose.

"Are you saying Tiera is a dangerous wolf? Have a care, young man, or I'll have her executed too."

Tiera thought the 'young man' was rich, given the queen was about the same age. However, she was more worried Thonn had just landed her in prison. "Your Majesty—"

The queen raised a hand. "Thonn makes a good point. Your skills are superior to that of my guards, and therefore I order six lashes each, and a refresher course in the art of protecting their queen. That is the end of the matter."

The guards bowed, and thanked her profusely. "You are wise and kind, majesty."

"Long may you reign," said another.

"I will reign for decades, provided you lot do your job." With that, the queen turned to Tiera. "I know not why, but I trust you. Therefore, I accept your blade."

"Your Majesty!" protested Sur Loyne. "Only a knight can be awarded such an honour. Guarding the queen is our most sacred duty."

"Again with this? Sur Loyne, you are a knight and yet you completely failed to defend me. Should I have you executed as an example?" Impatiently, the queen snatched Tiera's stiletto from the guard. For a moment it seemed she was going to end Sur Loyne with a jab to the throat, but instead she bid Tiera kneel before her. "I dub thee Sur Rayted. May your blade be as deadly as your name."

"Oh no," groaned Sur Loyne. "Soon we will have more knights than the palace whore." He saw the queen's expression and blanched. "Nay, Your Majesty. I refer to the other … I mean, the crone who —" He gulped. "I will escort the guards to the barracks and oversee their punishment."

"You do that," said the queen acidly.

They left, and Tiera and Thonn were alone with the queen, who still held the stiletto. She inspected the weapon closely, then glanced at Tiera. "Has this tasted many lives?"

"A great many, Your Majesty. It has been passed down over generations."

"Gosh." Visibly impressed, the queen jabbed and feinted with the knife, making swishing sounds as it cut through the air. "I wish I could rid myself of enemies so easily."

"You have but to command me," said Tiera, and at her words the queen looked thoughtful.

In fact, she looked very thoughtful indeed.

Chapter 1 8

"Do you think they'll give us armour and weapons?" asked Thonn excitedly, as they made their way down the stairs to the ground floor. "I've never worn armour before. Is it uncomfortable?"

Tiera said nothing, because her mind was busy with a particularly nasty problem. She might have charmed her way around the queen, but Spadell was not going to be happy with her. Once word got back to him from the guards, he'd know she'd gone back on their deal, and she had no idea how he'd react. The only point in her favour was that Spadell's position was just as dicey as hers. After all, she might reveal to the queen that he'd ordered her death.

Tiera hoped it wouldn't come to that, because it would only lead to a rash of executions … including her own. Instead, if he did confront her, she'd just tell him she was integrating herself into the queen's household before completing the task he'd given her.

"It was amazing, the way you sneaked into the queen's bedroom to get her attention," said Thonn, still chattering away without a care in the world. "It's just as well she didn't think you were a real assassin!"

"Yeah, just as well," muttered Tiera. She remembered standing over the queen, unable to strike. She'd never hesitated like that before, and she wondered whether it was because there was no purse of gold on offer for the job. Yes, that must be it.

"Report back here at dawn," said the guard, as they reached the front door. "The captain will want to see you."

"I'm sure he will," said Tiera.

"Pulling a stunt like that was crazy. You're lucky we didn't run you through." The guard ushered them out before closing the door firmly behind them.

"Does this mean we'll be living at the royal palace?" asked Thonn. "And how much do knights get paid, do you think?"

"Keep your voice down and keep moving," said Tiera urgently. She hurried Thonn across the town square at a fast jog, and every few steps she glanced over her shoulder to see if they were being followed. She couldn't believe they'd walked away from certain death, and she wouldn't feel safe until they were miles from the city.

They reached the inn and made it to their room, where Tiera started throwing her clothes and effects into a knapsack. Thonn watched, puzzled, until eventually his curiosity got the better of him.

"Are we moving into the barracks?"

"No, we're leaving. Do you need to collect your things?"

Thonn gestured at himself. "This is all I have."

"Fine. Let's go."

Tiera slung the bag over her shoulder and pushed the door open. They hurried down the stairs, and once outside they took the back streets until they reached the outer gate.

"Where are we going?" asked Thonn.

"Shh. Listen for the guards, I want to know where they are."

"There's one either side of the gate. "

Tiera squinted in the darkness and saw he was correct. The big gates were closed, and while the small door set into the left-hand gate was open, there were two guards watching it. They had a brazier going, and were standing facing the fire, holding their hands out to the meagre warmth. She needed a distraction, and she knew just what to do. She took a tinderbox from her bag and hurried to a small stack of straw bales near a stable. There was a water trough nearby, as well as a bucket, and she was pretty sure the guards would be able to put out any fire which might mysteriously appear, long before the flames really caught.

She crouched next to the straw and dashed sparks from the tinderbox, watching them arc into the bales before dying.

"What are you doing?" hissed Thonn.

"This is the part where you shut up," Tiera told him, still trying to spark the straw. Finally, one of the bales caught, and flickering flames spread across the straw, crackling angrily. Soon there was a sheet of flame, and Tiera grabbed Thonn and pulled him away. "Fire!" she called, and then they ran parallel to the main street, heading for the gates.

By the time they got there the guards were halfway to the fire. Tiera hauled Thonn out through the gates, and, looking back, she saw one of the guards hurling a bucket of water on the straw bales, dousing them. Then she turned and hurried along the rough path, making for the nearby woods.

* * *

Father M and Runt were eating their breakfast in silence. It wasn't even dawn yet, but neither had been able to sleep. Their room was near the top of the stairs, and they'd been woken several times by the sound of footsteps going up and down, whispers, and doors opening and closing.

"I feel we ought to accompany Hurm on his quest," said Father M at last.

Runt set down his steaming mug of coffee, which was actually hot ale with a dash of milk. "I agree. I couldn't sleep a wink for worry."

"You were concerned about him?" asked Father M in astonishment.

"No, of course not. But if he actually pulls this off—"

"—there's bound to be a large reward," finished Father M.

"My thinking exactly."

The same thought had kept them both awake. Hurm getting eaten by a dragon was one thing, but Hurm succeeding and becoming incredibly wealthy by the queen was another matter entirely. After all, what could Hurm possibly spend a fortune on, aside from a new loin cloth and an even bigger sword?

"Anyway," said Father M. "We can't just wait around here for weeks and weeks until he comes back. We'll run out of cash, for one thing, and the food in this place is absolutely dire. No, we need to get close to the queen in order to get our hands on the necklace, and what better way to get near the queen than to help her champion—"

"Backup champion."

"Than to help her backup champion complete his quest? There will probably be a feast in his honour, and, well, you saw how the queen puts her wine away. All we have to do is wait until she passes out and the necklace is ours."

Having decided on their course of action, the pair of them finished their breakfast and hurried to the stables. Runt was thoughtful enough to wrap a couple of crusts in a piece of cloth, as a peace offering for the big fighter. Unfortunately, he ate them on the way, since he wasn't that thoughtful and he was still a little peckish.

It was just after dawn and the ill-lit streets were empty. They reached the town square in no time, and when they arrived at the stables they found Hurm sitting up in his makeshift bed, his face flushed and bearing a foolish grin. Father M glanced at the horse in concern, but it appeared to be out on its feet. "What are you so happy about?"

"Queen came," said Hurm.

Father M muttered an oath, for his wand had seen little use lately. "She came here?"

"Many times," said Hurm.

"Now, Hurm, what have I told you about over-sharing?"

Hurm looked them over hopefully. "Breakfast?"

"Indeed, I believe Runt may have brought you a little something."

Guiltily, Runt held out the bunched rag he'd stored the crusts in. "Here. I got you these surprisingly filling crumbs."

Hurm inspected the rag doubtfully, then put it to his mouth and licked it clean.

"There will be more food later," said Father M. "But first, we've got to get this quest of ours on the road." He rubbed his hands together, partly because he was cold, but mostly because he always looked forward to an impossible quest which would almost certainly kill them all. Well, nobody said wizards were completely sane.

"Our quest?" said Hurm, and the foolish grin turned into a beaming smile. "You come too?"

"Don't even think about it," said Runt, backing away.

Father M put his arm around Hurm's shoulders. "We will come with you, Hurm. And when the queen rewards us, we will share it out evenly. Okay?"

"Okay," said Hurm.

"So that's one percent for you," said Father M, holding up five fingers and pointing at Hurm. "And ninety-nine percent for me and Runt," he said, holding up one finger and pointing to himself and the halfling. "All agreed?"

"Aye," said Runt.

"Hurm agree."

"Excellent. Now we just need a mule, a fireproof cage, and several weeks worth of supplies."

Hurm retrieved his sword and stood up, ready for anything.

"Argh!" shouted Runt, as his field of view was filled with the fighter's nether regions. "Loincloth, Hurm. Loincloth!"

* * *

"Call that a cage?" sneered Runt. "You couldn't keep a fire-breathing budgie in that thing, let alone a dragon."

The shopkeeper set the gilded cage down. "A dragon? Who said anything about a dragon? You just asked for a fire-proof cage."

"A big fire-proof cage," said Runt.

"Compared to you it's massive."

"Try again, mister." Runt fingered his dagger and debated whether to end the storekeep there and then. The others had sent him to organise this particular item on the shopping list, while Hurm went to pick out a mule and Father M organised their rations. They'd decided not to send Hurm for the food, since he'd buy ten times more than they needed … an d then eat half of it before they met up again. In fact, the big fighter's stomach was rumbling so much when he left they were worried he might eat half the mule.

"Bigger," said Runt, as the shopkeeper returned with a large wrought-iron cage.

"That's all I've got," said the shopkeeper. "Take it or leave it."

Runt tested the bars. They seemed strong, but he'd seen a dragon up close and strong just wasn't going to cut it. "Can you add more bars?"

"Do I look like a blacksmith?" demanded the shopkeeper.

Runt sighed. "All right, all right. How much?"

"To you, five shillings."

"Make it two and you have a deal."

"Forget it. Five is my final price."

"What happened to haggling?"

"Why, do you want to pay six?"

Defeated, Runt dug into his pocket and brought out a crown. "Got any change?"

"Twenty-six shillings change? Do I look like I'm made of money?"

Runt dug in the other pocked and found a half-crown with a dragon head on one side. "What about this?"

Grumbling under his breath, the shopkeeper counted out a huge handful of pennies. By the time Runt poured them into his pocket, they weighed him down almost as much as the cage.

Satisfied with the bargain, he slung the cage over his shoulder and left the shop, staggering under the weight. He had to walk bent double, and by the time he reached the tavern he'd knocked a dozen people off their feet.

Runt glanced at the mule waiting patiently outside. To his surprise it still had four legs, for he was certain Hurm would have snacked on the poor beast by now. Then he saw Father M approaching with a large sack of provisions. "Did you get any tobacco for my pipe?"

"No, of course not. It's incredibly bad for you."

"Seriously? We're off to steal a fire-breathing dragon from its parents and you're worried about my health?" Annoyed, Runt turned to eye the mule, which was about twice as tall as him. It had a shaggy, unkempt coat, and it was staring back at him with a wary, bloodshot eye. Runt took an instant dislike to the thing, and he decided it would be the first amongst their number to raise a hoof if they needed a volunteer to act as bait for their dragon. "I bet he overpaid for this, too."

"Impossible," said Father M. "I only gave him a shilling."

"They probably gave him nine hundred pennies change," grumbled Runt. "The currency in this place is out of control."

Father M took the cage and balanced it on the mule, tying it off with a strap. Then he opened the door and bundled his sack of provisions inside.

Meanwhile, Hurm emerged from the tavern, wiping foam from his lips with the back of his hand. He belched, slapped the mule on the rump and grinned at Runt. "Mule good."

"Mule old and probably lame," said Runt.

Hurm laughed, then inspected the cage. He grabbed the bars and bent them apart easily, barely straining his muscles. Then he took the sack of food out and looked inside.

Father M slapped his hand. "Put that back! Put it back this instant!"

"Hurm hungry!"

"You can eat later, when I say so."

His bottom lip protruding, Hurm bent two more bars to put the bag back into the now useless cage. Annoyed, Runt kicked his ankle. "There is a door you know!" said the halfling heatedly.

Hurm looked apologetic, and yanked the door open. Unfortunately Father M had shot the bolt home, locking it. This didn't trouble Hurm, because the bolt sheared off and fell in the dirt.

"I sent you out for a cage," said Father M. "If I'd known you were going to buy a laundry basket—"

"Don't start, all right?" snapped Runt. "It was the biggest, strongest cage they had."

"Fine, but you'd better hope we find a dragon about the size of your thumb. You can keep the thing in your pocket, and we'll leave this useless piece of junk by the side of the road."

The mule brayed in agreement.

"I don't know why we're going all the way to the rocky wastes in the first place," growled Runt. "All we have to do is find a large lizard and an even bigger fruit bat, and do a little creative sewing."

"Hurm do quest for queen," said the fighter, and that settled it.

As they set off for the main gate, Runt crossed his arms and decided not to speak again until someone was nice to him.

It was going to be a long, silent day.

Chapter 1 9

It was mid-morning before the queen rose from her slumber. She hadn't slept so well for ages, but her cheerful mood soon took a hit when Lord Varnish sought her out.

"Good morning, your majesty."

"It was," said the queen. Truth be told, she didn't have a lot of time for Lord Varnish. The spymaster saw enemies around every corner, and yet the land had been at peace for years. An uneasy peace, to be sure, but she was convinced Varnish only hunted spies with such vigour because he wanted to keep himself busy.

"Bad news, Your Majesty. The mechanical man was stolen from our cells in the night, and I suspect it has already been spirited away from the city."

The queen stared at him. "Are you saying someone broke into the prison and took him? Were the guards asleep at their posts?"

"They claim to have heard nothing, but I will get the truth out of them soon enough," said Varnish confidently.

"See to it. The Barks already have one member of my court in their grasp. I would not be happy with another."

"There is no proof the Barks took Tyniwon, Your Majesty."

"Oh, who else would bother? The elves would have no use for him. The stone people stopped eating human flesh centuries ago, and the other two kingdoms are so far away they might as well be situated on one of the moons." The queen set her mug down. "No, it was the Barks, I am sure of it. Once I have proof, I will raise an army and take him back."

"Proof?" Varnish was taken aback. "How will you obtain proof?"

"Lord Varnish, you are not the only noble in this kingdom with influence. I have my own people."

"Your Majesty, it would be unwise to—"

"Unwise? How dare you!" The queen's face flushed with sudden anger. "Nobody in this kingdom, and I mean nobody, tells me what to do. Is that clear?"

Varnish seemed unmoved. "Indeed, Your Majesty. My apologies. I was just a little concerned that your people and my people might end up working against each other as they strive for a common goal."

"They're all my people, and you'd do well to remember it," said the queen coldly. "Now, if you've quite finished spoiling my breakfast—"

"I'm sorry, but there is one other matter." Varnish hesitated. "In my opinion, you are not safe in this city. There have been too many murders since your arrival. And as for this woman who broke into your chambers last night—"

"She hardly broke in, Varnish. She was just proving her value to me by sneaking through the guards." The queen frowned at him. "The guards you selected, unless I'm mistaken."

"Even so, I would like to question her."

"I will not allow it. She'd come back missing a few fingers or toes, and she's done nothing to warrant your attentions. Anyway, I knighted her, and you know the punishment for harming one of my knights. "

Varnish looked unhappy, but he let it pass. He'd find out this woman's background soon enough, and if there was a shadow of a doubt over her motivations, she would be dealt with. An unfortunate mugging gone wrong was a favourite of his, because it not only got rid of his target, but also the mugger. "Your Majesty, will you at least agree to retire to the palace? There, we can protect you. Here, we can do no such thing. Already the High Priest and the Lord Chancellor have lost their lives, and—"

"Oh, come on. The High Priest's death was due to a natural disaster. Everyone knows that. And from what I've heard about the Lord Chancellor, his death has been overdue several years now." The queen took a bite of crusty bread and chewed in silence. "All right," she said at last. "I will return to the palace. Uncle will be pleased, as it will lessen the burden on his precious purse." She waved her hand. "You are dismissed."

Lord Varnish bowed deeply, and left the queen to her breakfast.

* * *

"We could try wading across," said Father M.

"Hurm swim."

Runt glanced up at the two humans towering over him, then cast a sour look at the swift-moving river bisecting the broad path. "It might only be waist-deep to you, but to me that's liquid death."

"Hurm carry."

"Forget it. Last time we tried that, you bent over to pick up some gold ring lying on the riverbed. I was coughing water out of my lungs for hours … and the damned ring wasn't even real gold. Anyway, if you think that mule is going to swim a river you're even dumber than you look."

At the sight of the water, the mule had backed away from the bank, wide-eyed and tugging at its halter. Actually, Runt's expression was pretty similar.

"There has to be a bridge," said Father M.

"I bet there is, but we all know how this goes. Either it's up-river, and we spend half the day walking in the wrong direction, or we find the bridge but there's a band of robbers camped at one end, and they steal everything we've got, cut our throats and toss us in the river. Either way, we never get to the other side."

"Did you get out the wrong end of your cot this morning?" asked Father M mildly.

"I'm just getting a bit fed up with this whole adventuring lark," said Runt sourly. "What's wrong with spending a few days in a tavern, eating and drinking? Why do we have to walk for miles and miles when—"

"I think that's an exaggeration of sorts," said Father M. He gestured at the city walls, which were about five hundred metres away. "We've only been walking ten minutes."

"Yeah, and that's another thing." Runt stamped his foot on the wide path. "Who builds a road out of the city and forgets to put up a damned bridge?"

"Maybe it was swept away. Maybe it was struck by a meteorite."

"And maybe they should hang the town planners," muttered Runt. He glanced up and down the river, but the path just led straight into the water, and there was no sign of a nice, convenient bridge nearby. Then he squinted, for in the distance he could see a small boat tied to a ramshackle jetty. "Right, that's me sorted," he said, striking off through the undergrowth. "Enjoy the swim!" he called over his shoulder.

"What about the mule?" protested Father M.

"Let Hurm carry the damn thing," said Runt, and the crashing sounds of undergrowth faded into the distance. It was said the little people could move through the undergrowth without disturbing so much as a twig, but clearly the humans who believed such a thing had never met an angry, impatient halfling with hydrophobia.

Father M eyed the mule. The mule eyed him back. Then, with a kind of barking snort of derision, it set off after Runt, the buckled dragon cage still tied to its back. Father M watched it go, then shrugged. It was Runt's problem now, and the cage was near useless anyway.

"Food?" said Hurm, as he watched their lunch disappear with the mule.

"Try some berries," said Father M. And with that he turned and strode into the water, following the marked path. He'd only gone a few paces when he realised the water barely reached his knees, and he smiled to himself as he crossed the fast-moving river. Silly Runt, heading off to hire a boat when the water was no obstacle at all! Even in the deeper parts, there were evenly-spaced boulders with flat, roughened surfaces, and it was no trouble using the stepping-stones to reach the far side.

Together, Father M and Hurm splashed across the river until they reached the opposite bank. Then they heard a faint cry, followed by a splash, and Father M put his head on one side to listen. The cry was followed by an impressive amount of swearing, gradually getting louder, and then a curious sight met his eyes. Round a bend in the river came a small wooden boat, with their mule standing in the dead centre. It was chewing a mouthful of grass, completely unconcerned, while the swearing continued from somewhere around the waterline.

The boat turned slowly as it approached, speeding up considerably as the river narrowed. Father M saw a bedraggled Runt clinging to the gunwale on the far side, still spouting curses and river water in equal measure. He was losing his voice with all the shouting, and as the boat sailed by Father M realised both occupants were now a little hoarse.

"Catch up with you later," called Father M, and he gave the halfling a casual wave. "Enjoy the seaside."

He and Hurm watched the boat vanish around the next bend, then turned and strolled up the path towards the nearby woods. They had few concerns for Runt, since he could ride the mule and catch up with them. Presuming he didn't wash out to sea and drown, of course, but that would be his own fault and there was nothing they could do about it.

After a hundred yards or so, Father M realised it was very quiet amongst the trees. The wildlife was still doing its thing, but there was something missing, and with a resigned expression he realised it was Hurm's steady footsteps. He stopped, and turned to see whether the big fighter had walked into a tree or something, but it wasn't that. Instead, Hurm was crouched next to a bush full of red berries, cramming the fruit into his mouth as though he hadn't eaten for a week.

"Not the red ones," said Father M mildly, but it was too late. Hurm grabbed at his throat, retched, then fell over on his side. Father M strolled over and saw the fighter completely paralysed apart from the eyes, which stared up at Father M accusingly. "Try the blue ones next time," said Father M.

Hurm gargled a reply.

"You'll be fine. It'll wear off in a couple of hours." Father M glanced up at the trees, estimating the position of the sun. It was mid-morning, and they had a whole day's walk to reach their first rest stop. "Look, I'll go ahead. We'll catch up later, okay? Bye!"

With that he turned and walked away, leaving Hurm to the lizards, the biting midges, and the ants.

Chapter 2 0

Many leagues away, in the Kingdom of Bark, the aging monarch was feeling particularly grumpy. His wooden throne was uncomfortable, his breakfast steak had been so tough his steelwood knife had barely been able to cut it, and now he faced the biggest waste of time since his smartest minds had come up with the wooden fireplace.

Yes, it was time to preside over the Three Disputes.

Centuries ago, a well-meaning king of the Barks had laid down a constitution of sorts, in which he promised to arbitrate ten legal cases every day. Over the years, this had been whittled down to three, and many extra conditions had been added - no divorce cases, no petty thefts, no accusations of treason. Still, it was a tradition, and King Larch of the Barks was not one to dispense with those lightly.

His courtiers had but one instruction: they were to ensure the cases were unique, or novel, or at least interesting in some way. Everything else could be left to the courts, or failing that a bloody duel in the town square.

"This man has been charged with painting his house a particularly vile shade of green, Your Majesty."

"Guilty," said King Larch. "The punishment is ten blows with a wooden axe, or beheading. Whichever comes first. "

The elderly man was dragged away, protesting his innocence, but the king was unmoved. Hey, the constitution said he had to preside over Three Disputes, he reasoned. It didn't say he had to spend hours considering them. So, he beckoned to the minister of the courts, who approached at the double. "Yes, sire?"

"When I said these cases must be interesting, I meant … interesting. Novel. Unique. What's so special about a green house?"

"You should have seen the colour, Your Majesty."

The king sighed. "All right, bring in the final case."

"The second case, Sire."

"The first one was so bad it counted as two. Now get on with it."

A balding man, mid-forties, was dragged before the king. Instead of kneeling and begging for mercy, he stood straight and looked him in the eye. Immediately, the king sat up, for this was a good sign. "What did you do?" he demanded.

"Sire, I sought knowledge."

The king groaned. Another wannabe mage who'd been foolish enough to get caught. "Guil—"

"Your Majesty," interrupted a courtier. "The charge is using … metal ."

There was a gasp around the hall. Guards stood ready with their wooden spears, glaring through the slits in their wooden helmets, their wooden armour creaking as they faced the crowd. The king adjusted his position on the throne and eyed the man. "What is your name."

"By your leave, sire. It is Wiltred of Tharn."

"Well, Wiltred of Tharn, what do you have to say for yourself?"

"I believe this kingdom would benefit greatly from the use of my new material." He held up his hand, and the light glinted off his silver ring.

"I'm sure it might, but our rules are clear on the matter. You've been forging metal, and—"

There was a collective gasp. "Anarchist!" shouted someone. "Ore lover!" shouted another. "Lightning is coming!" murmured the rest, as one.

"By your leave, sire, this is not metal. I call it … falsite."

"It looks like metal to me," said the king.

"Indeed, but it is forged from the sap of the steelwood tree."

"Whether it's metal, or you really turned wood into metal, the rules for such blasphemy are clear. The rules state—"

"Indeed, Your Majesty, but the rules were written in the age of the Great Storm."

There was a hush. The Great Storm was legendary, since it had eradicated half the Bark population. Featuring non-stop lightning fair across the land, everyone within ten feet of any metal had been fried on the spot. Worse, the storm had persisted for six months, or so legends had it, and afterwards all metal in the land had been collected up and gingerly dumped in the sea. Ever since, metal had attracted an almost universal loathing, and anyone caught using the devil material was executed or banished. And ever since, amongst the other kingdoms, the head of the Barks had been known as the Wooden Ruler.

"There might be another Great Storm," said the king mildly.

"There might also be a Great Plague, or a Great Summer. Are we to ban crops, or clothes?" Wiltred stepped forward, ignoring the guards brandishing their spears. "Sire, we live in an age of enlightenment. I myself have been secretly working metal for months, producing several ingots which may or may not be stronger than wood. Imagine swords and spears of shiny metal to protect us against our enemies. Imagine a metal cooking pot which does not catch fire when you heat your food. Imagine nails of solid metal, and fasteners much stronger than twine."

The king looked up. It was true, the roof did fall in occasionally, but that's why builders had erected a strong shield above his throne. And it was also true that he was fed up with cold food, wooden utensils, and splinters in general. But traditions and laws were important, and this man had not only broken them, he'd just admitted to it. The people would expect punishment, swift and merciless. On the other hand … he was king. "I'm placing you under house arrest," he said at last. "You will be incarcerated at my pleasure until I can verify this falsite of yours."

The man bowed his head. "Yes, Your Majesty."

"Right, that's it," said the king. "Everyone out." As they left, he crooked his finger at a courtier. "Not you. Wait."

The crowd thinned, then cleared completely, leaving the two of them alone. "What can I do for you, Your Majesty?" said the courtier at last.

"Have they finished building the new kitchens yet?"

"Indeed, sire. We have new ovens built of the finest steelwood, guaranteed to last for at least thirty days. The walls have been treated with stillwater, to resist flame. The—"

"I don't mean to sound radical, but have you considered building an oven from … stone?"

"Indeed, but how would one work such a material? We can only craft wooden pickaxes."

The king realised he spoke the truth. "So what happened to the old buildings?"

"They stand vacant, ever since the fire. "

"Can you organise a renovation? New roof, walls, that kind of thing?"

"There isn't much left, sire," said the courtier doubtfully.

"Good, I'm glad you're on it. Once you've finished it, say, later this afternoon, come and find me. Now go tell them I want my lunch."

"Yes, sire."

"I don't suppose there's any hot stew?" asked the king wistfully.

"Only ham sandwiches, Your Majesty."

"Figures." And with that the king sat back on his throne, wincing as he picked up a splinter from the wooden armrest.

* * *

"Sire, there's a messenger squirrel from Queen Therstie."

King Larch looked up from his cold lunch. "Really? What does she want?"

"After a journey of several months, I'd suggest a good drink and a handful of nuts."

"Not the squirrel, you oaf. The Queen!"

"I cannot say, Your Majesty, as the scroll is sealed."

Impatiently, the king snatched the furled parchment. To his distaste, he saw the queen had tied it off with silver wire. A slap in the face for Bark traditions, no doubt about it. He untwisted the fine strand and surreptitiously pocketed it, knowing it would serve as better dental floss than the rough cotton his people used. Then, with a secret thrill, he opened the scroll .

"By the wooden balls of Bark," he muttered. "She's still on about that half-brother of hers, Tyniwon Mollister. Hasn't he turned up yet?"

"Nay, sire. It is said he bedded the master woodturner's daughter, amongst others, and now lies in hiding from their wrath."

"The sap is strong in that one," remarked King Larch. Then he waved the scroll. "If you don't unhide him pretty damn quick, his sister is going to raise an army and come looking for him. And I can tell you now, no amount of wooden armour is going to stop their iron swords."

"Our might will prevail," said the courtier devoutly. "We will prepare for battle and resist their demon-tainted weapons."

"Dream on," muttered the king. "Anyway, this message is months old now. They might already be at the gates. They might have … fire."

The courtier blanched.

"Just gather our spies, throw some wooden nickels around, and find the dolt. Is that clear enough for you?"

"Yes, sire."

The courtier left at a run, and the king crumpled the note. Then, absent-mindedly, he raised it to his nose and inhaled the scent. Mingled with squirrel sweat, mulch of the forest and digested nuts though it might be, the queen's perfume was unmistakable, even after all these months. Then, with a faraway look in his eyes, he remembered a time when he and the queen had messaged each other daily, engaging in witty, risque banter via daily texts sent by raven and dove. It had all come to a crashing halt when dragons ate the last of the feathered messengers, since the alternative — trained squirrels — took months to travel the same route. He only wished there was an alternative to tying messages to small animals, and he decided to fund a line of research as soon as possible.

Hmm, research. That reminded him of Wiltred, the budding metallurgist, and the king glanced at the nearby window cut in the wooden wall of his throne room. The sun was low, which meant the old kitchens should have been rebuilt by now. Once they were fitted out they would become the man's workshop, where this Wiltred would continue his metalworking in peace. The king was no fool, and he knew the people would revolt if they learned of the arrangement, but by the same token they had to realise the kingdom was on a wooden highway to oblivion. Either they stuck with the old ways, embraced wood, and perished in the next big fire, or they modernised. He decided to get a hand-picked bunch together, people he could trust to work some revisions into the holy scrolls. He would also have a quiet word with the more traditional preachers, letting them know their days as firebrands in the wooden city were numbered. It would take a year or two, but he was sure that prejudices could be channelled into new and more productive areas. For instance, nobody liked mosquitoes, so why not ban those instead of metal? Also, Wiltred's use of the term falsite was a stroke of genius, since people would convince themselves of anything, no matter how far-fetched, if it made their lives a little easier.

The king snapped his fingers, and moments later a courtier appeared.

"Bring me the prisoner, Wiltred. I wish to speak with him."

"I will have him secured immediately, sire."

"No, don't bother. Just escort him in so I can have a private word."

"You wish to speak with him … alone?"

"Now you're getting the idea. "

"But sire, he's … a prisoner."

"Yes, and I'm the king, so go and do what you're told or I'll have you swapping places with this Wiltred before sundown."

"Y-yes sire." The courtier ran off, and the king snorted under his breath. Wiltred was a man of learning, not some assassin bent on harming the king. What was he going to do, attack his monarch with a wooden chair?

It was several minutes before the courtier returned, with Wiltred and six beefy guards in tow. "I will speak to this man alone," said the king.

The guards looked at each other doubtfully.

"I'm sorry, do you want me to say please?" said the king sweetly. "Get out! "

At his roar, the guards and the courtier fled, leaving Wiltred standing alone in the middle of the great hall. He was so calm he barely flinched as a piece of roof came loose and landed nearby.

"Come here," said King Larch. "We need to talk."

Wiltred approached, and bowed his head. "Thank you for sparing me, Your Majesty. For the past week, the guards have been detailing all the horrific methods by which I would be punished for my crime."

"They're just following orders," said the king mildly. "But never mind that. Let's talk about metal."

Wiltred looked surprised, and he glanced around cautiously as if suspecting a trap. A wooden trap, naturally, and therefore not particularly effective, but a trap all the same.

"Relax, man. You can speak openly."

"Very well, Your Majesty."

"Cut out the majesty stuff, too. Just get to the point. What do you know, what do you need to further your research, and what can you achieve in the next six to twelve months? "

"I have a basic crucible which will produce small quantities of falsite, using—"

"You can cut that bullspit as well. We both know you're working metal."

"Indeed, sire. I produce small quantities of steel using iron and flux. I am working on an improved method which will lead to increased production. My assistant …"

Here, Wiltred realised he'd got carried away, and he faltered.

"Your assistant will not be punished."

"He may be, Your Majesty. Many seek him, for he is rumoured to have turned the head of the wood turner's daughter. The daughter of the woodchuck tamer … this girl he has also f—"

"Wait! This assistant of yours. Is he by any chance Tyniwon Mollister?"

"Indeed, that is his name. He is gifted in the art of metalworking, to be sure. Also, built like a wooden outhouse."

"Well, bless my shaft," said the king. "The rogue was hiding in plain sight all along! Queen Therstie will be so happy!" Pleased, he bid the man continue.

"My assistant and I have also branched out into basic engineering. We have designs for a device powered by steam … that is, boiling water. A scaled-up version would power machinery such as grindstones, water pumps and more." Wiltred's eyes shone as he spoke, and, realising the king was listening intently, he continued in the same vein. "Why, sire, I even have drawings for a steam-powered chariot which would run on metal rails. Such a device might carry passengers across the kingdom in under a week! It is called a kettle cart, and I would be honoured to name the first of its kind after Your Majesty. "

"Yes, yes. But can you make nails? Fasteners to stop the roof falling in? Metal bowls, spoons … and ovens?"

"Of course, sire."

"How many workers will you need?"

"Well, there's mining the ore, and transporting it, and firing larger crucibles, and —"

"A rough estimate will suffice."

"Give me a dozen willing workers, and I will produce the first bowl in a week."

"Hot food at last," murmured the king.

"But sire, metal bowls are commonplace in the land of the Mollisters. Why not barter for them?"

King Larch snorted. "Are you insane? They have wood enough already, and what else do we have to offer? No, Wiltred, you will start production immediately, and if our plans come to fruition the Mollisters will be offering riches for our metalwork."

"Yes, sire," said Wiltred, and he bowed deeply.

"We meet daily," said the king.

"Here?"

"No, of course not. I will come to your workshop." The king hesitated. "Just make sure the kettle is on, and a bowl of hot stew won't go amiss. But not a word of this to anyone, mind."

"Your Majesty, people will hear the sounds of our labours. The metalworking … it is not quiet, nor subtle."

"I'll tell 'em you're being tortured by your own devil machinery. That'll mollify them." The king gave him a look. "And if you fail, it won't be far from the truth, eh?"

With that Wiltred took his leave, and the king sat contemplating the new and glorious future. Never mind kettle carts and speedy passenger travel, he'd be satisfied with hot baths and a hearty stew.

Chapter 2 1

Clunk heard Millie stir, and he turned to check on the human. She'd slept eight hours straight, barely moving all night, and he hoped she'd woken refreshed and ready for the long day ahead. He'd extended his solar panel at daybreak, and the sunlight filtering through the trees topped off what little energy he'd used overnight.

There was still the inconvenience of finding food for Millie's breakfast, but Clunk hoped they'd encounter a farm or a settlement on their journey north. They had no money, but he was sure he could trade an hour or two of labour for a loaf of bread. Clunk had intended to travel alone, with no need for money or shelter, but he couldn't abandon Millie after freeing her from captivity.

Millie stretched, yawned, then sat up, blinking sleep from her eyes. She looked around the hollow under the trunk, momentarily confused, then saw Clunk and smiled.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked her.

"Yes, thank you."

Clunk nodded in satisfaction.

"I haven't felt this rested for many a long month. I don't know whether I said this yesterday, but I thank you for my rescue. "

"It was the least I could do."

Millie studied him, seeing him for the first time in the light of day. "Who are you, Clunk? Your design is intricate and strange, and I find myself wondering where you truly came from."

"I fell from the sky," said Clunk.

"But how? Don't tell me you can fly like a dragon, for I see you have no wings."

Clunk decided not to launch into an explanation of space travel and rocketry. "When you look up at night and see the stars, how do you think they remain in position?"

"They don't, not always, for one fell to ground and destroyed the High Priest's tower." Millie looked up, even though it was daylight and the stars were hidden by the clear blue skies. "I do not know how the rest are fixed. Some whisper of powerful magic."

Clunk shook his head. "I guarantee it's not magic. Instead, imagine a pool of still water, with specks of matter in suspension. The stars are those specks, and many of them have planets like yours circling them. I was created on one of those planets."

Millie laughed. "If you say so, although I would find magic the more believable reason."

"Men and women travel between stars in vehicles called space ships, and I was travelling in just such a vehicle when I fell."

Millie looked at him uncertainly. "Where was this vehicle going?"

"I remember nothing before the moment I fell out of the ship. The next thing I know, I was sitting up on the beach near the city."

"Wait. Was it you who destroyed the High Priest's tower? "

"That was something much larger, I would say." Clunk looked thoughtful. "Unless I was sitting in an escape capsule, of course, but I don't recall such a thing."

"Clunk, the ancient legends speak of a great destroyer who arrives from the stars and slaughters every man, woman and child in the Old Kingdom. Do … do you think that might be you?"

"No, of course not. I'm here by accident, and I only want to leave again." Clunk frowned. "You speak of the Old Kingdom. Is there a New Kingdom as well?"

"No, Old Kingdom is a collective term for the four distinct lands we have now. Many years ago, all four were united under one king, and it was known as the Kingdom. Now, technically, it is the Four Kingdoms, but over the years we've had the Two Kingdoms, the Five Kingdoms and once, during a particularly turbulent period, the Twelve Kingdoms." Millie shrugged. "There were many claims on the various thrones, but after the wars ended and the pretenders were executed we ended up with the Four. But, instead of continually revising parchments and manuscripts, we simply refer to it as the Old Kingdom."

Clunk glanced at her. "I know of the Barks and the Mollisters, but what are the other two?"

"The Kingdom of Darant lies to the north-west, and Tor Fell to the north-east. I know little of either, save that the people of Tor Fell are particularly devout. Also, the land of the Elves lies on the eastern reaches of the continent. They are feared warriors who keep to themselves, provided nobody troubles them."

"Is that all of them?"

"No, the stone people live in the rocky wastes of the west, beyond even the lairs of the mightiest dragons. They are workers of granite and metal, miners of ore—"

Clunk recalled something from legend, a flash of memory from he knew not where. "Are you talking about dwarves?"

"We do not describe them so, although it is true they are short of stature. They also are fearsome warriors, and since they live beyond the dragons they keep out of human affairs."

"Surely they trade by ship?" asked Clunk.

"Ship?"

"Large boats. They carry cargo, and are powered by oars, or sails to catch the wind."

Millie looked confused. "I have never heard of such vessels."

"Your people do not sail the oceans?"

"Not unless they want to get eaten by humongous sea snakes," said Millie, with a shudder. "Why, even the largest raft imaginable, built from three entire trees, did not get halfway to the horizon before it and the crew were swallowed whole. Legends tell of them paddling for shore with all their might even as they vanished into the creature's vast maw."

Clunk frowned. Without sea travel his task was going to be a whole lot harder, but he should have guessed there were no large ships when the city of Chatter's Reach, built right on the coast, obviously had no harbour.

"Why did we go south when we left the city?" Millie asked him. "We must travel north to reach Bark lands."

"It was a ruse," said Clunk, not admitting he'd also been hoping to find a ship for hire at the coast. "By heading south we avoided pursuit, and it was unfortunate the robbers had also set up camp there."

"And today? Do we head north, or should we travel east or west for several days first? "

Clunk realised she was teasing him, and he smiled. "Today we'll head north, after crossing the river."

"Then we should set off, since there is no point delaying."

They left the hollow under the tree trunk, with Clunk giving Millie a hand to get to her feet, and they made their way down to the river bank. The water was sluggish and shallow, and they crossed to the far side without incident. Clunk kept a wary eye down-river, in case the robbers from the night before were looking for them, but there were no shouts of discovery. He walked behind Millie all the same, in case someone had a bow and decided to take a shot.

Once on the far side, they faced a difficult journey through thick undergrowth, and it was mid-morning by the time they emerged from the tangled bushes and ivy. There, ahead of them, was a broad path leading east-west, and lying on the path was a big man in a loincloth. He was motionless, and as they got closer they saw he was covered in ants.

"Poor fellow," said Millie. "He must have been killed while he slept."

Clunk shook his head, because he could see the man's chest rising and falling. It was slow, almost imperceptible, but the man certainly wasn't dead. He put a finger to his lips, and motioned Millie behind him. Then, slowly, he approached the fallen figure.

* * *

Captain Spadell was at his desk, reviewing arrest reports. His guards had been busy rounding up suspects in the Regis case, and since the man was almost universally loathed, there were an awful lot of them. As he turned the pages, he began to wonder whether there were more people in the cells than there were free in the city.

Then he paused as he spotted two names on a parchment. Pentonville and Islington? Why were they on charges? He scanned the page, but apart from 'by the hand of Lord Chylde' there were no actual details.

"Dawson!"

A heavy-set man came in. "Yessir?"

"Why are Islington and Pentonville on my desk?"

Dawson kept his gaze fixed on a distant point. "I think Lord Chylde was annoyed with them. He feels they embarrassed him in front of the queen."

"A nonsense, then."

"Yessir."

"All right, let them go."

"Aye sir." Dawson turned to leave, but Spadell stopped him. "Remember to enter twelve lashes each in the punishment book."

"Will do, sir," said Dawson, and he left.

Spadell shook his head at the stupidity of it all. Their lord and master wanted to look good in front of the queen, so he meted out unwarranted punishment to a couple of decent men. Then he, Spadell, had to waste time generating more paperwork to prove the men had been punished. Of course, there would be no lashings and no punishment, but the book said there had been and so everyone ended up happy - particularly Islington and Pentonville.

A shadow fell across his desk. "I thought I sent you to release them?" said Spadell testily.

"Are you giving me orders?" said a silky smooth voice.

Spadell looked up, then swallowed as he saw the round countenance of Lord Varnish, the master of spies. Torchlight flickered off his bald pate, and with his dark cloak and gloves, it looked like his disembodied head was floating in mid-air. "Of course not. I thought you were one of my men."

Varnish took a seat, unasked. "I have a few questions for you, Spadell."

"Is this an interrogation?"

"Not yet." Varnish eyed the pile of arrest reports on Spadell's desk. "Should I tell the queen to hold another round of executions?"

"First, these are just suspects. And second, don't you mean 'advise the queen'?"

"The queen does what I tell her to," said Varnish. "Now, let's talk about Tiera of the Grey Mountain people."

Spadell's stomach sank, and he struggled to keep his expression neutral. Meanwhile, Varnish continued.

"You released her yesterday, despite her guilt over the High Priest's death."

"Guilt? She was—"

"She was present when he died. I don't have to remind you of the law, surely?"

"A rock fell from the sky! You can hardly blame the poor girl for that."

"She should have been executed, and instead you let her go. I find that most significant, because later that night she scaled Chancellor Regis's tower, plunged a knife into each of his kidneys, and stole a purse of gold coin." Varnish gazed at Spadell with blank, expressionless eyes. "No longer a poor girl, it seems."

"Do you have proof of this?"

"I will get a confession, once I get my hands on her."

Spadell gestured at the paperwork on his desk. "All of these people are suspects in Regis's murder. I'm certain none of them did it, but every one of them would confess if you started torturing them." He returned Varnish's gaze. "Are you looking for the perpetrator, or a scapegoat?"

"If I wanted a scapegoat you'd already be under arrest," said Varnish smoothly. "What I want is Tiera."

"Why her?"

"She broke into the queen's chambers last night, and threatened her majesty with a knife."

"What?"

"Yes. Then, when caught, she claimed it was a stunt to gain the queen's favour. The queen, bless her, turned around and knighted this young woman. The young woman was so moved by this gesture she packed up her things and fled the city before daybreak." Varnish frowned. "It seems she's travelling with an accomplice by the name of Thonn. Are you familiar with this young man?"

Spadell went to reply, but Varnish motioned him to silence.

"Yes, of course you're familiar with Thonn. After all, you released him yesterday as well, prior to his scheduled execution. Let me see now, what was his crime? Oh yes, performing magic ." Varnish leaned across the desk. "You let a practicing mage and an assassin go free, Spadell. What do you have to say for yourself?"

"Sur Loyne came to the cells and beat several prisoners to within an inch of their lives. One of them died on the way to their execution, as I'm sure you're aware. Thonn was the other, and I— I took pity on the lad. He stood broken, doomed, and I thought one last breath of fresh air would—"

"Enough!" snapped Varnish. "Either the lad exaggerated his injuries—"

"No, they were fatal. "

"In that case, his magical powers are stronger than I expected, for he was fully healed when he left the city with Tiera."

Spadell swallowed. He could feel the walls closing in, and his future looked shaky indeed.

"But of course, you already knew this, since you visited both of them at the tavern last night, right after they murdered Regis." Varnish changed tack suddenly. "Your mother … I believe she was a servant at the palace many years ago."

"Yes." Spadell knew what was coming next, and he realised he was doomed.

"She was executed for petty theft, was she not? Stole one of the queen's necklaces."

"The case is public knowledge," said Spadell, forcing the words out.

"Yes, so I recall. The queen found the necklace afterwards. Did you know that? It was tangled up in her underwear drawer."

Spadell shook his head, unable to speak. He'd always known his mother was innocent, but to hear it confirmed was almost too much.

Suddenly, Varnish stood up and crossed to the door, moving like lightning. He looked outside, then closed the door softly, bolting it. Then he resumed his seat. "Spadell, would it surprise you to know we share the same goal?"

The captain stared at him. "Y-you mean—"

"She has to go," said Varnish. "By now, we should be ruling the Barks. Our combined armies should be marching on Elven lands to rid the kingdom of that scourge once and for all. We should be driving the stone people into the sea, drowning those tough little monsters by the thousand. Since the queen will not raise her hand, another must take the throne."

"Who? You? "

"Of course not! I refer to Lord Chylde, for he is next in line."

"You want to kill the queen and put him in charge?"

"Not in charge, exactly, for he is merely a puppet." Varnish smiled. "What do you say, Spadell? Would you see the kingdom united once again under the Mollister banner? Would you see your mother avenged?"

"I have no beef with the Elves, or the stone people, but if it means the queen will die then I am with you," said Spadell at last.

"Excellent, captain. You've made a life-saving choice." Varnish put out a soft, pasty hand, and they shook on it. Then, before Spadell could gather his thoughts, the spy master was gone.

Chapter 2 2

Clunk reached the half-naked man and looked down, intending to analyse the situation before exposing himself to danger. Meanwhile, Millie pushed past and knelt on the ground, cradling the man's head in one arm. She pointed out the red juice around his mouth, then indicated a nearby bush laden with fruit. "Poor fellow. He has eaten of the Forzen berry, which makes men stiff, but useless." She paused. "This, whereas normally they are just useless."

Clunk plucked a berry from the bush, and before Millie could stop him he popped it into his mouth and chewed on it, tasting the juice.

Millie stared at him, aghast. "What have you done? The Forzen berry … it will paralyse you!"

"It cannot, for I am not a man." Unconcerned at the poison washing around his mouth, Clunk finished his analysis. The berry contained a powerful compound which induced paralysis in mammals, although that was already apparent. However, by analysing the compound he worked out the chemicals needed to create an antidote. Keeping the juice in his mouth, he eyed the surroundings, then plucked a leaf here, a twig there and a root somewhere else, tasting each until he had what he needed. Then he crossed to the big, well-muscled man and spat the concoction into his mouth.

"Oh, that is a foul act!" cried Millie, scrambling to her feet and turning away in disgust.

Clunk sat on his haunches and waited. The fighter looked up at him in fear, clearly wondering what this juice-spewing metal-clad monster was going to do next. Then the man's expression changed as his nerves began to tingle, and moments later he sat up unaided.

"Hurm feel again," said the fighter.

"Clunk happy," said Clunk, in the manner of the barbarian hoards.

"Still grossed out," called Millie, who was standing with her back turned. Even so, she cast a sidelong glance at the big barbarian, for he was seriously fit. His loincloth didn't leave much to the imagination either, for the antidote had yet to reach all of the barbarian's extremities.

Hurm saw her looking at him, and blushed. However, his embarrassment was short-lived, because Clunk stood up and helped him to his feet. "We travel to the Bark kingdom," said the robot. "Does your destination coincide? If so, we could travel in company as protection against our common enemies."

Hurm's brow wrinkled. "Hurm go to rocky wastes of the west. Catch dragon for queen."

"Close enough," said Millie. "Welcome to the party, Hurm."

Clunk turned to her. "How is that close? We travel north."

"What would you know?" said Millie. "Last night we travelled south to reach the north."

"I know north and west are ninety degrees apart. I know the kingdom of the Barks has neither rocky wastes nor dragons."

"I want him to come with us," said Millie stubbornly. "The nights are cold and long, and he is warm and bears an impressive weapon. "

"Millie, he is a simple fellow," said Clunk gently. "We can't take advantage of him."

Millie intended to do exactly that, and as frequently as possible. "What about splitting the difference?" she said hopefully. "We could head north-west for now, until our paths diverge."

"The idea has some merit," said Clunk slowly.

"Oh, go on! You know it makes sense."

"Very well. We will strike out to the north-west until we are forced our separate ways."

"Yes!" said Millie, with a pump of her fist.

Clunk indicated the path. "But for now, this route clearly leads to the west, so we have no choice but to follow it."

They set off together, Hurm and Millie walking ahead while Clunk followed them.

"Do you know any heroic songs?" Millie asked Hurm.

"Song?"

"You know. Heroes and wizards and halflings."

Hurm looked at her in surprise. "You have seen Runt? You have met Father M?"

"I don't know who they are. Are they famous? Do you know a song about them?"

"A song." Hurm walked in silence, then cleared his throat and began.

Runt is small and Father M is tall,

Father M is smart and Runt is not.

Runt is a halfling, angry and mean,

Father M is a wizard, rangy and lean.

Runt is a coward and tends to be vicious,

Father M is a wizard of talent capricious .

Hurm shut his mouth, either because the song was finished, or because singing any more polysyllabic words would have taxed his brain beyond safe limits.

"That is a heroic song indeed," said Millie. "Was it penned by the ancient bards?"

"Father M taught song."

"Who is this Father M? Is he your real father, Hurm?"

The fighter looked sad. "Real father hit Hurm."

"Oh, I'm so sorry. Were you beaten as a child?"

"Hurm kill father and scatter limbs across village."

"I guess you got your revenge as soon as you were old enough, huh?"

"Yes." The fighter hesitated. "Hurm outcast at five years old. Hurm … juvenile delinquent."

They walked in silence, and then Millie saw a curious figure sitting on a tree stump ahead of them. It was an elderly man wearing a set of priest robes, and he was supporting himself with the aid of a wooden staff. As they approached, the man scowled at them. "You took your time," he said, addressing Hurm. "I'm practically one with this wooden stump."

"Father M!" exclaimed Hurm, and he hurried forward to greet his travelling companion, leaving Millie and Clunk behind.

"Yes, yes, happy to see you too."

There was a round of introductions. Afterwards, Father M cast a shrewd look at Millie, then eyed Clunk with interest. "A metal man. I have heard tales, but I have never laid eyes on one. Do you speak?"

"Indeed," said Clunk.

"Are you perchance impervious to fire?"

"He is!" said Millie. "Why, when we escaped the city— "

"Excellent, excellent." Father M clapped Hurm on the shoulder. "A good find, my friend. This metal man will be of great use on our quest."

"I have my own quest," said Clunk.

"Not any more." Father M gave him a curious smile, then held two fingers aloft in a pincer gesture. As he closed the fingers … absolutely nothing happened.

"Your gestures will not work on me," said Clunk evenly. "I do not possess a larynx."

Unmoved, Father M gestured at Millie instead, and she fell to her knees clutching her throat, struggling for breath. "So, what say you to joining my quest?"

"Release her at once," thundered Clunk. "Release her, or I destroy you where you sit!"

"Will you aid us, yes or no?"

Clunk didn't reply. Quick as lightning, he bent down to pick up a stone, and in one smooth movement he launched it at Father M with a flick of his wrist. The stone hummed through the air, travelling so fast it was a blur.

Father M was even quicker. Releasing the staff, he gestured with his left hand, freezing the deadly missile inches from his head. He was still holding Millie captive with his right, but was forced to release her when Clunk launched a second stone. Now there were two in the air, and beads of sweat stood out on Father M's forehead as he used all of his primal force to hold off the attacks.

Then Clunk threw a third stone.

"Oh, fudd," muttered Father M, and the new stone zipped past the first two and glanced off his skull, knocking him from the stump. The first and second stones were no longer held captive, and they clattered into the trees behind the wizard. Then there was a thud as Father M landed in the dirt .

"You kill Father M?" said Hurm, reaching for his sword.

Clunk scooped up another stone.

Before they could attack each other, Millie sprang to her feet, getting between the pair of them. "He's not dead, Hurm. Clunk knocked him out to stop him hurting me, that's all."

Hurm glanced at the wizard, who was sitting up, rubbing a large bump on the side of his head. He looked dazed, but was clearly alive. Slowly, the fighter relaxed his grip on the hilt of his sword, and Clunk let the stone fall from his fingers.

"Right," said Millie. "That's enough of your piffing contests. Let's sit down and talk this out properly."

Hurm propped Father M against the tree stump, then stood by with his arms crossed. "Speak."

"Clunk and I are heading to the Bark lands, where—"

"Bark lands!" said Father M, recovering swiftly. "You're taking a metal man into the wooden kingdom? Are you insane? They'll tear him apart, throw him into the ocean and burn you as a heretic." His eyes narrowed. "But I deduce from your accent that you know this already. The question is, does the metal man know?"

"What is the issue with the Bark kingdom?" said Clunk.

Father M laughed long and hard. "Oh Millie, you wily witch," he said at last, before grinning at Clunk. "My good fellow, the Kingdom of the Barks is known as the wooden kingdom, for all metal is banned on pain of death. And yet this fine young lady was taking you there, to your certain doom."

"Clunk can look after himself," said Millie angrily.

"Against a whole army? Don't make me laugh … again."

"The Bark army carries wooden swords. They throw stones. They are harmless."

Father M rubbed his bruise. "By weight of numbers alone, they will overcome your clockwork friend. And to what purpose do you lead him into such a trap?"

Millie pressed her lips together.

"Well, it is no business of mine. Once we've secured a dragon for the queen, you can lead this sorry metal fellow to his doom in the Bark kingdom if that is your desire."

"Capture a dragon? And you accuse me of doomed quests."

"We're only taking a little one, and with the help of your fireproof friend, our quest just became a whole lot easier."

"But why would we help? You cannot force us."

"If you assist, Hurm and I will escort you to the Bark kingdom afterwards. With my magic and his sword, you are sure to reach their borders unharmed." Father M shrugged. "Of course, once you step over the border they'll kill you on the spot, but that's your problem."

Millie turned to the robot. "What say you, Clunk? Should we travel to the rocky wastes and help these people secure a baby dragon?"

Clunk nodded. He needed a dragon for his own ends, and snatching two would be no harder than getting their hands on a single dragonling. The kingdom of the Barks could wait … for now. Slowly, he put his hand out, and he and Father M shook hands. Then Millie shook hands with Father M, and Hurm shook hands with Clunk, and Hurm shook hands with Millie. Getting carried away, Hurm then shook hands with himself.

"The pact is sealed," said Father M grandly. "Let us be on our way, for the city of Last Hope awaits."

* * *

Tiera and Thonn made good time in the hours before dawn. They'd headed west after leaving the city, crossing the river and then following it as it broadened out, meandering through fields on its way to the coast. Although the city was built on towering cliffs, the land to the west sloped gently towards the ocean, and they'd been descending steadily all morning. Tiera was grateful for the half a loaf of bread Thonn had snatched from a table during their hasty flight. They chewed crusts as they walked, making the bread last in case it was the last food they'd see all day.

Now and then Tiera called a halt, and they crept off the rough path they were following to listen for sounds of pursuit. So far there was none, unless the pursuers were quieter and more cunning than Tiera was. She was impressed with Thonn, too, his country upbringing lending him a sturdiness which belied his skinny frame. He didn't complain, either, which Tiera appreciated.

"Where is your village?" she asked Thonn, as they strode along in the mid-morning sunshine. She was more relaxed now the trees had thinned out, since they could see a hundred yards across flat ground in every direction. Unless they were pursued by troops on horseback, or were approaching a line of veteran archers, they were relatively safe.

"Far to the east," said Thonn.

"In Elven lands?" Tiera asked him, surprised. The elves were notoriously protective of their demesne, and their bows had a far greater range than those of human design. They liked to set traps, too, and entering their heavily forested land was all but suicidal. The idea of a human settlement was, quite frankly, unbelievable.

Thonn shook his head. "The elders in my village are not deep thinkers, but they are smarter than that. The village is at the foot of a hill, with a mountain range between us and Elven lands. We do not trouble them, and they have never troubled us."

Tiera walked in silence. She'd been thinking of making for Bark territory, which meant turning north, but a village to the east would do just as well. "Any chance we can seek refuge with your people?"

"Impossible. The elders had me arrested for witchcraft." Thonn glanced at her. "They're superstitious, and the rules of the village are strict. If I go back, they'll kill me."

Tiera pulled a face. She remembered the perlstone necklace the healer had agreed to sell her, and she wished she'd had time to pick it up. The stone pendant had magnified Thonn's powers, and those powers would have been very useful on the long road ahead. All they had between them was her dagger, and that wouldn't fend off a wild dog, let alone the sort of desperate men they might meet on the way. They needed proper weapons, decent rations and travelling clothes. She still had the Lord Chancellor's gold coins tucked in her boot, but they were useless. She'd need a mule with panniers to carry the change from a single guinea.

They reached the woods, where their footfalls were muffled by a thick carpet of fallen pine needles. They walked in silence, with only the rustle of leaves and the creak of branches overhead disturbing the peace. Nearby she could hear an occasional splash from the river, as a fish or a waterbird disturbed the surface.

Then a twig snapped just ahead of them. Instantly, Tiera raised her hand, and they both stopped and listened. Nothing.

Heart pounding, Tiera looked over her shoulder. It was about a hundred yards to the edge of the woods, but if there were people ahead of them, there may be more behind. The river was nearby, but they'd be easy targets for a bowman if they tried to ford it.

She felt trapped, hemmed in, but there was nothing she could do about it. Instead, she kept walking, trying to work out where the attackers were. One on the left behind the tree. Probably another on the right, crouched behind the bushes. More behind them, to cut off their retreat.

Tiera slipped a hand into her sleeve and gripped the smooth handle of her stiletto. Then, before she could warn Thonn, two men stepped into their path. They wore ragged uniforms with battered remnants of Mollister armour, which meant they were either deserters, or they'd looted the gear from the corpses of their victims. "Well, what have we here?" said one of the men, a blonde with a dirty beard. There was a scar down the left side of his face, and his blue eyes were hard and shrewd.

"A pair of lovebirds out for a walk," sneered the second man. He had dark hair, cut short, and he was looking at Tiera with an expression she knew only too well. With a sinking feeling, she realised there was going to be trouble.

"We don't have m-much," said Tiera, lowering her gaze and putting on a nervous, stammering tone. "W-we've just run away together. If our parents find out—"

"Don't worry, love. Nobody's going to find out." There was a rasp as the dark-haired man drew his sword. "In fact, nobody's going to find you at all."

Chapter 2 3

Thonn didn't hesitate. He threw himself at the dark-haired man, grabbing him with both arms. "Run, Tiera. Run! I will hold them so you may escape!"

The man shook him off easily, spun him around and held him with one arm, his sword to Thonn's throat. "Come here," he said to Tiera.

She stood her ground.

"Come here, or I'll cut his throat."

"If I come over, you'll cut my throat too." Tiera eyed the men. "You don't look very fit. I reckon I could outrun the pair of you. And then I'll give your descriptions to my good friend Captain Spadell." She smiled as the name registered with the men. "I see you know the good captain. Well, he's the one who released me from prison. He's the one who gave me the mission we're trying to accomplish. And he's the one who's going to hunt you down and hang you both if you don't let my companion go."

The men looked at each other, a little uncertain. Then the blonde shrugged and drew a throwing knife. "Try running. I'll put this right between your shoulder blades."

Tiera readied her stiletto. It wasn't designed for throwing, but it was her only chance. Slowly, she started to ease the knife from its scabbard, and then she spotted something through the trees, something which had her staring in surprise. She looked so surprised both men turned to see what she was looking at.

There, in the middle of the river, was a small wooden boat. Standing on the boat was a mule, a large metal cage tied to its back, and leaning over the side was a child, paddling furiously as he tried to reach their side of the river. No, not a child, it was a halfling.

They all watched his efforts in silence, and then the mule brayed at them. The halfling looked up from his furious paddling and saw the audience waiting for him on the bank. He took one look at the armed men and darted to the other side of the boat, paddling it twice as hard in the opposite direction.

"Thanks for the help," murmured Tiera, as the boat slowly moved away.

"We could use a mule," said one of the armed men.

"Reckon we can swim out and get him?" said the other, who was still hanging onto Thonn.

Neither of them were paying any attention to Tiera, which was a pity because she was certainly paying attention to them. She darted across the thick carpet of pine needles like a shadow, drawing the stiletto and plunging it into the blonde's back before he was even aware she was there. The second man heard his mate cry out, then let out a cry of his own as Tiera's blade slammed home.

There was a moment of silence, and then both men toppled forwards and splashed face down into the river. They started drifting away, the water around them tainted with their blood, and then Tiera shouted across the river to the halfling. "Hey, you!"

The halfling bent his head and paddled even harder .

"They're dead!" shouted Tiera. "Can you help me get their swords?"

The frantic paddling stopped, and the halfling looked at her. "How do I know you won't kill me too?"

"I am Tiera of the Grey Mountain people. You have my word."

The mule brayed.

"Come on," said Tiera. "Your animal is hungry, and the grass is lush on this side."

"Do I get a reward for helping?"

"You can have their coin."

"Good enough," said the halfling, with a nod. The river was carrying him towards her bank anyway, and he was tired of paddling away and getting nowhere. So, he switched sides again and started paddling towards her, more slowly this time. On the way, his boat passed the corpses of the two robbers, and he leant over the side to relieve them of their weapons and coin purses.

Tiera realised Thonn was still staring at her. In all the excitement she'd forgotten about him, and now she realised the sudden deaths might have shocked him beyond measure. "Thonn …"

"You killed them," he breathed.

"They were going to kill us," said Tiera quickly. "I had no choice, you see that don't you? Just think of all the other people they—"

"You were amazing!" said Thonn, his eyes shining. "Stab, stab, splash … just like a shadow wraith, only twice as deadly!"

Tiera realised she'd been mistaken. Thonn hadn't been shocked into silence by the bloodshed, he was awestruck by her deadly talents. She was going to say more, but at that moment the boat grounded on the stony shore, and the halfling leapt ashore with the mule's rope in one hand. With some coaxing, and a lot of pulling, he managed to get it out of the boat, and the mule immediately started cropping the long grass.

"I am Runt," said the halfling. "Before you speak, I must warn you that any quips about my height will be met with sudden and painful death." He gestured at the bodies floating downriver. "Nice work with the blade, by the way. Am I right in thinking you're a fellow purveyor of the midnight art?"

Tiera gave him a quick nod.

"How many?"

"Five."

"I kill five a year," snorted Runt. "You're just a beginner!"

"I meant five hundred," said Tiera.

Runt just stared.

"So, where are you bound?" Tiera asked him.

"The city of Last Hope, to the West. I intend to capture a baby dragon and present it to the queen."

Tiera and Thonn burst out laughing, and the halfling looked hurt.

"Wait, you're serious?" said Thonn.

"Of course!" snapped Runt. "It's not just me. I have valued travelling companions, you know."

Tiera gestured at the mule. "So I see."

"I'm talking about a highly skilled fighter and a powerful mage. The two of them are more than capable of stealing a baby dragon."

"Anyone can steal a baby dragon. It's getting away from the parents … that's the issue." She glanced at the mule. "Is that your bait?"

The mule raised its head and brayed .

"Don't you go throwing Happy to the wolves," said Runt. "He's a survivor, he is."

"Relax, Happy. I'm sure the dragons will eat your owner instead." She glanced at the halfling. "So where are your travelling companions?"

"They'll be along presently. We got separated."

Tiera smiled to herself. She'd heard that one before. In fact, she'd used it herself when a travelling companion turned out to be a total pain in the arse. Sure, we'll meet up at the tavern two hundred miles from here. Sure. Still, the halfling looked a decent sort, and she could certainly use another weapon in their party. "Would you like to travel with us?"

"Why, are you going to snatch a baby dragon too?"

Tiera glanced at Thonn. What she really needed was to leave Mollister lands, before Lord Varnish got his hands on Captain Spadell and tortured the truth out of him. Once Varnish found out Tiera really had been sent to kill the queen, he'd never rest until his agents got their hands on her. And, to get away, it didn't really matter if they went east, north or further west. "We're heading to Last Hope as well," she said. "Maybe we could stick together until then."

Runt looked pleased, even though he tried to hide it. "I accept, but only if your farm boy takes charge of the mule."

Thonn nodded, and patted the mule on the back. "This cage … is it for the dragon?"

"Yeah."

"It is not very strong," said Thonn doubtfully. He examined the thin twine holding the door closed. "It will not stop a fire-breathing dragon."

"Don't you start," growled Runt. "For your information, baby dragons don't breathe fire."

"No, but their parents do. "

"Son, if a pair of adult dragons breathe fire at us, that cage will be the only thing left standing."

Runt handed Tiera one of the swords he'd rescued, water still dripping from its scabbard. She drew it, swung it expertly, and pulled a face. The blade was ill-made and poorly balanced, and was about as sharp as a dullard's wit. Still, it would serve as a threat, as long as she never drew it. She laced the belt around her waist, and appreciated the comforting weight of the sword at her hip. Runt did likewise, although his own sword practically dragged on the ground.

Then Tiera eyed the boat. She wasn't keen on river travel, but the current was steady and it would save a lot of walking. "Do you have paddles for that?" she asked Runt.

He shook his head. "There were none when I borrowed it."

"The river is not deep. Perhaps poles will suffice." With that, Tiera drew the sword and cut two long, straight saplings. She hacked off the extra branches and tested the poles across her knee, then tucked them under one arm and headed for the small wooden boat.

The mule took a few last mouthfuls of grass, then followed Thonn on board. The boat rocked alarmingly, but settled, and once Runt followed them, Tiera gave the boat a push and stepped in. She threw one of the poles into the bottom, then used the other to propel the boat into the middle of the river.

The current gathered them up, and then the oddball party were on their way.

Chapter 2 4

Wiltred was still dazed by the sudden change in his fortunes. One minute he'd been up before the king on a charge of working metal, a charge which carried the death penalty, and the next he'd been installed in a brand new workshop with half a dozen men and women waiting to do his bidding.

He'd already despatched them to the nearest digging with wooden buckets and wooden shovels, and a wooden cart to fill with ore. He didn't trust them with the truth, so he told them the dense red dirt was a vital ingredient in making clay pots. Meanwhile, Tyniwon was helping him to install the equipment they'd moved from the small shed behind Wiltred's modest home. The heavy crucible had taken six people to carry, and was now in the centre of the spacious workshop. Surrounding it were various pouring moulds, tongs, pokers and other metal implements. There was also a huge, metal-lined oven with a chimney poking through the roof, and a pair of bellows as tall as a full-grown man lying on the floor alongside.

The oven was already alight, with a thick bed of glowing charcoal. When they'd tested the bellows earlier, the streams of air had forced the coals to glow white hot, generating enough heat to warm the entire workshop to tropical levels.

"Are you sure they're not going to execute us?" asked Tyniwon, mopping his forehead with the back of his sleeve. He was a strapping lad in his mid-twenties, his leather jerkin stretched to capacity around his V-shaped chest, and he spoke with a slow, deep voice. With his widely-spaced eyes and open, honest face it was clear at a glance why he was in trouble with so many parents in the city.

"The king asked me to forge metal, and that is what I'm going to do," said Wiltred, his eyes shining. "Hand me my blueprints, for I must prioritise a truly impressive invention as our opening shot in the war."

Tyniwon frowned. "War? What war?"

"Our war against the old guard. Against this short-sighted banning of metal. Against wood, Tyniwon. The war against wood!"

Tyniwon nodded in agreement. He'd spent six months in the Bark kingdom, and while he'd got used to their curious views on metal, he could see their ways were holding the people back. As a Mollister, he supposed he should be sabotaging Wiltred in order to keep the Barks firmly wedded to their wooden age. Queen Therstie would probably reward him for assassinating the inventor. But the truth was he had no time for his half-sister or her quest to unite the Old Kingdom under one ruler: herself. Indeed, he'd be happy if he never met another Mollister for the rest of his life, and he had no intention of returning to the violent, bloodthirsty kingdom.

Meanwhile, Wiltred was leafing through a sheaf of pages held together with wooden pegs. Reluctantly, he turned the page with his plans for a kettle cart on rails, and he flipped over the drawings for a particularly deadly multi-shot crossbow. They needed something quick and easy to make, yet impressive enough to earn the king's continued support. What was it the monarch needed most? A mug or a bowl, that was simple enough.

"How about a coin?" said Tyniwon. "A metal coin with the king's head on it."

"Falsite," said Wiltred automatically. "Do not use the word metal, not yet at least." He thought about his apprentice's suggestion, then shook his head. "We do not have a suitable mould, nor a die, nor the engraving tools and skills to create one. Time is of the essence too, since the king will be here shortly for his inspection."

"Then how about—"

"Wait, I have an idea." Wiltred dug around in a chest, and emerged with a bag of gypsum plaster. "We will take a cast of the king's face, and from that we will create a falsite mask. It will be a daily reminder of our skill."

"You want to cover the royal visage with plaster?" said Tyniwon doubtfully.

"Not me, you. While you're busy, I will prepare the casting mould." Wiltred handed Tyniwon the bag of plaster, and added a small wooden bowl brimming with goose fat. "Be sure to work this into his eyebrows and moustache, for we do not want to remove either."

Tyniwon looked like he was going to object most strenuously, but at that moment a pair of guards knocked on the door to announce the king's arrival. Wiltred hurried forward to greet the monarch, who was wearing a hooded robe to blend in with the commoners. King he might be, but he did not want to be seen entering the workshop.

The workshop was baking hot, and so the king soon discarded his disguise. Then Wiltred spent a happy half-hour explaining the use of various metalworking tools and implements, while the guards waited outside.

"It is fair warm in this place," said the king at last, for the royal sweat was running down his face in a most common fashion.

"Indeed, sire. I have been preparing the oven for a pouring."

"What are you going to make?"

Wiltred explained about the mask, and the king agreed readily to his plan. It was clear he saw himself immortalised in the falsite mask, and so Tyniwon led him to a side room to obtain the plaster cast of his face.

Meanwhile, Wiltred placed a crucible with a metal ingot into the oven and worked the bellows. He wouldn't be able to cast the metal for some time yet, but he was keen to get started and he was sure the king would like to see some progress once the plaster cast came off.

As he puffed and strained with the huge bellows, he was well aware that a cunning man would have tended to the king himself, and left the muscled assistant to do the grunt work. Wiltred, however, saw himself as a smart man, not a cunning one. If the king got plaster in his eyes, it would be the muscled assistant who would be punished.

Once the melting process was under way, he entered the side room to check on Tyniwon and the king. The monarch's face was completely covered by a hard white mass, and Wiltred nodded as he saw the delicate work. Then he realised something which made his blood run cold. "Breathing holes!" he hissed. "You haven't left any breathing holes!"

Tyniwon paused, the spatula hovering above the bowl of plaster. "I wondered why he was so still," he remarked.

Wiltred shoved him aside and clawed at the mask, ripping it clear in one piece. Then he put his ear to the king's mouth and nostrils, trying to detect any breathing.

There was none .

"Oh fudd," groaned Wiltred. "You've killed him. You've killed the king!"

* * *

"Keep your voice down," murmured Tyniwon. "We don't want the guards to hear about this."

"Yes, you're right," said Wiltred sarcastically. "As long as we don't tell them you've assassinated the king, nobody will ever find out."

"Me? You told me to cover his face with this stuff!"

"Well how did you think he was going to breathe? Through his ears?" Wiltred jabbed his forefinger at the king's very inert nose. "You were supposed to use breathing tubes, you great lump!"

"You should have explained the process a little better," grumbled Tyniwon. "How was I supposed to know about sticking straws up his nose?"

"It's just common sense!"

"All right, keep your hair on. I'll get it right next time."

"Next time?" cried Wiltred. "Next time? Are you completely oblivious to the situation we find ourselves in?" He gestured at the king. "They won't just execute us for this, they'll use every kind of torture imaginable and then they'll execute us."

"They won't if you calm down and stop panicking." Tyniwon put his arm around the older man's shoulders. "Before they can accuse us of anything, they have to know what we've done."

"I'll explain what happened," said Wiltred, ignoring him. " They'll torture us both, sure, but they might only chop your head off. You're the one who killed him."

"Listen to me," said Tyniwon, giving him a shake. "There will be no explaining, and there will be no torture, and there will be no executions."

"How? We're metal workers, not magicians."

"There will be no punishment because there will be no body."

"What do you mean?"

Without bothering to reply, Tyniwon gathered the king up and left for the workshop, carrying the expired monarch over his shoulder like a sack of grain.

"What are you … where are you going?" demanded Wiltred, but the younger man ignored him. Moments later, Wiltred heard the furnace door open and close, and when he looked into the workshop he saw Tyniwon applying himself to the big bellows with all his might. Wiltred stared at the scene, mortified, and then he remembered something pressing. "The guards," he said. "The guards are waiting outside!"

"Tell them he left through the back way," panted Tyniwon. "How can they prove otherwise?"

With a furled knot in his stomach, Wiltred went to the front doors. He was about to open them when someone hammered on the wood, almost causing him to faint. "Who is it?" he asked, with a quiver in his voice.

The door opened and one of the guards looked in. "This is taking too long," he grunted. "The king should be well done by now."

"He soon will be," said Wiltred truthfully, recalling the hot coals in the furnace.

"Then fetch him to us, for it grows late."

"You cannot hurry a king, as I'm sure you know. "

"We have to." The guard gestured towards the palace. "He's gotta be back before they miss 'im."

"Miss him?"

"Yeah, this is a secret visit. Clandestine, like. Nobody knows we're here."

"Is that so?" Wiltred thought for a minute. "You know, we've been taking a mask of the king's face, and the rest of the material is only going to waste." He looked at the guards. "Would you like me to take a mask of your faces too?"

"Well, we don't really—"

"Nonsense. Step this way and you'll be finished in no time."

Chapter 2 5

Tiera sat in the prow of the small wooden boat, the soft breeze blowing the hair back from her face. She was also upwind from the mule, which was a plus given its less-than-appealing scent.

Just two nights ago she'd been on the point of killing the High Priest, and if anyone had told her she'd be sailing down-river with such a rag-tag party she'd have laughed in their face. She was a notorious loner, and she couldn't ever recall setting foot in a boat before.

Still, here she was, and she had to admit sailing down the gentle river was better than walking … as long as someone didn't take pot-shots at them from the banks. She felt exposed in the open boat, and the mule was her only cover. Hopefully nobody would bother wasting arrows on them, since the boat would still go sailing by even if all the occupants were dead.

Tiera glanced at the sky, trying to estimate their heading. She'd studied a map when she first arrived at Chatter's Reach, and she was trying to recall the loops and bends in the river. She knew there were many, with occasional settlements along the banks before the river eventually reached the ocean. Despite the meandering course, the general direction was to the west, even though they were currently heading south-east by her calculations.

"Do you have any food?" asked Runt suddenly, his voice loud.

"Thonn might have a crust." Tiera eyed the farm boy, who was asleep in the bottom of the boat. "I will ask when he wakes."

"Don't bother. I already went through his pockets."

Tiera frowned at the halfling. "Do not take such liberties with me, or I will skewer you."

"I know. I only pick on the weak and the helpless."

"Thonn is neither, and you would do well to remember it."

Runt eyed the skinny lad with an amused expression. "What, him?"

"I witnessed his powers first hand."

"One of my travelling companions is a mage. Don't talk to me about magic powers."

Irritated, Tiera rounded on him. "Thonn is more than a match for your creaky old conjurer."

"My wizard would crush your farmboy with a blink of his eye," snapped Runt. "Why, with his magic wand—"

"Thonn doesn't need a magic wand," said Tiera. "He draws his power from the rocks themselves!"

Woken by the argument, the subject of their dispute sat up, rubbing his eyes. Runt took a step back, forgetting he was standing in a boat, and promptly fell over the side with a big splash. The mule was startled by the noise, and as it side-stepped, braying, the whole boat capsized, throwing Tiera and Thonn into the river.

Fortunately the water was not deep, and they stood up again with streams running from their clothes. Runt splashed frantically nearby, until he realised the water only reached his chin. Meanwhile, the mule was upside-down, still tied to the big metal cage with its legs pedalling in mid-air. Thonn hurried over to right the beast, then soothed it while Tiera dragged the boat to shore.

When they reached the nearest bank they wrung out their clothes and emptied the water from the boat. As they squelched around, cursing under their breath, the mule took advantage of the lush grass, seemingly unaffected by the swim.

Tiera waited until the others weren't looking, and quickly checked her boot for the slim purse of gold. Fortunately it was still there, jammed into the concealed sheath which normally held her spare dagger. Her main killing blade was still in its sleeve holster, and the spare was in her other boot.

Having checked her cash and the tools of her trade, Tiera herded everyone back into the boat.

Runt objected. "I think I'd rather walk."

"Do what you please," snapped Tiera. "It's your fault we all fell in."

"I thought your all-powerful wizard was going to crush me like a bug," said Runt.

"Who needs a wizard for that?" said Tiera, and Runt shut his mouth and clambered into the boat.

They set off again, and the sun warmed their skin and dried their clothes. Tiera took her position at the front of the boat and kept an eye out for signs of danger amongst the trees.

Half an hour later they rounded a bend and saw a rough wooden jetty extending into the river, with a couple of flat-bottomed boats tied up. Beyond, extending from the shoreline, was a collection of well-kept wooden huts. Chickens scratched in the dirt out front, and there were flourishing herb gardens and vegetable patches. A couple of children were playing near the water, and as one of them saw the boat, she raised a hand and waved. The other ran into a nearby hut .

Tiera caught Runt and Thonn's attention. "Don't show any weapons. They might be friendly."

"I don't have a weapon," said Thonn, who sounded a little aggrieved the others had at least two each. Runt's suggestion that he sharpen up a stick to use as a spear had been met with the disdain it deserved.

The child returned with an adult in tow, and Tiera saw the woman studying the group in the boat with open suspicion. She had a wooden club in one hand, and from the look on her face she was prepared to use it. "We're just passing by!" shouted Tiera. "We mean you no harm."

The woman was joined by an elderly man, and the two of them had a heated discussion. Then the man cupped his hands to his mouth. "Can we sell you any supplies? We have food, and we're in need of coin."

Without waiting for an answer, Runt grabbed a pole and started pushing the boat towards the jetty.

"It might be a trap," muttered Tiera.

"You think they'll spring a trap with little kids around?"

"Kids? I thought they were halflings."

Runt shot her a venomous look, but Tiera realised he was right. Even if there were half a dozen armed men waiting to pour out of the huts, the kids would be in the thick of any fight. Still, she kept one hand on the sword at her waist as the boat crossed the river on a diagonal.

Their hull thudded into the worn timbers, and Thonn stepped onto the jetty with the bow rope in one hand. He tied it fast, and then Runt and Tiera stepped out.

"Please leave your weapons in the boat," called the woman, who was waiting where the jetty joined the shore. "We don't want any trouble."

"Neither do we," said Tiera. "For all we know, this is a trap. "

Thonn held his hands out. "I am unarmed," he called to the woman. "If you permit me, I will approach and barter for food. My travelling companions can watch from here."

The woman nodded, and after Runt grudgingly gave him a few coins he'd liberated from the robbers the night before, Thonn strode along the jetty towards the settlement.

"I wish we had a bow," muttered Tiera.

"And I wish you had some money," said Runt. "I was saving that for ale."

* * *

Spadell eyed the two guards standing to attention in his office. Pentonville and Islington looked nervous, and no wonder, since Lord Chylde had personally ordered their arrest and punishment. They weren't even sure what they'd done wrong, but they were certain they were going to be sorry for it.

Spadell knew their punishment had already been written into the book, but he had no intention of revealing this minor detail. He needed leverage over the men, for he had a vital task for them. "You don't know this, but Lord Chylde asked me to hang the pair of you."

"Sir?" Pentonville stared at him, clearly frightened, and Islington didn't look any happier. "W-we don't even—"

Spadell raised a hand for silence. "I'm not hanging good men," he said calmly, and he suppressed a stab of guilt as the two of them looked almost pathetically grateful. He didn't like this, he didn't like it at all, but he had to tidy up a loose end and he couldn't take care of it himself. "There's a woman called Tiera, a trained assassin. She's the reason you're both in trouble."

"But why, sir? We patrol the beach!"

"That's how she entered the city," lied Spadell smoothly. "You should have detained her, instead of fooling around with this metal man."

"W-we thought it was important," said Pentonville.

"Yes, and thanks to you Lord Chancellor Regis was assassinated last night. Surely his life was more important than some animated statue?"

The two guards nodded.

"Right. So I'm giving you both a vital mission. You will hunt down this Tiera and put her to death. No arrest, no capture, just swift justice."

"Yessir," said Islington.

"We will scour the city until we find her," said Pentonville. "Rest assured she will never be seen again."

"Your task won't be that easy," said Spadell. "I believe she's left the city already, and is travelling west, to Last Hope. You will use this money to buy supplies, arm yourselves, and set off in pursuit." Spadell tossed them a small leather pouch, which clinked as Islington caught it. "No uniforms, no weapons from the city guard, no armour. Is that clear? This is a stealth mission."

The two guards exchanged a glance, and it was clear what they were thinking. This mission could take weeks, with absolutely no guarantee of success. Travelling the wilds alone, without official orders could end very badly indeed. "Sir …" began Pentonville.

"Yes?"

"I don't suppose we could have the flogging instead?"

"Maybe a month or two in jail?" added Islington .

"Are you refusing my direct orders?" said Spadell softly.

Islington swallowed, and shook his head.

"N-no sir," said Pentonville quickly. "We'll do as you ask."

"Not a word of this to anyone," said Spadell. "It's between you and me. Understood?"

"Yessir!"

Spadell took a scroll from his drawer and held it out. "Officially, you've resigned from the guards after years of faultless service, and you're heading to Last Hope to join their garrison. There's a letter of commendation in here from me."

"Wh-what should I tell my wife?" asked Islington. "Without my pay, well …"

Spadell thought for a moment, then smiled. "I'll make sure she's taken care of." And with that, he gestured at the door. "Go and buy what you need, for you leave in one hour. And don't even think of fleeing, because I have spies everywhere."

The two of them left, and Spadell sat back in his chair. They were good men, and he didn't like manipulating them in this fashion, but he had to dispose of Tiera. With her, Lord Varnish would have a hold over him for all time. Without her, the spy master had nothing but rumour and suspicion.

Chapter 2 6

Thonn returned to the boat with a couple of sacks over his shoulder. Inside were several loaves of bread, half a wheel of cheese, a couple of dozen eggs carefully wrapped in cloth, and a pitcher of milk with a wooden stopper. There was also a decent chunk of ham and a bag with crisp red apples.

"That'll do nicely," said Runt. "But what are the rest of you going to eat?"

Tiera stared at him, and Runt gave her a cheeky wink. Until now, the halfling had been more of a pain than a useful member of the group, but for the first time, she realised he might actually make a decent travelling companion. "I might save you another crust," she said with a smile, "as long as you don't go through my pockets."

As they went over the haul of food, Tiera realised they'd got amazing value for money, since Runt had only given Thonn a few coppers. "You got a pretty good deal," she said. "What did you do, charm them or something?"

Thonn looked uncomfortable. "They didn't take our money. They, er, wanted a favour instead."

Runt and Tiera stared at him. "What did you promise?"

"The settlement is called Breen, and they're being harassed by a group of fugitives. I said we'd take care of the problem. "

"Oh, you did, did you?" Tiera crossed her arms. "Just you and your magic powers, is that it?"

"I kind of thought the two of you would help," said Thonn. "I mean, that bread is really nice, and—"

"Give me strength," muttered Tiera.

"It's not my fault! They told me these criminals regularly come to the settlement to steal their food, and they beat anyone who tries to stop them. They've already killed two innocent people, and I—I thought we could put a stop to it."

"That's what life is like in these places," said Tiera angrily. "The strong take advantage of the weak, and there's nothing anyone can do about it."

"Should we take the food back, then?" asked Thonn.

"Let's not be hasty," said Runt quickly. He'd already caught a scent of the fresh ham, and the smell had made his mouth water. He could hear the eggs sizzling in a pan, and he could taste the creamy milk, and the idea of giving it all up was too much to bear. Of course, they could just row away, stealing the food, but even he wasn't that low. "How many enemies do they reckon there are?"

"Five, maybe six. They were being transported to Chatter's Reach for execution, but they killed their guards and escaped. They have a camp half an hour from here, further downstream."

"So they'll have weapons and armour, and they'll do anything to retain their freedom," said Tiera. "Great. Just great."

"Looks like we're going to run into them anyway," said Runt. "I vote we kill these guys for the Breen eggs and ham."

"I agree," said Thonn.

Tiera was silent. All she wanted was keep her head down and make a quiet getaway from Chatter's Reach. Getting involved in some petty dispute was the last thing she needed. On the other hand, Thonn had already made a promise to the people of Breen, and Runt seemed eager to help. Plus the food really did smell good. "All right, I'm in." She looked along the jetty and saw the woman with the older man standing side by side. Slowly, Tiera raised her hand and waved, and the two of them nodded and waved back. Then she got into the boat, and they cast off.

"How are we going to do this?" she asked Runt. "We're outnumbered and they'll see us coming. If they've got ranged weapons we won't get within a hundred yards of them."

The halfling scratched his chin. "Two choices. One, hide the boat and approach them on foot." He indicated the mule. "We could pretend to be travelling merchants, and try to get the drop on them before they get suspicious."

"What's the other idea?"

"We approach them in the boat, pretend to be travelling merchants, and—"

"You only have one plan, don't you?"

Runt shrugged. "Travelling merchants make great cover."

"Then why exaggerate? That's no way to impress a woman."

"I learned that long ago," said Runt sadly.

Tiera eyed the nearby forest. There was dense growth under the trees and it would probably take all day to fight their way through it. The boat was clearly the quicker option, but also far more dangerous. Then she shrugged. Taking the easy option just led to a long and boring life. "We go by boat. We'll try the merchant stunt, and hope it gets us close enough to finish this off before they realise what we're up to. Thonn, you stay in the boat and keep out of sight. If anything goes wrong …" her voice tailed off. If anything went wrong they were on their own. "If we don't make it, take the boat and … well, try and get away." She thought about the gold coins in her boot, and decided it would be a shame if they ended up with the bandits. If she got the chance, she'd ask Thonn to look after the purse, provided Runt didn't learn of her stash. Travelling companions they might be, but she was certain the halfling would cut her throat for ten gold guineas. Truth be told, she was pretty sure he'd cut her throat for a handful of coppers.

Their plans made, such as they were, they cast off from the jetty and sat patiently while the boat carried them down the river to their almost inevitable doom.

* * *

Night had fallen, and Father M was feeling less than content as he chewed on a mouthful of overcooked squirrel. Oh, arranging the meal had been easy, since he'd snapped his fingers and every creature within fifty yards, humans fortunately excluded, had dropped dead on the spot. They'd had a veritable smorgasbord to choose from, from hedgehog to rabbit to particularly tasty snails.

The small pile of message scrolls they'd collected from the squirrels, prior to roasting the creatures above a roaring fire, had made for entertaining reading, and Father M had stashed them away as potential blackmail material.

Neither of these matters troubled him in the slightest. No, what bugged him was the metal man sitting opposite, the flames flickering and gleaming off its burnished alloy skin. Well-travelled and knowledgeable though he might be, Father M had never heard of such a creature, and such a large gap in his knowledge was troubling. It was proof he didn't know everything, and should anyone discover this staggering fact his reputation would be worthless. Why, people might as well ask Hurm for advice, and the fighter couldn't conjugate a verb to save his life.

Meanwhile, Millie was looking at Clunk too. "You're very quiet," she said.

"His type doesn't speak much," said Father M, with an air of knowing exactly what he was talking about.

"You have encountered such men before?" Millie asked him, surprised.

Father M saw Clunk looking at him, one eyebrow raised, and realised he'd gone too far. "Er, no. But it's obvious from his demeanour."

"I could say the same about Hurm."

They both looked at the fighter, who was oblivious to the attention. He was busy eating the roast squirrels, one after another, pausing now and then to spit small bones into the crackling fire. His face was blank, unconcerned, which wasn't surprising because his brain could only handle one task at a time.

"How will you capture a dragon?" asked Millie suddenly. "There are but two of you, and you have no cage."

"I am wise in the ways of dragon taming," said Father M loftily. "They are simple-minded creatures, and I will have no trouble imposing my will on them, particularly the younger specimens." He nodded at Hurm. "The biggest problem will be getting the dragonling back to the palace before Hurm cooks its flesh and eats it."

"Why would he do such a thing?" asked Millie in surprise.

Father M glanced at her. "There speaks one who has never tasted dragon."

"Those leathery things? Who'd want to? "

"Me, for one," said Father M, with a faraway look in his eyes. "Roast dragon, dragon pies, dragon soup … and I was particularly fond of these delectable little pastries with minced dragon and garlic filling." He glanced at Hurm, who was still stuffing his face with squirrel. "Nothing has tasted half as good since then."

"Say you bring back this dragon for the queen. What will that achieve?"

"Hurm will become the new champion, and if he succeeds in giving the queen an heir … well, let's just say I want to be on that particular gravy cart."

"Train," said Clunk.

"What?"

"Gravy train, not gravy cart."

"You are incorrect."

The robot shrugged. "I may not remember much, but I do have an extensive vocabulary."

"Extensive, perhaps, but incorrect nonetheless."

Clunk was silent, and Father M felt a flash of irritation. What was the point of starting an argument if the other party gave up at the first hurdle? Truth be told, he missed Runt's company. The halfling was a massive pain in the arse, but at least he gave as good as he got. "You two didn't see a halfling on your travels, did you?" he asked hopefully. "He was travelling with a cage on his ass."

"Why does he have a—" began Millie.

"He means mule," said Clunk, with a sidelong glance at Father M. "But tell me, what is a halfling?"

"He's one of the little folk, so named because half the people who meet them immediately wish they hadn't. Bad-tempered bigots, usually."

"The people who meet them?" asked Millie .

Father M shook his head. "The halflings. This particular specimen is called Runt."

"After his father?"

"No, after some particularly inept calligraphy on his birth certificate. Let's just say he was not welcomed into his family with open arms."

"Poor little fellow," said Millie.

"Now I know for certain you have never laid eyes on him, for a meeting with Runt evokes loathing, not sympathy."

* * *

It had taken all day, but the queen's carriage finally arrived at the royal castle, the team of horses flecked with sweat after the steep climb to the top of the hill. Their hooves clattered on the drawbridge, and they slowed as they pulled the carriage beneath the iron portcullis which protected the castle from enemies.

They finally came to a halt, right in the middle of the main courtyard, and servants rushed forward to open the doors and unfold the steps so their queen might alight from her carriage in style.

"Welcome home, Your Majesty," said the castle commander, bowing deeply.

"Thank you, Tammish. Anything to report?"

"Nothing, ma'am. It's been peaceful, no trouble at all."

"Excellent. I trust my bath is ready?"

"From the moment your carriage was sighted, Your Majesty."

At that moment, there was a cry from the gate, and the queen heard hooves thundering across the drawbridge. She saw a rider in rough travelling clothes, wearing a rakish hat and what looked to be a very elaborate sword.

Two guards stepped forward, barring the rider's way, and he reined in his horse with a theatrical flourish. The animal reared, and the rider controlled it with one hand while doffing his hat to the queen with the other. If he'd had a third hand, he'd most likely have twirled his moustaches. "Your Majesty, I bear news from King Larch."

"Let him through," called the queen.

Varnish frowned. "Your highness, he may be an assassin."

"I'm sure you'll give your life to save mine," said the queen tartly. "Now do as I said."

After a moment's hesitation, Varnish gestured at the guards. The rider spurred his mount onwards, right into the square, then tossed the reins to Varnish and dismounted. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and the queen couldn't help noticing his honey-coloured eyes and chiselled features. She decided he looked more like royalty than some travelling messenger, and her heart sank at the realisation. If the news were good, King Larch would have sent any old messenger. To send a noble … that could only mean bad news.

"It is about your brother, Your Majesty."

"Half-brother," murmured Varnish.

"Tyniwon?" said Therstie anxiously. "What news? Has he … fallen?"

"Nay, Your Majesty. He is very much upright, by all accounts."

"That sounds like my dear brother," said the queen.

"Half-brother," muttered Varnish.

The queen rounded on him. "If you don't cut the backchat, I'll make you half a lord," she snapped .

Varnish bowed deeply. "I apologise, Your Majesty. I was merely observing royal protocol."

"Leave my sight this instant, or you'll observe the royal boot."

Still bowing, Varnish backed away, almost tripping over a pile of baggage. As he turned to leave, he shot the queen a glance brimming with venom, and it was lucky for his health that she was far more interested in the messenger.

"Tell me, sire, what is your name?"

"I am Fiyne Grayn of Planktown."

"Surely that's Lord Grayn?"

"I have the good fortune to be a prince, Your Majesty."

"Married?"

Grayn smiled. "Not yet, ma'am."

"Excellent. We will discuss your family tree over dinner. In the meantime, do tell me about my brother."

"My king was eager to let you know that Lord Tyniwon has been living amongst the locals. Indeed, he has been living with many of the locals, mostly their wives and daughters."

"It's a shame he wasn't tasked with extending the royal line," said Therstie, with a frown. "We'd have to build a dozen palaces to house his offspring."

Grayn smiled. "Quality over quantity, that's what I always say."

"I like a bit of quality myself." The queen hesitated. "When does Tyniwon return from Bark lands?"

"I have no knowledge of his plans. Last I heard, he'd only just been found, and I was despatched immediately to set your mind at rest."

"Thank you, that was indeed kind of you." The queen frowned. "I suppose I should go and fetch him, although I am weary of travel. "

"The king would appreciate your visit. Perhaps I might escort you?"

The queen saw Sur Loyne approaching. He was frowning at the newcomer, and the queen sighed as she recognised the way her champion bristled with jealousy. "Actually, I have a better idea." She beckoned to a courtier, bid the woman find the messenger a suitable room, and then turned to Sur Loyne with a welcoming and somewhat calculating smile. "Sur Loyne, you look exhausted. You must rest this instant."

"Nonsense, Your Majesty. It was but half a day's ride, and I would be of little use as a knight if I were not able to ride for many such days."

The queen heard the trap closing on her victim. "I'm glad to hear it, because I need you to fetch Lord Tyniwon for me."

"He's still alive?" said Sur Loyne.

"Indeed. I just received the good news, and I'm eager to be reunited with my brother."

"I thought he was only your half brother?"

"He is of the royal line, and you will do well to remember it."

Sur Loyne nodded, chastened. "I suppose he has been discovered in a tavern at Chatter's Reach? If that is the case, I will return with him before sun-up."

"He's not in Chatter's Reach."

"One of the outlying villages, then. Hiding from his creditors, no doubt. A longer journey, but well within my range."

Slowly, the queen shook her head. "He's with King Larch, of the Barks."

"In Branche, their capital?" Loyne's jaw dropped. "But that's two days ride, through bandit-infested forests, and —"

"Then I will see you in four days. Safe journeys, Sur Loyne."

"But I will need time to gather troops, and—"

"Fiyne Grayn managed the journey on his own," said the queen sweetly. "Of course, he's a prince, and I don't suppose they need bodyguards and such."

Sur Loyne's jaw tightened. "I am more than a match for a moustachioed Bark, Your Majesty. I will find a fresh horse and depart immediately. If I ride hard, I will return in three days."

Therstie bid him farewell, then went off to take her bath and organise some hard riding of her own. The Barks were renowned for their wood, and she was keen to find out what Prince Grayn had to offer in that line.

Chapter 2 7

Sur Loyne was in a foul mood as he strode towards the stables to secure a fresh mount, for it was obvious his queen wanted him dead. Why else would she send him on this perilous journey alone?

On the way he heard a clash of swords, and he paused to watch a training fight between a couple of lesser knights. One, Sur Kah, was a bookish type who was overly fond of rote learning. He could bore a man to tears by reeling off the dates of every event, no matter how trivial, and his knowledge spanned the Old Kingdom's entire history. The other, Sur Pryze, was a cunning fighter who always seemed to get the drop on his enemy.

As he watched them fight, Sur Loyne hatched a devious plan. Why should he travel alone through the wilderness, while these two wasted their lives with pointless swordplay? "Sur Pryze!" he shouted, and both men turned to look. "The queen commands you. Attend me this instant."

The knights lowered their swords, and as soon as Sur Kah's back was turned, the second knight kicked him in the back of the knee and put him in a choke hold.

"Sur Pryze!" snapped Loyne.

"My thoughts exactly," said the knight. He released his opponent and helped him up, his lively eyes sparkling with good humour. "Well fought, Sur Kah. You almost had me that time."

Loyne waited until they were settled, then began. "The queen has news. Her brother is living in Branche, the Bark capital, and we are to retrieve him."

"What, just the three of us?" said Sur Pryze, in surprise.

"I know, I know. A larger party would be so much better, but the queen insists." Sur Loyne waved a crumpled scroll at them. "Our orders are clear. Fetch your horses, for we leave immediately."

"You know, three knights went on a similar quest on this very date, in the year 738," said Sur Kah. "It seems the queen is keen to relive that successful mission."

"Er, yes. I'm sure that's it," said Sur Loyne. He was only glad the other two hadn't demanded to read the scroll, for it was merely a voucher entitling him to twenty percent off his next sword sharpening. For a moment he'd been tempted to send them off alone, hiding out in his lodgings until they returned, but he felt that was pushing things a little too far.

"Can we not wait until morning?" asked Sur Pryze. "It will be dark soon, and travelling late at night—"

"If you're not ready in five minutes, you'll be the only late knight around here," growled Sur Loyne. "And if anyone asks, tell them we're going hunting. It's vital we keep our mission a secret."

The other two nodded, and together they entered the stable to select horses for their journey. "What about provisions?" asked Sur Kah. "Numerous quests have failed due to starvation over the years, including those of 622, 845, and—"

"There's a tavern twenty leagues to the north," said Sur Loyne. "We'll stop there this eve, and purchase what we need before continuing at dawn."

The other two nodded. Twenty leagues wasn't overly taxing, and they both knew the tavern well. They all mounted up, and with a glitter of armour and a clop of hooves, they left the castle via the main gate.

Once they were on the main road, heading north, Sur Loyne began to feel a lot more positive about his mission. If they took it easy, travelling from tavern to tavern, the entire trip would be like an extended booze-up. Most taverns had soft beds, with soft women to warm them, and three knights travelling together would deter all but the most hardened bandits, criminals and renegades. As for those, that was the reason Sur Loyne had chosen the fastest horse in the stables.

* * *

In Chatter's Reach, Islington and Pentonville were having a much tougher time mounting their own little expedition. Swords were hard to come by, since there was little demand, and those poor specimens they did manage to turn up hadn't been worth a tenth of the asking price.

In the end, Islington suggested they walk into the barracks and help themselves to a couple of regular swords.

"The captain said to buy weapons," objected Pentonville, as they entered the courtyard which led to the barracks. "He didn't want us to use guard equipment, since we're supposed to be travelling under cover."

"If we buy weapons, we won't have any money left." Islington shrugged. "Anyway, there's plenty of guard swords in the wilds. Every deserter takes a couple with them."

"What if they think we're about to do a runner?" Pentonville felt his neck. "I have no wish to meet the noose."

Islington ignored his protests, and five minutes later they were in familiar surroundings. Several of the other guards nodded to them, and if they thought it was strange Islington and Pentonville were in civvies, they didn't comment on it.

Islington selected a couple of swords from the rack. They had notched blades, the wrapping on one of the hilts was coming loose, and they hadn't been sharpened for half a century. "They're still better than anything for sale in the city," he said, noticing his companion's doubtful expression. "Anyway, we're going up against a woman with a stiletto. How hard can it be?"

"The Chancellor was murdered with a stiletto," Pentonville pointed out. "Whoever did that scaled his tower, took him out in his own quarters, and evaded the entire city guard afterwards."

"A coincidence, I'm sure." Even so, Islington checked the rack again, in case there was a better weapon to be found. There wasn't. Next, they went to a rack of bows, where they each selected a shortbow and a quiver full of arrows.

"What are you doing, you 'orrible pair?" shouted a voice behind them. The volume was loud, the tone more than capable of splitting solid rock. "Ten … 'hun! "

Islington and Pentonville stood to attention while sergeant Showt, for it was he, came to stare into their eyes from a distance of three inches. His face was beetroot red, and his short-cropped hair looked like a field of corn stubble. "Do my h'eyes deceive me, or h'are you pair of maggots helping yourselves to my property?" he bellowed .

"Please sir—"

"Did I tell you to open your pie hole, maggot? No, I did not!" The sergeant's bloodshot eyes were so close Islington could see the veins pulsing. He wanted to explain, but he also wanted to live. So, he kept quiet.

"Bows and h'arrows, and two of me best swords," yelled the sergeant. "And no roster in sight for h'either of you. Do you know what this looks like?"

"Please s-sir—" began Pentonville.

"Shut up!" shouted the sergeant, standing nose-to-nose with the shorter man. "You will talk when I give the order, not before!"

"Yessir!"

Showt closed his eyes. "What did you say?" he demanded, his voice deadly calm.

"Nothing, sir."

"Nothing is what you are, maggot. An insignificant pile of nothing, living a nothing life in this Zephyr-damned hellhole of a nothing city. Do I make myself clear?"

Pentonville wisely said nothing, for the sergeant was really worked up now. Islington felt for him, but he was also grateful the sergeant wasn't shouting in his own face.

"You!" shouted the sergeant, whirling suddenly and jabbing his thick, tobacco-stained finger at Islington's nose. "Explain!"

"W-we're on a top secret mission," said Islington. "C-c-captain Spadell t-told us to follow a woman and k-kill her. She's f-fleeing to Last Hope."

"He asked you two?" demanded the sergeant, taken aback. "You maggots barely know one h'end of a sword from the h'other. Why on Zephyr's holy sack would the captain send you two?"

"I-it's to punish us," said Pentonville .

"Did I ask you to speak?" shouted the sergeant. He raised one of the swords, turning the blade in the torchlight, and Pentonville blanched as the tip hovered near his earlobe. "Well, you can't take this rubbish on a secret mission," said the sergeant gruffly. "Come with me and I'll tool you up properly."

* * *

Thirty minutes later Pentonville and Islington were weighted down with half the contents of the sergeant's secret weapon stash. There were curved swords liberated from invaders who'd clearly failed to invade, a pair of elven bows with two quivers of slim, deadly arrows each, and two particularly deadly knives with curious grey gems set into the pommels. They also had shiny new shields, sculpted armour and matching headgear.

They bade farewell to their new best friend, who threw them a perfect salute, then obtained horses and rode out through the city gates.

"This stuff's worth a fortune," remarked Pentonville, as he admired the handiwork on the elven bow. "Why d'you think he gave it to us?"

"It's probably been lying around for years," said Islington, with a shrug. "I mean, we can't arm our own people with it, can we? The city guard would look like a rag-tag bunch of mercenaries, instead of a well-drilled fighting force. No, he's probably glad to get rid of it."

For a while they travelled in silence. Silence, that is, apart from the noise of the horses' hooves and the clink and squeak of their weapons and armour .

"I thought he was going to come with us," said Islington at last.

Pentonville shuddered. The sergeant was a hard-bitten soldier with years of experience, but he was also loud, obnoxious and a heavy drinker. With him at their side, they'd be involved in more fights than a fairground boxer. Fortunately the sergeant's duties kept him safely in the barracks, and although the man had sighed wistfully at the thought of a missed adventure, he'd not been able to join them.

Soon they reached the river, where they led the horses across before mounting up on the far side. They entered the woods at a canter, eager to catch up with their prey.

Chapter 2 8

Tiera kept an eye on the bank as the boat navigated the peaceful river. They were heading west, roughly speaking, and the setting sun was getting in her eyes, making it hard to pick out details in the shadows beneath the trees. The woods were silent and oppressive, and she was wondering whether it wouldn't be smarter to look the other way, at the left-hand bank. Then, if they sailed right past the fugitives' camp, she could claim she hadn't seen the thing. She was having second thoughts about the wisdom of fighting half a dozen armed men, especially as the Breen settlers had already given her party the sack of food which was intended as a reward. But no, she'd given her word. Fight they must.

"Hail, travellers!" said a loud voice, carrying easily across the water.

Tiera saw a man in the trees. He was wearing a dented metal chest plate, and he had one hand on the hilt of his sword. Slowly, she raised her hand in greeting.

"Where are you bound?" asked the man.

"We are travelling merchants, heading for the city of Last Hope."

The man laughed. "You'll be travelling a long time, merchants, since that river will only take you out to sea. "

"This is but one step in our journey."

"What's the cage for?" asked the man, nodding at the mule.

"We trade in exotic animals," said Tiera. She decided a small part of the truth wouldn't hurt. "We intend to bring back a dragonling for a very important customer."

"You're going to need a bigger cage," said the man drily.

"For the last time," snapped Runt. "That's the biggest cage I could buy!"

"Steady, little one," said the man, with a good-natured chuckle. "I meant no insult."

"None taken," said Runt, through gritted teeth.

"Won't you stop a while and rest with us?" The man held up a wine skin. "We have a cooking fire, and food and drink to spare."

"Of course they do," muttered Runt. "They just stole it from the—"

Tiera motioned him to silence. "That is a kind offer, sir, but we must travel onwards."

The man eyed the boat thoughtfully, obviously calculating the distance from the shore. Then he shrugged. "Farewell, then. And good luck with your dragons." And with that, he vanished into the woods.

The boat carried them onwards, and Tiera turned to the others. "He's gone to organise an ambush."

"They can't touch us out here," said Runt languidly.

"Really? Did you not see the sling hanging from his belt?"

Runt sat up quickly. "What?"

"He had a sling. It was roughly-made, but if four or five of them launch a barrage of stones at us … we will not survive long."

"We have to get out of here!" said Runt urgently .

Tiera nodded, and together they poled the boat towards the opposite bank. There was a fallen tree by the shore, and after they clambered out, they hid the boat amongst its weed-covered branches. Then they retreated from the shoreline, mule in tow.

"What's the plan?" asked Runt.

"Right now? Not getting killed." Tiera glanced down-river. "It will be dark soon, and they will not find us at night. We will rest until the early hours, then cross the river and seek their camp."

"How are we going to find them in darkness?" asked Thonn.

"You won't, since you will stay here with our goods." Tiera raised her hand. "No arguments. Runt and I are accustomed to this work, while you are not."

Thonn said nothing, but there was a stubborn look on his face.

"I mean it," said Tiera. "Leave the mule here alone, and it might bray and warn the enemy. You must keep it quiet."

Thonn could see the wisdom in this, and he reluctantly backed down.

"So," said Runt. "We follow our eyes and noses to their campfire, take care of any sentries, then … ffft." Here, he drew his thumb across his throat. "Afterwards, we grab any valuables and head back to the boat."

"It does seem the only way," admitted Tiera. She could not imagine persuading the band of fugitives to leave the area, not without a larger show of strength, and even if she did so, they'd simply prey on another settlement. No, a stealthy strike under cover of darkness was the answer. "If we're lucky, they'll drink to excess and the task will be all the easier."

Runt cracked his knuckles. "Sounds good to me. Winning a fight is so much easier when your enemy is asleep, drunk or unconcious."

With their plan organised, such as it was, they sat down to a hearty meal, then lay down to snatch a few hours sleep while Thonn watched over them. Before she turned in, Tiera went to speak with him, passing him the small purse of golden coins. "This is everything I have," she muttered, keeping her voice low so that Runt didn't overhear. From the halfling's snores, she was pretty sure he was asleep, but she was taking no chances. "I'm trusting you, Thonn. Do not let me down."

Thonn nodded, his face serious. "Your money is safe with me, you have my word."

Tiera hadn't shown him the contents, but the weight of the purse, despite the few coins it contained, was enough to reveal its worth. "Anyone else would take this and flee," she murmured.

"You saved my life," said Thonn simply. "I would never betray your trust." He thrust the purse into his loincloth, and Tiera gave him a grateful smile before heading off to find a comfortable spot for some sleep. A spot well away from the halfling's raucous snoring.

* * *

Tiera winced as a twig cracked nearby. So far Runt had fallen over a tree root, twisted an ankle in a rabbit hole, smacked his head on a very low-hanging branch, and lost his dagger … twice. She was thinking about sending him on ahead, so that when the enemy heard all his muttered curses and cries of pa in, she could take advantage of the ensuing scuffle to finish them all off.

She herself moved silently, like a deadly shadow, but that only made things worse because Runt kept stopping to ask if she was still following him.

By the time they reached the camp her nerves were stretched to breaking point, and when Runt tripped over a sleeping enemy, stumbled across the clearing and almost fell into the embers of a large campfire, her patience finally ran out. She despatched the half-awake enemy with a well-aimed thrust then melted into the trees as sleepy voices became alert voices, and sleeping forms became alert, dangerous foes.

Runt was quickly surrounded, and he promptly dropped his dagger and put his hands up. "We surrender," he said, as he looked around the hard-bitten, angry faces.

"We, is it?"

"I mean … I surrender."

"Weren't you travelling on that boat earlier? The one with the dodgy old cage?"

"Not me. I can't stand water. I get seasick in the bath."

One of the men held a sword to Runt's throat. "How many of you. Quick now!"

"Ten. No … twenty," managed Runt.

The men stared around the trees, dimly-lit by the embers. Tiera could tell they weren't common criminals … from their bearing and the way they handled their weapons, these men had military training. Deserters, then, and all the more dangerous for it. She cursed the halfling's clumsiness, quietly, and squatted beneath a bush to await developments. There was little chance of them finding her, and as long as she was free she might as well learn what they intended. As for rescuing Runt … there was no chance of that .

"Twenty, you say. Have you been hitting the wine, little fellow?"

"All right, you've got me. I'm travelling these woods alone, and I thought I could warm myself at your fire. I have no means to light my own, and it was cold."

"What are you doing travelling this late at night?"

"It is the way of my people," said Runt. "We prefer to avoid trouble."

The man confronting Runt beckoned to another. "Fetch a rope. We'll tie him up and decide what to do with him in the morning."

"Might be good eating," said the second man. "Maybe roast 'im up?"

There was a round of laughter, and the men bound Runt hand and foot then tied him to a tree for good measure. Then one of the men looked around the clearing. "Hey, anyone seen Forrest?"

One of the others shrugged. "He's probably off hunting. Told me he was hungry … let him go, I say."

"He's probably getting away from your stew."

"There's nothing wrong with my cooking!" snapped the man.

"No, not if you want to build a brick wall. Eating it … now that's another matter."

Then, grumbling about being woken from their slumber, they settled down to resume their sleep. This time, a sentry was posted on the edge of the clearing, and although he was facing away from Tiera she realised he'd have to be dealt with first. She waited thirty minutes, then left her hiding place and circled the clearing, placing her feet carefully to avoid any noise. When she reached the sentry's position, she broke cover and darted up behind him, clamping a hand over his mouth and ending him with a thrust of her stiletto. When he was still, she let him crumple to the forest floor.

Then she hurried over to Runt and cut through his bonds. She helped him up, and he grabbed a length of tree branch as a makeshift weapon. Then Tiera turned for the fire, intending to finish off the rest of the men. Instead, there was a whooshing noise behind her, and something hit her on the side of the head … hard. The night lit up with shooting stars, and Tiera fell to the ground, stunned but not quite unconscious. Dimly, she felt herself being searched, and there was a string of muttered curses as whoever it was failed to find any valuables. Tiera was drifting in and out of consciousness, but she felt the rough rope around her wrists and ankles as her attacker bound her. Then, as the small, shadowy figure vanished into the trees with the sound of breaking twigs and cursing, Tiera finally blacked out.

Chapter 2 9

The mule shifted, crushing a branch under its hoof, and Thonn tensed at the sudden noise. Fortunately the animal had been quiet so far, and he assumed it was sleeping. It was pitch dark under the trees, and Thonn started at every squeak of a bough, every knock of branch on trunk, and every squeak or chirp from the many night-time creatures going about their business in the woods.

It was hours since the other two had left on their mission, and he was getting worried. Already he could see a faint glow to the east, and he knew dawn would break soon. Now there was a decision to be made: sit quietly and wait for the others, or find out where they'd got to. If he followed them and they were all right, he'd get in trouble, but if they'd been captured and he waited until daybreak, he might never see them again.

Of course, they might already be dead, but he pushed that thought away quickly.

Thonn had no particular loyalty to Runt, but Tiera was another matter. She'd saved him from certain death, put him up in her room at the inn, tried to heal him, fed him, and then travelled by his side as they made their escape from the city. He owed her everything.

He waited five more agonising minutes, then made up his mind. Something must have happened, he knew it, and waiting around wasn't going to fix anything. It was up to him to rescue his travelling companions.

He took stock of his weapons - none - and his armour - none - and then considered his combat training - none. All he had was his wits.

Then, amazingly, he heard voices.

"I told you we should have waited until daylight."

"Yeah, well the sooner we get the captain's little task over and done with, the sooner we can go back to our nice warm beds."

"You're kidding yourself, aren't you? How are we going to find one woman in the entire country? We might as well give up now."

Thonn heard a whinny, and he realised the men were on horseback. They spoke like guards from the city, and he wondered who they were looking for this far from the safety of their barracks. As they got closer he heard the horses' heavy tread, despite the thick covering of pine needles covering the forest floor, and it dawned on him they were heading straight for his position. It was still dark, but they would certainly see the mule tied to a tree. He reached for the rope and started undoing the sturdy knot, but he was too late for the men rode into the small clearing and spotted him.

"Hold fast there!" said one of the men, drawing his sword.

Thonn froze. The men had spoken of their captain, and a mission, but they were dressed like travellers and they didn't have typical guard weapons, nor did they bear the distinctive armour of Lord Chylde's men. Were they deserters? Or worse, were they part of the group who'd been attacking the settlement of Breen? "I'm just a farm boy, heading back to my home," said Thonn, putting on a thicker country accent than usual.

"Really? So what's the cage for, performing mice?" The men reined in their horses and dismounted, swords drawn. "You're not one of these bandits infesting the woods, are you?"

"N-no," said Thonn.

"Tell me, boy. Have you met a woman called Tiera on your travels? Tall woman, dark hair, mid-twenties."

"I have seen many such women, but none told me their names. Why do you seek her?"

"Our captain has a message for her."

Thonn eyed their drawn swords. Whatever their message was, he had a feeling Tiera wouldn't want anything to do with it, which was a pity because he'd been thinking about paying the men to rescue her. Now he just needed them to leave before it got light. "If I meet this Tiera, what should I tell her?"

"Tell her Pentonville and Islington need to speak with her urgently. It's a matter of life and death." The nearest man nodded towards the west. "We're travelling that way, trying to catch up with her. There's a reward if you get word to us."

Thonn eyed their horses. The only way he'd get word to them was if his mule grew wings, but it was useful to know they would be travelling ahead. "I will do as you ask."

"Good. Now be home with you, lad. These woods aren't safe."

Thonn nodded, then watched them mount up and ride off through the trees. As soon as they'd gone he dug Tiera's purse of coin from his loincloth and buried it at the base of a tree. He chose the one the mule was tied to, reasoning it wouldn't be hard to find again.

He wiped the dirt off his hands and headed down to the river, where he waded into the chill waters and swam strongly for the far side. Once he reached the bank, he got up and stripped, wringing his loincloth out in the near-darkness. It was cold and clammy when he put it back on, and he ran up and down the grassy bank a couple of times to get his circulation going. Then he slipped into the woods.

He slid through the darkness towards the embers of a cooking fire, and circled the large clearing until he came across a figure lying on the ground. It was Tiera, and she was lying on her side, tied up. There was no sign of Runt, and he wondered whether the halfling had managed to get away. If so, why hadn't he come back to rescue Tiera?

A sparrow twittered in the trees, the sudden noise startling him. It was getting light, and he could make out three other shapes in the clearing. Three men, asleep on the ground. The woman in Breen had told him there were at least six fugitives, so where were the rest?

Stealthily, Thonn approached Tiera and put his mouth to her ear. "Tiera, it is Thonn," he murmured. "Can you move?"

There was no reply, and he realised she was out cold. Squatting on his haunches, he glanced at the men sleeping nearby. One of them would surely wake any second now, and if they spotted him in the clearing he'd have no chance. He had to get Tiera out of there, and the only way was to carry her. After apologising silently for his presumptuousness, Thonn got his arms under her shoulders and the back of her knees, and lifted her up. His knees almost buckled, for he was only a strip of a lad, and she was a tall, athletic woman, but he managed to stagger from the clearing without dropping her. On the way he saw her stiletto sticking out of the ground, and after depositing her gently behind a bush, he ran back to fetch it. Then he returned to Tiera, cutting her bonds.

"Where am I?" she murmured .

"Don't speak," hissed Thonn. "There is danger!"

Tiera opened one eye, then winced. "What hit me?"

"Later. Can you stand?"

She shook her head, then winced again.

Thonn pressed his lips together. Even if he got her up, they'd be moving so slowly the enemy would catch up with them in no time. There was only one thing to do, and with a set look on his face he gripped the stiletto in his right hand and sneaked back into the clearing. He approached the first sleeping form, clapped his hand over the man's mouth, and stabbed him repeatedly in the chest. He willed himself to his feet and approached the second sleeping man, striving to keep his mind blank. Then, with two of them down, he crossed to the third and finished him too.

Afterwards he ran into the bushes, where he was violently sick.

Once he'd recovered, he cleaned the blade and returned it to Tiera. It was almost light now, and he'd spotted three other bodies on the way back. He found Tiera sitting up, alert, and she eyed him curiously as he handed the stiletto back to her. "Is everything all right?"

"The men will not trouble us any more."

Tiera let out a low whistle of surprise. "You finished them off?"

"They were sleeping. It was not a fair fight."

Tiera stood up, swaying slightly, and put her arm around his shoulder. "Thonn, do you remember what I said earlier, about the strong preying on the weak?"

"Indeed."

"Well, if you're outnumbered, there's no such thing as a fair fight. You did well to save us, lad."

Thonn was silent. He'd never taken a life before, and it had left him feeling empty. Then he remembered something. "Tell me, have you seen Runt?"

Tiera put a hand to the side of her head, wincing as she felt a lump. "You could say that. He's the one who knocked me out and tied me up." She frowned. "He searched me, too, the devious little thief."

"Then it is just as well you left your purse with me for safekeeping."

"Yeah, I'd better take that back."

"I did not bring it with me." Thonn hesitated. "It is safe enough. I buried it next to the mule."

"Then let's go." Tiera put out her hand, and Thonn hauled her to her feet.

"There is one more thing," said Thonn. "I encountered two men riding horses through the woods. They asked for you by name."

"Oh, that's not good."

"They offered a reward for information."

"Even worse. Captain Spadell must have sent them to silence me."

"Naturally, I said nothing."

"It's not you I'm worried about. If they come across Runt, he'll sell them my home address and shoe size for a few lousy coppers."

"Why would he do such a thing?"

"Personal information is valuable, Thonn. The worst kind of rogues and brigands earn their living selling such."

"Then we should collect your purse and move on."

Together they returned to the river, making slow progress. They waded in, and by the time they reached the far side the cold water had completely revitalised Tiera. On the way, she couldn't help noticing their boat had gone .

"It helps if you wring out your clothes," said Thonn. "I will look away."

They stripped, back to back, and water trickled on the ground as they wrung their sopping clothes out. Then they dressed quickly, and Thonn led the way back to the spot where he'd tied the mule up. It took a while, and eventually he realised they'd passed the place in the half-light. So, they turned and made their way back again, until they were almost at the river.

"It must be further along," he said.

Tiera shook her head. "It's Runt. He's taken it."

Thonn frowned. In addition to the metal cage, the mule was carrying all their food. Then something else occurred to him … he'd buried Tiera's purse, and he'd never find the same tree again.

"What's up?" she asked, noticing his expression.

"Your money. I—"

"You did bury it, right? You didn't leave it on the mule?"

"Indeed, it was buried. But … I buried it at the foot of the tree the mule was tied to."

Tiera stared at him, then looked around. All the trees looked the same, and there were hundreds and hundreds of them. "I'm going to kill that little thief," she muttered under her breath.

* * *

"Think, you idiot, think!" muttered Tiera to herself. She had a splitting headache and the parts of her mind which were actually functioning were busy dreaming up plans for revenge. With an effort, she put the back-stabbing traitor of a halfling out of her mind, and concentrated on the hunt for her gold. Why hadn't Thonn marked the spot with a couple of twigs? Why hadn't he kept hold of the purse like she asked him? Why hadn't he …

Her thoughts tailed off. The lad had done his best, and neither of them had guessed Runt might betray them. Thonn was lucky the halfling hadn't stabbed him under cover of darkness.

"Hooves," she said. "Find the mule's hoofprints."

Thonn gestured helplessly. The forest floor was thick with fallen pine needles, and there were no tracks to be seen.

"Not here, under the trees. You left the mule tied up, and it was grazing. The earth will be torn up. There'll be a circle of hoofprints." Tiera's head was pounding, and it was all she could do to string sentences together. Thonn understood, though, and they split up to check all the nearby trees.

"I've found it! It's here!" shouted Thonn, and Tiera almost collapsed with relief. She hurried over to see him digging at the foot of a trunk, the tree surrounded by the mule's prints. They'd missed them in the dim light, but they were obvious now.

Thonn stood up, brushing dirt from the pouch, then handed it to her. Tiera glanced inside, and she felt a surge of relief as she saw the gold coins glinting back at her. "Right, let's get after him. I have a score to settle."

"We should rest. You're not fit to travel."

"I'll rest when I've given that double-crossing little horror what he deserves." Tiera glanced through the trees at the river. "First, we need supplies. We can either return to the fugitives' camp to see what we can find …"

Thonn shuddered, and shook his head .

"… or we can return to Breen, let them know we've dealt with their problem, and ask for some food as a reward."

"Can't you buy some?" asked Thonn, gesturing at the pouch.

"Not with this," said Tiera, and she didn't elaborate. She'd already been betrayed once, and while she trusted Thonn, she didn't intend to let him know there was enough in her purse to buy the entire settlement of Breen, never mind their food stocks. "Come on, we'll walk along the bank until we get to the jetty, then swim across. With any luck they might give us some old clothes as well." Failing that, they could go into the woods on their return, and strip the dead fugutives of their gear, but she didn't reveal that particular plan to Thonn.

Chapter 3 0

"I'm sorry, there's no sign of the king. We've searched his favourite haunts, we've dragged the moat, we've checked the cells in case he got himself arrested as a drunk … nothing."

The chief courtier buried his head in his hands. "This is not happening. Tell me it's not happening." The Three Disputes were waiting to be heard, and for the first time in living memory there was no king to hear them. "Can we delay the ceremony?"

"Another couple of hours, you mean?" The head priest snorted. "I told you his obsession with metal would—"

"It was hardly that," interrupted the chief courtier. Starlow was a pragmatic man, and an honest one. The king had tried to modernise the Bark kingdom, to drag it into the dark ages in his own slow, measured fashion, but it hadn't been an obsession. Then he frowned. "What was the name of that … metalworker? The one from yesterday?"

"Wiltred."

"The king was interested in his progress. Do you think he might have gone there?"

"His majesty? In a workshop ? Why, he'd never do such a thing." The priest gave him a sidelong glance. "Not unless he was obsessed. "

"Did you search the place?"

"I would say they've searched everywhere. But, if you wish, you can give the order to check again."

"I'll send guards." Starlow hesitated. "I know it's premature, but we must consider the subject of succession."

"Why, the king has only been gone for the night. Are you joking, man?"

"The king is missing, but the kingdom must still go about its business." Starlow came to a decision. "I will get the chief constable to handle the Three Disputes today. He can tell everyone the king is resting after a—a fall."

"Is that the best you can do? Why, you might as well announce that he slipped off the privy."

"Very well, the king is recovering from an early morning hunting accident. Is that better?"

"It'll do," said the priest gruffly. "I just wish he'd turn up."

"You and me both."

After the priest left, Starlow rang a small wooden bell. Actually, it was more of a knocking sound than a ring, but it had the desired effect because a guard entered immediately. "You will inform the chief constable he's to take the Three Disputes today."

"Yessir."

Starlow breathed a sigh of relief. Give him a good, solid guard any day. No arguments or protests, just obedience. "Tell me, which of your number saw the king last?"

"Turlin and Parry, sir. The king spoke with them yesterday afternoon."

"Have they been interviewed?"

"No sir. They didn't report for duty this morning."

Starlow's eyes narrowed. He didn't believe in coincidences, which meant these two must have something to do with the king's disappearing act. Had they been bribed to kidnap him? Or had enemy agents killed them to get at the king? "Find them."

"Yessir. How many guards should I put onto the task?"

"None. I want you to get every citizen searching the city. A steelwood sovereign for the man, woman or child who finds either of them."

The guard pursed his lips. "If you offer a sovereign, all the guards will stop looking for the king and start looking for these two instead." He saw Starlow's expression. "I'm just being honest with you."

"Yes, yes. Thank you." Starlow thought for a moment. "Make it a sovereign for the king and a shilling for the guards."

"Er …"

"What is it now?"

"Citizens don't know what the king looks like. They've only seen woodcarvings, and … well, you should try carving wood with another piece of wood."

"Well they can't bloody miss him," snapped Starlow. "He's the one with a crown."

"Yessir." The guard bowed deeply and left in a hurry.

Starlow immediately regretted his outburst. Not only had it been uncalled for, but now there'd be a rash of people dragging in anyone wearing any kind of headgear. Or worse, a rash of people making wooden crowns, putting them on other people, and then dragging them in to claim the reward. Money made people do the most stupid things.

Oh well, he thought. Maybe they'd bring in a close enough likeness, and the palace could use him as a temporary stand-in until the real king was found.

* * *

Four guards jogged down the main street to the old kitchens, which had only recently been repaired and converted into a brand new workshop. They'd heard rumours of witchcraft being performed inside the building, but they were more worried about ensuring a fair share of the reward, should they find the king inside.

"We all agree on an equal split, right?" said one of the guards. "Even if one of us finds him, we all share equally. No bunging a cape over his head and sneaking him away."

The other guards nodded in agreement, and moments later they arrived at the big doors to the workshop. They didn't bother knocking, they just booted them in and rushed inside. Here they found Tyniwon sweeping the floor vigorously, sending clouds of gritty dust into the air. The older man, Wiltred, was busy shovelling ash from the furnace into a big sack. Both froze as the guards entered.

"We seek the king!" cried the first guard. "His majesty is missing, and you will stand aside while we search your workshop."

"Yes, yes, of course." Wiltred tied the sack with a length of twine, his fingers shaking. "Go ahead, take a look around. But I assure you, you will not find the king here."

Tyniwon coughed as the dust got into his lungs.

The guards split up, two of them going into the side room where they found a chair and a scattering of white powder. On a table nearby sat several oval bowls, seemingly cast from plaster. The guard peered inside one, and noticed it was styled like a human face. "You! Old man! What is this witchery?" he demanded.

Wiltred came hurrying in. "My assistant and I were making moulds, nothing more."

The guard picked up a mould and angled it to the light. The outside was smooth, but the inside was a perfect replica of a human face. Being a negative image, it was impossible to recognise the face, but the blank eyes made his skin crawl. "Creepy," muttered the guard. "What do you use it for?"

"It is just art, nothing more. A simple carnival mask."

The guard tossed the mask on the bench, and glanced around the room. There was nowhere for anyone to hide, and it was clear the king wasn't in the workshop. "It's my duty to tell you they're offering a reward to anyone who finds the king. Two guards are missing also, and there's a lesser reward for locating them."

"Excellent."

"All citizens are expected to join the search."

"Yes, of course."

"Sorry to interrupt your cleaning."

"Oh, don't worry about it." Wiltred glanced at the sacks of ash. "Finding the king and those guards … that's much more important."

* * *

The minute the guards left, Wiltred grabbed a backpack and started packing his spare clothes, money, and anything else that might prove useful on his journey .

"What are you doing?" demanded Tyniwon. "We're supposed to help find the king."

"We already know where he is," hissed Wiltred.

"Yes, but we can pretend to look."

"No chance. We're leaving before they discover the truth." Wiltred crammed a few more things into his pack, then shrugged it onto his shoulders. "If anyone asks, we're going to visit the diggers at the ore mine."

"Hey, maybe we could tell them we're looking for the king there!"

"Are you insane? You heard about the reward, didn't you? If they think there's a chance of finding the king out there, half the city will come with us."

"Then we'll be two amongst many."

Wiltred rubbed his chin, for Tyniwon had a point. If a large number of people set off for the mine together, it would be easy to slip away from the group undetected. It would be less suspicious than the pair of them strolling through the main gates with packs and hiking gear. "Very well. We'll go to the tavern and buy supplies for our journey, and when they ask we'll tell them we're going to look for the king at the mine. The rumour will spread like wildfire, and when they all leave we'll blend right in."

"What should we do about all this ash?"

"Leave it. They can spread it on the royal gardens for all I care."

"Do they have such a thing?"

"If they spread that ash around, they'll be royal all right."

Five minutes later they were ready, and after leaving the workshop they took side streets and alleyways to reach the tavern. On the way they saw any number of people looking into water troughs, poking around in hay bales and, in one case, tugging on an old man's beard in case it was a disguise.

The tavern was deserted, what with everyone out trying to find the king. Even the innkeeper had left, and so Wiltred helped himself to a bowl of hard boiled eggs, some of those little skewers with really tasty pieces of meat on them, and a couple of bottles of wine. He left a handful of coins on the bar to pay for their goods, and then, replenished, they left again. Outside, Wiltred approached the first person he saw. "Have you heard the rumour? They say the king might be visiting the ore mine."

He'd barely finished speaking when the woman hurried off, and after Wiltred repeated the 'rumour' to a few others, there was a noticeable drift towards the city gates. Within minutes a crowd was streaming into the countryside, many guards included, and it was a trivial matter to tag along. "You're a smart lad, Tyniwon." Then he remembered the reason for their flight. "Well, some of the time, anyway. Let's settle on cunning and devious, shall we?"

Once safely through the gates, they followed the crowd stampeding north towards the distant mine. Nobody paid them the slightest notice, and after a league or two they stepped off the path into the thick forest. Wiltred took a swig of wine, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then glanced up at the sun filtering through the trees. "We'll need to make good progress before nightfall."

"But where will we go?" asked Tyniwon. "I do not wish to return to Mollister lands."

"Indeed. And the west is uncouth, and full of large dragons. Worse, the stone people inhabit the lands beyond, and they make your family look like saints." Wiltred thought for a moment. "That leaves north and east. "

"I do not like the cold, and in any case there is little to the north of this place."

"Then our choice is made for us," said Wiltred. "We travel east, to the land of the elves."

Tyniwon swallowed. "I'd sooner face the dragons."

"Nonsense. Elves are wise and knowledgeable, and they will be only too happy to welcome a pair of fellow scholars."

"I heard they kill humans on sight. In fact, I was once taught a nursery rhyme as a deterrent against their kind. It's called an elf warning for children." Tyniwon cleared his throat, and after a moment or two he began.

Tommy was a strong boy, healthy and wise,

With a spring in his step and a clear pair of eyes.

One day he went to the kingdom of the elves,

And they killed him.

Wiltred waited for the rest, but apparently that was it. "I too have a song of the elves. Let me begin."

Hark, the woodland elf, lo

See him draw his mighty bow

And if you to the elven kingdom go

He will greet you like a long-lost … er… foe.

With a twang from his string and a whoosh from his arrow

He'll skewer your neck, shooting you down like a sparrow

If you still draw breath and are not yet dead

He'll take out his sword and lop off your head.

As his voice tailed off, it dawned on Wiltred that the song wasn't very complimentary towards the woodland folk. In fact, there were many more verses which were frankly terrifying.

"So you agree with me," said Tyniwon. "Elves are vicious and sneaky, and they're not averse to shooting people in the back."

"But Tyniwon, if they accept us we will be safe from retribution, for no man dares enter the kingdom of the elves bearing arms." Wiltred shrugged. "When all's said and done, it's not like we have any choice in the matter. Plus you killed King Larch, and once we tell them you've been running around snuffing out human royalty it's got to count in our favour."

"I do wish you'd stop bringing that up," said Tyniwon, but eventually he agreed. "That's assuming they give us the chance to speak before they cut our throats."

"Or skewer us with arrows," added Wiltred cheerfully.

Chapter 3 1

Runt sat in the boat as it drifted gently down the river, kicking himself for his greed and poor timing. He was certain Tiera was the assassin behind the Lord Chancellor's sudden demise, and he'd heard drunken rumours of a large payment for the High Priest's death as well. It hadn't taken much to connect the dots, and he'd tackled the woman the moment she was alone, unsuspecting, and most important of all … had her back to him.

He winced. He could still feel the jolt in his arms as the branch connected with Tiera's head. She would not be happy when she came round, and the only saving grace was that he hadn't been able to find her coin purse. Had he laid hands on her savings, he'd have been forced to kill her as she lay unconcious, for fear of retribution.

As it was, if she did catch up with him, Runt was going to plead mistaken identity. In the darkness and confusion, he'd simply mistaken her for one of the enemy. The fact she'd been talking to him when he struck her was a potential sticking point, but perhaps the blow had induced temporary amnesia.

The mule fixed him with an accusing glance.

"I know," muttered Runt. "It wouldn't even fool you, let alone her." He suspected Tiera had left her pouch with Thonn, but the youngster had been nowhere to be seen. She might also have left it with someone in Chatter's Reach, although he doubted it. Assassins kept moving, they did not revisit the scenes of earlier crimes.

As for the timing, Runt realised he'd been a little premature. He should have waited until they were at the gates of Last Hope before making his move, because until then he could have travelled the road in relative safety, accompanied by Tiera and Thonn. Now, not only was he travelling alone, he also had a vengeful assassin on his tail.

On the plus side, he had plenty of provisions, and with rising spirits Runt opened the sack and tucked into a hearty breakfast. Then, stuffed to bursting, he lay down in the bottom of the boat for a well-earned nap.

He woke some time later, unsure how long he'd slept. The boat was moving in a most unpleasant manner, and with each rise and dip, spray blew over the gunwale and hit him in the face. The mule was struggling to stay upright, and as Runt sat up he realised why.

Gone was the river, with its gentle flow and nearby wooded banks. Gone was the still water, and in its place was a broad estuary. Behind, far behind, was the river he knew so well. And ahead, beyond the choppy, salty waves, was the mighty ocean. Worse, the current was carrying him towards it.

The mule staggered again, and Runt stood up, pulling at the stiff knots binding the cage to its back. He had no idea whether the animal could swim, but unless he removed the cage he'd never find out, for if the beast went overboard it would sink to the bottom before it had a chance to try.

As he loosened the rope, the cage slipped down the mule's flank, and Runt's muscles protested as he took the full weight. He managed to stow it in the bows, but before he could return there was a huge splash. When he looked round he saw the mule in the water, swimming strongly for the shore.

Runt cursed. He didn't know whether the mule had fallen or jumped, but it made no difference. Had he been more alert, he could have leapt onto its back and allowed it to carry him to safety. Instead, he was stranded.

For there was a good reason Runt detested water of all kinds … he couldn't swim.

* * *

"I'll mind the gear while you quiz the innkeep," said Islington.

Pentonville nodded. They'd ridden all night, leaving the river behind as they rode due west, and at daybreak they'd come across a most welcome sight. The trees had long since thinned out, and ahead, just off the road, was a tavern. It was a stone affair with a thatched roof, and it stood on the plain like a welcoming beacon.

There were several horses tied up outside, with a pair of servants rubbing them down and ensuring they had feed and water. From inside came the sounds of cooking, laughter and drinking.

"Go softly," said Islington, as Pentonville dismounted. "She might be here already."

Pentonville nodded, and armed himself with a curved sword. Then he passed the reins to a servant, and strode towards the tavern entrance. Nailed to the wall outside was a crude sign:

No Weponz .

Pentonville frowned. As a guard, such instructions did not usually apply to him, but right now he wasn't a guard. If he attempted to enter with his sword, he'd draw attention to himself. On the other hand, if the assassin was inside, he was pretty sure she'd have a knife concealed about her person.

So, he returned to his horse, where he hung the sword from his saddle by its scabbard. Then he took one of the slim, deadly daggers with its curious grey gem, and tucked it into his belt before covering it with his jerkin. "Listen for me," he told Islington. "If I call for help, bring two swords at the double."

Then he returned to the tavern. There was a break in the noise as he walked in, but conversations and laughter resumed immediately as the occupants ignored him. He strode to the bar, where a bearded halfling was perched on a stool behind the weathered counter. "What'll it be?" asked the halfling.

"Two ales."

"T'is a thirsty road indeed," said the halfling, as he poured. Once the tankards were brimming with ale, he put his hand out. "That'll be sixpence."

"There's half a crown extra for information."

"Since when do city guards pay for that?"

"I am no guard. I am a … a traveller, heading to Last Hope with my companion."

"Sure, and I'm a hill giant who shrunk in the wash. Still, it's your money." The halfling leaned closer. "What information are you after?"

"I seek a woman," said Pentonville, and he drained one of the tankards. The beer was strong, and it left a sharp taste in his mouth.

"Oh, is that it? We do offer such comforts, as it happens. What's your type? "

"No, this woman is dangerous and well-armed, and she's wanted for murder."

"That describes most of our girls. Can you be more specific?"

"Have there been any female travellers through your inn this past day, travelling alone or in company?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Are you sure?"

"Are you suggesting I don't know the difference?"

"Very well, but keep an eye out. My companion and I will pass this way again a day or two hence, and we will pay readily for your help."

"This woman you seek. What is her name?"

"Tiera. She may be travelling with a lad called Thonn."

The halfling nodded. "I will ask around."

"Thanks." Pentonville eyed the second tankard. He should probably take it outside, to Islington, but the road was long and there would be other taverns. So, he picked the mug up and drained it also.

"And my half a crown?" asked the halfling.

"It's yours when I get a lead." Pentonville wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then strode outside.

"Any luck?" demanded Islington.

"No, but they'll keep a lookout."

They glanced back across the plain to the forest, then turned to look at the road ahead. "What if she went north?" asked Islington. "She hasn't been here, and we didn't overtake her."

"We might have. We could have passed an army in those woods, it was so dark."

"But we could also ride west for days, getting further and further ahead of her," said Islington.

They both looked back at the forest. That way lay Chatter's Reach, and home. "We will comb the woods," said Pentonville at last. "Tonight, we return here for rest and a hot meal. If she hasn't appeared by daybreak, we will take the road north."

"But the captain said she was heading to Last Hope."

"Have you ever been there?" Pentonville asked him. When Islington shook his head, he continued. "Well I have, and it's a long, dangerous road, with a filthy, dangerous town at the end of it." He thought for a moment. "I swear I heard the captain say she might be going to Last Hope. But she might also be heading north."

"I'm not sure I—"

"There are many taverns on the road to the Bark kingdom, for the northerners enjoy their comforts."

"North it is," said Islington.

"Tomorrow. Today, we search the woods."

The matter settled, they wheeled their horses round and set off for the forest at a canter.

* * *

There were celebrations when Thonn and Tiera reached Breen, and they were each given a large sack of food. Clothes were found for them, and they hung their damp outfits in the morning sunshine to dry.

"I cannot believe our settlement is free of those monsters," said the woman they'd seen the day before. Her children played in the dirt nearby, looking content and happy.

"Have you thought of arming yourselves against future troubles?" Thonn asked her.

"Nay, for they would cut us all down without mercy." The woman shrugged. "It is the way of this land. The strong prey on the weak."

"Have you seen the halfling who was travelling with us?"

The woman shook her head. "Did he fall in battle?"

"No, but he's going to," said Tiera firmly. Then she got up, gathering her drying clothes. "We really appreciate your hospitality, but we must be going."

"Won't you stay? The two of you would be welcome here, and we could offer you lodgings and food."

"And in return, we protect you?"

"Well yes, the thought had crossed my mind."

"I'm sorry, but we're too close to Chatter's Reach for my liking. There is trouble coming for us from that direction, particularly with the guards. We—"

The woman raised a hand. "I do not wish to hear of any crimes you may stand accused of in the city, for I am certain they are misunderstandings. To us, you are both heroes."

"Thank you." Tiera hesitated. "If the guards do happen by …" she began delicately.

"We never saw you."

Tiera bowed, and then she and Thonn shouldered their sacks of provisions and struck off through the forest, heading north towards the main road. When they got there, they found a marker pointing west to Last Hope, and another pointing north to the Bark kingdom. Finally, a third pointed east, to Chatter's Reach. Thonn immediately set off to the west, but Tiera quickly called him to a halt. "We travel north."

"But why? Runt is going this way!"

"He intends to rejoin his companions. If you recall, he mentioned a powerful wizard and a fighter. We are no match for them."

"You can defeat anyone," said Thonn loyally .

Tiera rubbed the side of her head. "Yet I was knocked out by a halfling with a stick. Anyway, you said two men on horseback were also looking for me. If they're on the western road, we should definitely avoid it."

Thonn returned to the crossroads, and they both looked north. The road was paved here, and the small stone slabs were smooth from passing hooves, wagons and boots. "I've never been to the Bark kingdom," said Thonn.

"I've heard of their ways." Tiera eyed his loincloth. "Is that held together with a metal clasp?"

"Bone."

"Good." And without elaborating, Tiera led the way north.

"Won't they guess what we've done?" Thonn asked her. "After all, you told Spadell you would head north."

"Yes, but he wasn't fooled. He will assume I was putting him off my track."

"So you told him you were going north, thinking he'd believe you were going west. Then you went north but soon turned west for a while, before turning east, then north, then west and finally north again? Not to mention the boat ride, and the repeated crossings of the river." Thonn frowned. "Spadell is not the only one who is confused."

Tiera laughed. "You give me hope, Thonn, for a path as tortuous as ours will dissuade all but the most dedicated pursuers."

Chapter 3 3

"Another ale, wench, and make it fast!" Sur Loyne was in a fine mood, having already downed several tankards of the tavern's best. His travelling companions, Sur Pryze and Sur Kah, had been moody at the start of the journey, but now they were getting into the spirit of the thing. There was certainly plenty of spirit getting into them, for they were sampling not only the ale, but every available beverage. They had plenty of money, they were invincible knights, and their leisurely ride to Branche to collect the queen's half-brother looked like it was going to be a very enjoyable trip indeed.

The table before them groaned under the weight of roast suckling pig, dumplings in gravy, venison pies, cured meats, treacle puddings and a token salad. There was enough food for twenty, and the other patrons eyed the feast jealously over their meagre suppers of dry bread and cheese.

"Abed!" shouted Sur Loyne. "Abed, before we're too far gone to enjoy the innkeeper's fine wares."

"But I'm still eating," protested Sur Kah.

"Those are not the wares I'm referring to," said Sur Loyne. He drained his tankard, splashing ale on his shiny breastplate, then banged the empty mug down and gestured towards the rear of the tavern. "Come on, men. Last one to mount their filly pays the bill."

Once safely in each of their rooms, there followed a minute or two of enthusiastic bed-based action, before the knights turned their backs on their paid company and began snoring lustily.

Morning arrived with a shaft of over-bright sunshine, and a distinct chilly feeling. Sur Loyne opened one eye, then sat up in a hurry. Ignoring the stabbing pain of his hangover, he surveyed the room in growing horror. His fine clothes, his magnificent armour, and his exceedingly valuable weapons were all missing.

Sur Loyne thought quickly. Ale had run like water the previous evening, as his hangover attested, and much of it had flowed over his person. Maybe the inkeep had arranged for cleaning? Then he realised his bulging coin purse had vanished too, and his blood ran cold. Unarmed, broke and near naked, he would be a laughing stock if he returned to the palace.

"Zephyr blow me," he muttered. "This is a tricky situation indeed."

He got up, wrapping a sheet around his muscled torso, and made his way to Sur Kah's room. The man was still sharing his bed with a curvaceous woman, but as with Sur Loyne's room, all his belongings were missing. All was not yet lost, for if Sur Pryze still had his gear, they might yet emerge from this mess unscathed.

Alas, it was not to be. "Sur Pryze, Sur Pryze!" cried Sur Loyne, and the other knight sat up in bed, blinking in confusion. Then he noticed the theft of his belongings, and his expression matched his name.

"It's a plot," said Sur Loyne angrily. "The innkeep fed us ale until we could stand no more, and then his women bedded us for hours to distract our attention."

"Many, many hours," said Sur Kah, with a sideways glance.

"All night," said Sur Pryze. "Definitely."

Truth be told, they'd all been so drunk they didn't remember a thing.

"Horses!" said Sur Loyne suddenly.

"I don't recall that part," said Sur Kah, with a frown.

"No, I mean … our horses! Do you think they stole our mounts too?"

They dashed outside, where they found a stablehand watching over their priceless stallions. Sur Loyne checked his saddlebags and heaved a sigh of relief. Spare clothes, his second-best sword, even a purse with a few shillings … all was not lost after all. "And you two?" he demanded. "Has Zephyr smiled on you this day?"

"I've got a half-crown, a dagger and four more shirts."

"I have three pairs of leggings," said Sur Pryze. He handed the others a pair each, and accepted a shirt in exchange.

They dressed quickly, then entered the inn to seek out the owner. Sur Loyne drew his sword and held the tip under the man's chin. Second-best it might be, but it was more than capable of cutting down an unarmed civilian. "Do you know the punishment for stealing armour and weapons from one of the queen's knights?"

"Don't look at me," said the innkeep. "I was serving all evening."

"The girls, then. Our clothes and purses, they were also taken."

"My girls are well paid. They don't need to steal from clients to get by." The innkeep raised one hand, and pushed the point of the sword away. "I imagine your thieves came in the back entrance."

"First the horses, and now this," muttered Sur Kah. "I must have been paralytic, for I recall none of these night-time activities."

Sur Loyne hurried away, and the others followed. There was a door leading outside, and they found a rainwater barrel stuffed with several items of clothing. Sur Loyne recognised his undershirt, and a pair of shorts embroidered with his name which had been a gift from the queen. They up-ended the barrel and rescued their clothes, but there was nothing else of value.

"Who would buy armour and weapons around here?" Sur Loyne asked the barkeep. "Who's the go-to for stolen property?"

"Nothing like that in these parts," said the innkeeper. "Last Hope is a real den of thieves, but it's a day's ride from here. If they left at dawn you won't catch 'em." The innkeeper hesitated. "I see you still have a coin purse."

"Yes. And?"

"There's a bill to be settled before you leave. Ale, and food, and lodgings. And the girls, too." He raised his hand to forestall Sur Loyne's protests. "One day, you will pass through here again. When you do, you'll expect clean food, clean beds and clean girls. You will get the opposite, if you don't pay your bill now."

Sullenly, the knights emptied their purses and counted out their coin. There was only just enough, and unless they could rob someone else on their way to Branche, there would be no more taverns. "We'll have to sleep rough and live off the land," said Sur Loyne, in a hollow voice.

"No more ale," said Sur Kah, despondently .

"Warm beds, too," added Sur Pryze. "They will be a distant memory."

"The queen will reward us for our labours," said Sur Loyne valiantly.

Sur Pryze glanced at him. "These orders from the queen. Did they offer any wriggle-room?"

"What do you mean?"

"Was there a particular time frame, or could we return to the castle for additional supplies?"

"I very much doubt it."

"Let me see the orders, for I have extensive legal training," said Sur Kah. "Why, I could pull a plump dragon through the tiniest loophole."

They all thought about plump dragons for a moment or two, before Sur Loyne shook himself. "Alas, the orders were in my coin purse," he said at last. "I do recall the words 'immediately' and 'with all haste' were mentioned, along with the phrase 'do not return to the palace without Tyniwon, under pain of death. Even if you lose your equipment and money and so forth.'"

"That does seem fairly watertight. And also very specific."

Sur Loyne hoped so, because he'd just made it up. "Let us ride forth, for today's journey will be arduous. We must proceed with all haste, so the queen is not kept waiting."

"I think I still have enough for breakfast," said Sur Pryze, poking through a handful of coins.

Sur Loyne hesitated. "We will sally forth with haste right after breakfast." He glanced at the coins. "Is there enough for a round of ale as well?"

Chapter 3 4

"Happy! Come back!" shouted Runt, but the mule ignored him. He watched, helpless, as the animal swam to shore. He saw it amble up the beach to a grassy knoll, where it began grazing without a care in the world.

Runt sat down and crossed his arms. His companions had abandoned him, Tiera was out for his blood after their unfortunate misunderstanding, and now the mule had preferred to swim several hundred yards across treacherous open water rather than spend another minute in the boat with him.

Lost in self-pity, Runt almost felt like crying, but he consoled himself with the fact that his situation wasn't that bad. Sure, he was heading out to sea in a small boat, but the current would eventually carry him back to dry land. Things couldn't get any worse, he told himself firmly.

That's when the boat gave a lurch.

At first, Runt thought it was the waves, but this motion wasn't a steady rocking … it was more of a surge. It felt like an invisible hand had taken the small craft, propelling it through the water. Runt glanced up at the sky. He wasn't particularly religious, but he was prepared to try anything once. "Oh, great Zephyr, please guide this lost soul to shore. I will raise money fo r charity, and do good works in your name, and not steal anything that isn't nailed down."

The boat surged again, and Runt would have kept praying, except he was still travelling away from the shore. It seemed divine intervention was making things worse, which wasn't surprising given some of Runt's past deeds.

Then Runt noticed something … the rope in the bows wasn't coiled on the seat, it was stretching out ahead of the boat, as tight as a bowstring. Curious, he got to his feet and approached, taking hold of the rope with both hands before giving it a tug.

Immediately, all hell broke loose. A giant, scaly back reared from the ocean surface, not ten yards ahead of the bow, and the subsequent wash almost pitched Runt out of the boat. He clung onto the rope for dear life, and as his world tipped this way and that, he spotted something which made his stomach drop. It wasn't the giant sea snake, for that had already frozen the blood in his veins. No, it was the loose end of the knotted rope, which was firmly jammed between two of the beast's enormous scales.

The sea serpent dived again, swimming just below the surface with a flick of its powerful body. The boat leapt forwards, and Runt was thrown back onto the middle seat. He sat there, petrified, as the little craft zoomed across the water, moving so fast it was almost as though the great Zephyr were blowing it along with huge gusts of laughter.

Behind him, the shores of the Old Kingdom receded quickly, before vanishing over the horizon as though the land of his birth had never existed.

* * *

After an arduous journey, fuelled by a great many messenger squirrels, Father M, Hurm, Clunk and Millie approached the frontier town of Last Hope. By now, Father M had enough dirt on the inhabitants to start a riot, what with his impressive stash of message scrolls. He'd memorised the more trivial efforts, but he was saving the truly salacious ones for the future. Nothing loosened the purse-strings like cold, hard evidence of treachery and adultery. But, as all good blackmailers were aware, the secret was to extract the cash just before fleeing the city. If you went in hard and early, it gave your victim a chance to cut your throat, or organise assassins if they were too squeamish to finish the job themselves.

The buckled metal gates to the walled city stood open, and Father M couldn't help noticing the forty-foot flames rising from half a dozen buildings. The walls themselves were sooty and blackened, as though seared with flame of unbelievable heat. There were cries, too, and shouted orders. Occasionally, there was a hiss as someone emptied a pail of water onto the towering flames, but that was about as useful as feeding a horse from a thimble.

"What happen?" asked Hurm, as he gazed upon the destruction. "Why flames?"

"It was clearly a flood," said Father M.

"Hurm cannot swim!" said the fighter in alarm.

The others glanced at him, but before they could explain the concept of sarcasm, and the fact that floods were generally quite wet rather than hot and flamey, a peasant hurried past carrying a bucket. He was heading to a nearby stream, where several others were filling their own buckets before running back towards the inferno.

"What is happening yonder?" asked Father M.

"Where?" said the peasant, looking all around.

Father M nodded towards the towering flames consuming half the city. "That, unless there's an even bigger disaster I'm not aware of."

"Oh, the fire." The peasant sat down on the upturned bucket. He was about forty, with sooty clothes and red-rimmed eyes. "Well, there was this party of adventurers, see? They decided to hunt a dragon."

"Clearly they failed."

"Oh, they didn't even get started. One of the idiots knocked over a lamp in his quarters."

"But the gates are half melted, and the walls are marked with soot."

"You're not from these parts, are you?"

Father M shook his head.

"Well, that damage dates from many years ago. A marauding dragon used to attack the city on a semi-regular basis, and every time we repaired the gates it came back and melted them again."

"So they stopped repairing the gates?"

"No, they killed the dragon. Unfortunately, the mercenaries charged them so much to complete the task, the city has been bankrupt ever since. No money to fix the gates, and not so much as a cracker to pay for a fire brigade."

"Might I say something, without seeming insensitive?"

"Sure."

"You seem very well-spoken for a person of low birth."

The man shrugged. "I'm not. I'm the mayor. "

Father M's sharp mind instantly recalled one or two message scrolls concerning this very individual, and he uttered a silent oath. He'd been hoping to cash in from those particular scrolls, but this man looked like he could barely afford a square meal. "Times are hard indeed, if you cannot afford robes of office."

"These are the robes of office," said the mayor, glancing down at his sooty, worn-out clothes. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I should probably be getting back with another bucket of water." He stood up, but before he left he gave them all a curious look. "By the way, what are you lot doing in my city?"

"Us? Oh, er, nothing."

"Hmm. Just don't stir up the dragons, okay?"

"Sure. Anything you say."

"When you find a tavern, tell them I sent you. They'll treat you a little better."

"Thanks!" said Father M, and the party headed towards the buckled city gates.

Bypassing the burning buildings, where dozens of people were throwing buckets of water, and dozens of others were cooking steaks on spears, they entered the town proper.

The city of Last Hope was a frontier town, clearly, and there were inns and taverns everywhere they looked. Nestled in between were supply stores selling mining equipment, and exchanges where prospectors could sell gold, silver, and those little stones with sparkly bits in which might or might not be valuable.

Then Father M stopped in surprise, for he'd spotted a store full of magic items. "By the gods," he murmured. "It seems prohibition has yet to reach these parts. That is useful. Nay, that is very useful indeed."

Meanwhile, Clunk had been taking everything in with a critical eye. He'd already spotted numerous building code violations, and many of the inhabitants had a very lax attitude towards health and safety. From the huge, out-of-control fire, he deduced that little would remain of the city unless someone invented, and then constructed, a water pump … and quickly. Leaving the others standing in the main street, he hurried into a mining supply store, where he gathered bellows, wax candles, rolls of fabric and more, while the owner watched with open mouth. Once Clunk had gathered everything he set to work, slitting the fabric into long strips, then frantically rubbing them with the candles until the weave was packed with soft wax. Then he took up a needle and thread, and sewed the strips of fabric into neat tubes, each the size of his wrist and many yards in length. His fingers blurred as he worked, churning out tube by the yard, and when he was done he joined the tubes, forming a pipe which he knew would reach the stream.

Next, he fashioned a filter from wire mesh, and then he took three pairs of bellows and joined them, adding a simple one-way valve and a short length cut from the pipe he'd made earlier.

The final task was to take a metal shovel, break off the head, and pull the wooden handle free of the haft. This left a metal nozzle, which he fastened to the end of his hose with a couple of nails worked through the metal and fabric, bending the ends over to secure them.

Finally, he was ready, and he bundled everything into a handcart and raced from the shop. The owner gazed at the scraps of fabric, broken shovel, leftover nails and fragments of candle, and started writing up an invoice.

Clunk handed the nozzle to Hurm, with instructions to point it at the fire. Then he hurried towards the stream, feeding out the pipe on the way. He passed several people with buckets, who looked at him like he was crazy, but he ignored the lot of them.

When he reached the stream he set the triple bellows down and took up the short feeder pipe. Without hesitating, he pushed his face into the water and sucked in as much as he could manage, before spitting the water into the bellows to prime his makeshift pump. He repeated the process until the bellows were full of water, then dropped the feeder pipe into the stream and gave the bellows a gentle squeeze. They creaked from the strain, but the pipe leading to the city began to swell, and Clunk increased the pace once he was sure the whole thing wasn't going to burst. Water sprayed from one or two joints, and in the distance he saw Hurm jump like a startled fawn as the fabric pipe writhed in his hands. Stunned, the fighter stared into the empty nozzle … just as the first stream of water gushed out. Hurm went down in the dust, which quickly became mud, but Millie grabbed the hose and directed the stream of water onto the flames. As Clunk pumped away, and the water flowed, the flames were slowly doused. Finally, they went out, and the blackened buildings smoked and smouldered and hissed. The people cooking steaks on their spears looked disappointed, but soon vanished to find another fire.

There was a loud cheer, and Clunk looked around to see dozens of people surrounding him. They threw their buckets aside and applauded him, and he nodded and smiled as he accepted their thanks. The hood of his cloak had long since fallen off, but if the residents of Last Hope were surprised by his appearance, they didn't show it.

"A feast," said the mayor, clapping Clunk on the shoulder. "A feast for our saviour." He lowered his voice. "It sounds grand, but we've only got cheese and bread, I'm afraid. "

"It's very kind of you," said Clunk, and he led the cheering citizens through the gates. Millie smiled at him, still holding the hose, while Hurm stood nearby, coated from head to toe in sticky mud. Father M regarded the robot thoughtfully, and from his expression he was not pleased at someone else getting all the attention.

Clunk didn't care. Lots of unpleasant things had happened since he'd arrived in this curious land, but now, at last, he'd done something helpful. It was a start, and more importantly, it might encourage these people to help him in his quest to get home.

Tiera's Lament

Now that you've come to the end of book one

You must purchase book two to continue the fun!

Yes, it's a fantasy trilogy which means lots of money

But at least this series is both cheapish and funny.

Sing!

At least this series is both cheapish and funny!

© Tiera of the Grey Mountain people

The story continues in A Butt of Heads …

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What's next in the Robot vs Dragons series?

A Butt of Heads

When rulers go to war, their armies better measure up …

Coming Sept 2018

Simon Haynes was born in England and grew up in Spain. His family moved to Australia when he was 16.

In addition to novels, Simon writes computer software. In fact, he writes computer software to help him write novels faster, which leaves him more time to improve his writing software. And write novels faster. (yWriter )

Simon's goal is to write fifteen novels before someone takes his keyboard away.

Update 2018: goal achieved and I still have my keyboard!

New goal: write thirty novels.

Simon's website is spacejock.com.au

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The Hal Spacejock series:

Hal Spacejock 1: A Robot Named Clunk

Hal Spacejock 2: Second Course

Hal Spacejock 3: Just Desserts

Hal Spacejock 4: No Free Lunch

Hal Spacejock 5: Baker's Dough

Hal Spacejock 6: Safe Art

Hal Spacejock 7: Big Bang

Hal Spacejock 8: Double Trouble

Hal Spacejock 9: Max Damage (2018)

Available now in ebook and paperback.

The Harriet Walsh series:

Harriet Walsh 1. Peace Force

Harriet Walsh 2. Alpha Minor

Harriet Walsh 3. Sierra Bravo

Available now in ebook and paperback.

New from Simon Haynes

A Portion of Dragon and Chips

1. A Portion of Dragon and Chips

2. A Butt of Heads (Sept 2018)

3. A Pair of Nuts on the Throne (Nov 2018)

Available now in ebook and paperback.

Simon also writes the Hal Junior series for children:

Hal Junior 1: The Secret Signal

Hal Junior 2: The Missing Case

Hal Junior 3: The Gyris Mission

Hal Junior 4: The Comet Caper (2018)

Available now in ebook and paperback.

Maybe you love my work, and you want to know how I wrote it.

Or maybe you think you can do better!

Either way, this straightforward guide should prove really useful:

How to Write a Novel by Simon Haynes

Available now in ebook and paperback

Short Fiction by Simon Haynes

A Piece of the Action

Billy's Book

Catch of the Day

Loss Leader

No Reply

Off Course

Produit d'appel (French)

Sleight of Hand

The Desolator

The Project

Thonn Day

Updown

Yard Fail

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Dedication

I'd like to acknowledge Ian, Mary, Jonathan, Tony, Kathy, Emmery and Dennis, … thanks for the feedback and proofing!

This novel is dedicated to the very first person to pre-order it. Yes, they ordered a copy on June 16 2018, two full months before the estimated release date. You're a legend! (And I appreciate your faith in me …)

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental .