'Crumbs!' Thought Monkey. 'There are crumbs in my bed!'

But how did the crumbs get there?

Monkey was not a midnight snacker. He nibbled no nibbles nocturnal.

Thinking the what might give him some clue to the who, Monkey found his magnifying glass, and picked up a crumb to study it more closely.

He would have twirled his waxed moustache - if he had one.

He rubbed the crumb between his finger and thumb.

The crumb crumbled into even smaller crumblings.

It might have been cake.

Or it might have been a cookie.

Or maybe a cracker.

His pet tortoise, Forthright, had trundled out for his usual morning plod. Three laps around the large rock in his tortorium, then back to the hollow log for a breakfast of moss and yesterday's lettuce leaf.

'Did you make this mess?' Monkey asked him.

If Forthright had, he wasn't saying. But then, Forthright had never really been forthcoming. He was an introvert, preferring the quiet solitude of his shell where, Monkey imagined, he sipped chamomile tea and nutted over that day's cryptic crossword.

But Monkey wasn't crackers! He was certain the crumbs hadn't been there when he'd snuggled under the covers. And crumbs were something he would have noticed.

Somebody had been in his room. And not just in his room, but in his bed! And not just in his bed, but in his bed while he was in it!

But how? There wasn't enough room in the bottom drawer of the dresser for a Monkey plus one.

'Unless...' Monkey thought to himself. '...it was a small plus one.'

Monkey picked up another crumb and held it under his nose.

It didn't smell like much of anything.

He was just about to taste it when he had an idea.

'Wait a minute! What if they weren't crumbs? What if they were mouse poops?'

He looked at the crumb through his magnifying glass again.

No.

Not poop.

A mouse might have left it behind - but it hadn't come from a mouse behind.

It was definitely a crumb.

Monkey held the crumb out for Forthright to see. The tortoise paused in his constitutional to inspect it through the green-tinted glass with a quizzical expression. Like all tortoises, Forthright regarded the world around him with a look of both surprise and mild consternation.

Pondering the possibles, much the same way Forthright often meditated on the complexities of the universe, Monkey decided he could cross Henry off the list of suspects. Cats were fastidious creatures. Obsessive-compulsives. A cat would never have left crumbs.

He could forget about Gus the dog. Gus was a mixed breed; part rottweiler, part golden retriever, part garbage disposal. No crumb could ever hope to escape his keen nose and searching tongue.

'And anyway.' Monkey told his little amphibian amigo. 'Gus is too big to fit in my bed.'

'There must be an explanation.' Said Monkey.

But Forthright had wandered away. Perhaps to play the violin. Or to smoke a pipe.

Gus did not like bananas. He craved no Cavendish and relished no Red Jamaican. He peeled no plantains - period.

'So, why...' He wondered. '...was there a banana skin in his bed?'

'Did you leave this here?' He asked Monkey.

'Crumbs.' Was all Monkey would say.

'Who's Crumbs?' Asked Gus.

'Whose indeed!' Said Monkey.

Monkey thought the crumbs in his bed might have come from a crust of toasted sourdough, but couldn't say so with any real certainty.

'The question we should be asking is how.'

'How?'

'Prexactly.' Said Monkey. 'And why.'

'Why?'

'Why ask why? Because the why and the how will lead us to the who!'

'Go away.' Gus told him. 'You're making my brain hurt.'

'But I haven't examined the evidence!' Monkey protested, holding up his magnifying glass.

'Just go.' Said Gus. 'And take your banana skin with you.'

Henry the cat was shocked and disgusted to find what little was left of half an avocado in his basket.

'Avo-bloody-cado?'

Henry desired no dietary discipline. He much favoured flavour over fibre - always.

Fruit, in Henry's opinion, was one of the many things that was wrong with the world. Vegetables were another. Add legumes into the mix and you had an unholy trinity.

'Avo-bloody-cado!' He repeated himself. 'It doesn't even taste like anything!'

Monkey agreed. 'Soap without the rope.'

Even Gus wouldn't touch avocado.

'Where's all this rubbish coming from?' He asked.

Monkey had his suspicions, but bit his tongue.

He had to be sure.

In the kitchen, standing on a chair to reach the counter top, Monkey trowelled smashed avocado onto an inch thick slice of golden toasted sourdough. Over the forked green smudge he laid slabs of banana like roof tiles. And on top of that, Monkey poured maple syrup. Then he dusted it with an avalanche of icing-sugar, and tucked in a sprig of freshly picked mint.

Carefully setting the plate down next to Forthright's tank of green tinted glass, Monkey stood back - and waited.

It didn't take long for the tortoise to come out of his shell.

'Pour moi?' Asked Forthright. 'For me?'

'Bien sur.' Monkey replied. 'Of course.'

'Sortez-moi d'ici, s'il vous plait? Je ne peux pas atteindre.'

{'Lift me out, please. I can't reach it.'}

Monkey shook his head. 'If you want it, you'll have to come out and get it.'

Forthright looked vexed. 'Alors!'

{'And up yours, too, you hairy little $%&@!'}

But he disappeared inside the hollow log in his tortorium...

And when he came back out, he was swinging a grappling hook attached to a length of coiled rope.

'A-ha!' Thought Monkey. 'So that was how!'

He watched as Forthright scaled the vertical glass wall of his tortorium with all the skill of a mountaineer. Then, with a confident 'C'etait parti!'*, the triumphant tortoise abseiled down the other side.

*{'Here we go!'}

Monkey's marvelous creation was demolished in less than a minute.

Forthright belched.

Excused himself. 'Pardon.'

And wiped his mouth with a folded handkerchief he pulled from somewhere inside his shell.

He thanked Monkey with a nod. 'Merci beaucoup.'

'Don't you like lettuce?' Asked Monkey.

'Il est toujours mou. It's always limp.' Said Forthright. 'Et un gout de carton mouille.'

'Did you say it tastes like wet cardboard?'

For somebody who ate avocado, Monkey thought Forthright was being more than just a little fussy.

'But why in my bed?' Monkey asked him. 'Or with Gus in his bed? Or in Henry's basket?'

'Sortir est facile.' Forthright explained. 'Mais rentrer?'

So that was it. Monkey's little mate could climb out of the glass tank, but wasn't able to hoist his purloined booty back in.

'Et j'etais toujours seul. I am always alone.' Said Forthright. 'Je n'ai pas d'amis. I have no friends.'

Monkey knuckled a tear from his eye.

'You're not alone.' He told Forthright. 'I'm your friend.'

He picked Forthright up, and the two of them hugged.

'Pourquoi dois-je vivre dans une prison?'

{'Why must I live in that prison?'}

'You don't.' Said Monkey. 'Never again.'

He set Forthright down on the floor.

'Allez, mon ami. Go, my friend... You're free. Tu es libre!'

Finis

{The End}

A play

Cast of Characters

The Receptionist / A young woman

The Accountant / An older man

Setting

An otherwise empty train carriage

Act 1 / Scene 1

{The young woman is already seated. The man enters the carriage and approaches her, smiling.}

Acc: Hello, again.

Rec: Hello.

Acc: We really should stop meeting like this.

{The young woman laughs. The man takes the seat beside her with his briefcase lying flat on his suit-trousered knees.}

Rec: How was your day?

Acc: The usual. Yours?

Rec: Isn't it funny, how we work for the same firm, in the same building, but only ever see each other travelling to and from?

{The train begins to move away from the station. The young woman gazes out of the window. The man twists the platinum wedding ring on his finger. The young woman checks her watch.}

Rec: We're running late again.

Acc: Sorry?

Rec: I said we're running late again.

Acc: Better late than never, I suppose.

Rec: How hard can it be to follow a schedule?

Acc: So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

Rec: Who's that?

Acc: Fitzgerald. The Great Gatsby.

Rec: I've never read it.

Acc: Few have. They only say they have to impress their friends at dinner parties.

{The rattle and hum of the train becomes louder as it steadily increases its speed.}

Acc: I was wondering if... If you might like...

Rec: Yes?

Acc: If we might have lunch together, some time. There's an Italian place not far from -

Rec: I eat at my desk.

Acc: Oh, right. Of course. The interminable drudge.

Rec: It's not so bad.

Acc: Don't you ever wonder if there's something better?

Rec: Better than public transport?

Acc: Better than this.

Rec: There are worse. I know what it's like to be poor.

Acc: Someone once said 'Life is how we fill our days between the cradle and the grave'.

Rec: There's a depressing thought.

Acc: Come away with me.

Rec: Where would we go?

Acc: Away. Somewhere. Anywhere. Just away. From here. Away from this.

Rec: Who would feed my cat?

Acc: I love you.

Rec: Don't be silly.

Acc: I'm serious. I've never been more serious.

Rec: But, you're married.

Acc: My wife cares more for her Begonias than she does for me.

{The young woman turns back to the window.}

Acc: And I was alone again in the unquiet darkness.

Rec: You're an odd duck.

{Having reached its destination, the train begins to slow. It's as if the carriage trembles with anticipation. The young woman gathers her coat and handbag, and stands up.}

Rec: This is me.

{The man vacates his seat, standing to let her past. Then he reaches for her hand. Clutches at it.}

Acc: Will I see you again tomorrow?

{The young woman pulls her hand free. Makes her way toward the carriage door on unsteady feet. The train grinds to a stop. The door opens. The young woman steps out onto the platform. She doesn't look back. She doesn't wave. The man slumps into the seat.}

End

A play in 3 acts

Cast of Characters

Ms Flora Winters

Mr Pericles Henry

Washington Winters

Setting

The small country town of Hope Springs - Nebraska - August - 1947

Act 1

A room in Ms Flora's boarding-house.

{Henry enters with a well-travelled suitcase he places next to the single bed. The furniture is a mix of old and new, under-loved and over-polished. There is a wardrobe; bedside table; chest of drawers; curtains at the window; a rug on the floor. The empty left sleeve of Henry's suit jacket is pinned to his lapel.}

{Flora Winters is young for a widow, on the right side of forty, and still an attractive woman, even if, perhaps, she has forgotten so. Her hair is pinned and twisted into a tight bun, as if, were it ever free, it might unleash some wild and uncontrollable passion.}

Flora: It's not much, and you'll have to share a bathroom, but it's clean. Breakfast is at eight. Supper at seven. No guests in your room after ten. I don't abide with smoking inside, or coarse language, or taking the name of Jesus Christ, Our Saviour, in vain.

Henry: I've never taken the Lord seriously enough to feel the need to profane him.

Flora: That's as may be. My son will bring up the desk you asked for.

{A boy of twelve struggles to fit what is obviously a hall-side table through the doorway.}

Flora: Mind the architraves!

Wash: Yes'm. It's heavy!

{Henry takes the table from the boy, lifting it easily with one arm, and places it against the wall, under the window with its drab and wash-faded curtains.}

Wash: We never had a real-life war hero before.

Henry: They're a dying breed.

Flora: We change the linen Tuesdays and Fridays. I'll clean your room then.

Henry: That's fine. You won't disturb me.

Flora: You're right, I won't. I expect you'll be somewhere else. Doing whatever it is you do.

Henry: I'm sure I'll find something to occupy my time.

{Ms Flora leaves. Wash lingers; hands in pockets.}

Henry: What do you do for fun?

Wash: This is Nebraska. Fun hasn't been invented yet.

Henry: Do you read?

Wash: Some.

{Lifting his suitcase onto the bed, Henry opens it and takes out a much read paper-back he tosses underhand to the boy.}

Wash: The O-dee-see?

Henry: You can learn a lot from the Greeks. A man may fail to impress us with his looks, but a god can crown his words with beauty.

Act 2

{Henry sits at the desk, gazing out through the window, tapping the stub of a pencil on a blank page of an open note-pad. Washington enters the room, cradling a globe of the world.}

Wash: I can't find Troy. Can you show me?

Henry: Would that I could, dear boy, but it doesn't exist. If it ever did, it's buried under the sands of time.

{Washington sets the globe down on the desk, obstructing Henry's view of the note-pad, and the recriminating absence of anything of note.}

Wash: Everybody's talking about your speech at the Town Hall tonight.

Henry: Dust on the wind. Old people. Mothers with small children. All that was left of them was charred bone and ash. Of all the creatures that breathe and move upon the earth, nothing is bred that is weaker than man. It is what happens, when they die, to all mortals. The sinews no longer hold the flesh and bone together, and once the spirit has left, all the rest is made subject to the fire's strong fury.

Wash: You talking about the bomb?

Henry: Bombs. There were two of them.

Wash: My father was on the Indianapolis. He died before they could rescue him.

{Henry rests a comforting hand on the boy's cocked hip.}

Henry: And if some god shall wreck me in the wine-dark deep, even so I will endure. For already have I suffered full much, and much have I toiled in perils of waves and war.

{Mistaking the touch for something other, Washington sits on Henry's knee.}

Wash: We're not supposed to. The Bible says so.

Henry: Each man delights in the work that suits him best.

Act 3

{Morning. Henry is packing his suitcase.}

Henry: What a lamentable thing it is that we should blame the gods. To say they cause our suffering, when we, ourselves, increase it by our folly. It is a man's own wickedness that brings him suffering; worse than any which destiny allots him. Sing to me of the man, the man of twists and turns, driven time and again off course once he had plundered the hallowed heights of Troy. A man who has suffered much, and wandered much, has pleasure out of his sorrows. And if something crude, of any kind is said, let the winds take it. For all is as dust on the wind.

arise silver queen

most fragrant of moons

come hence and vanquish the sun

that we might wax the thread

and together stitch the stars

through night eternal

In the Sonoran Desert, there grows a Cactus that has small, perfect peach coloured flowers, and clusters of long, needle sharp spines. Also in the Sonoran Desert lives a small bird with brown mottled feathers. The Finch does not rely on the Cactus for its survival. Nor does the Cactus need the Finch. And yet, time and time again, the small bird with the brown mottled feathers will be seen to perch on the needle sharp spines and try to reach one of the peach coloured flowers with its beak. No one knows why the Finch would do this. Perhaps it is attracted to the colour of the flower. Or, perhaps, it is the sweet scent that compels the Finch. But the spines of the Cactus are often longer than the beak of the small, brown bird with the mottled feathers. And so the Finch will launch itself at the Cactus repeatedly. Each time more desperately. Until, at last, one of the long, needle sharp spines will pierce the beating heart of the tremulous Finch, killing it instantly. This is how it feels to love some-one who does not know they are loved. Always the small, perfect peach coloured flower of our desirous heart is there. And always there is the one long, sharp and piercing, inevitably fatal spine.

Something or someone had been eating Bob's watermelons. Figuring it was more likely someone, or two someones in particular, he stood over a pile of gnawed rinds and spat out seeds and cursed.

'It'll be them Phitzer boys, I spect.' He grumbled to himself, scratching his sweating scalp under his white straw hat.

Now, Bob would never begrudge a child a melon on a hot summer day, but it were manners to ask. And hadn't he told them 'xactly that the time afore, and the time afore that?

'Please and thank you don't cost nothin'.'

It was time to learn them boys a lesson, and Bob knew 'xactly how. He found an old zinc tub in the barn and picked up his hammer, and then he went and sat behind a blackberry bramble to wait. When those Phitzer boys came back to help their selfs to his melons again, Bob would bang the tub and holler, and scare the be-jiggers out of them!

Only they didn't. The day grew longer. And the sun burned hotter. And Bob dozed off. Waking up when the cool of the evening had raised goose-bumps on his bare arms. He waited a half hour more, before he gave up and went back to the house for a bite of supper and a sip of whiskey, telling himself he'd try again later.

The moon was high and bright when Bob crept back to the blackberry bramble. And dress him up and call him Loretta if the pile of gnawed melon rinds weren't higher! Somebody had gone and beat him to it. Somebody who didn't wear no shoes, if'n the footprints in the dust-dry red soil between the rows weren't figments of his 'magination.

That was when he heard it - The soft sweet pickin's of a guitar. Only it didn't sound right. It was too tinny. The kind of twang steel strings might make on a hollow tin. But that weren't possible.

Only one person in all the world ever played a biscuit tin flat-top.

Bob's voice caught at the back of his throat. 'Stumpy?'

'Ain't nobody else,' came the Pan-handle drawl.

'But you're... '

'Dead,' said the ghost of Stanley "Stumpy" Hollers. 'I spect so.'

'Is there really a heaven?' Asked Bob. 'What's it like?'

'There ain't no doors,' said Stumpy. 'No windows, neither. It's all just sunbeams and rainbows. And don't nobody wear shoes. See?'

Stanley wriggled his toes.

Bob hitched his bib-n-braces and scratched his stubbled chin. 'So, your crazy ol' Granny had the right of it?'

'No,' said Stanley sadly, shaking his head and spitting out a watermelon seed he'd been working away at with his tongue. 'But ain't it pretty to think so?'

The Untold Story of Texas Bob Laredo and Stumpy Hollers

Stanley Hollows was a child of the Great Depression. Raised by his maternal grandmother, in the dust bowl of the Texas Pan-Handle, in a one room shack that had a dirt floor, no door, and no glass in the windows.

When Stanley asked his Granny why they didn't live in a nice house like other folks, she told him, 'There ain't no doors in heaven.'

A growing boy can't grow right if he doesn't get the nutrition he needs. The best his Granny could coax out of the parched soil was dandelions. Dandelion tea for breakfast. Dandelion leaves for lunch. Dandelion soup for supper. And if Stanley was ever hungry between meals, there were always more dandelions.

His short legs were an object of ridicule, and it wasn't long before everyone started calling Stanley "Stumpy".

Granny was as thrifty with her affection as she was with her purse, and as crazy as a two dollar watch. But she was all Stanley had. When she couldn't, or wouldn't, buy Stanley a guitar for his birthday, he made his own from a biscuit tin and other bits and pieces found in a junkyard.

The guitar didn't sound right, any more than Stanley looked right, but he could sing. Lord, could that boy sing! He sang in church every Sunday at the Southern United Baptist House of Christ the Redeemer. And had the voice of an angel.

Folks said the Hollows were so poor, even Stanley's hand-me-downs had been somebody else's, and he never owned a pair of shoes in his life.

When Stanley asked his Granny why he didn't have shoes to wear to church, she said, 'There ain't no shoes in heaven. The bless-ed don't need them. They walk around on clouds.'

But then it didn't matter, because when Stanley was singing, people weren't looking at his feet. He sang Peace In The Valley, and May The Circle Be Unbroken, and his heartfelt Were You There (When They Crucified My Lord) caused every soul in the congregation to tremble...

Tremble.

Tremble.

At the age of twelve, Stanley won a talent show at the county fair. First prize was a spot on Hank Holsom's Holy Hour, on a Christian radio station broadcasting out of Abilene, TX.

When his Granny wouldn't pay for a bus ticket, Stanley walked all the way with no shoes, praising the name of Jesus in song, and dreaming of being a star.

"There's a better home a-waiting. In the sky, Lord, in the sky."

The show's host, Hank Holsom, promised Stanley regular appearances. But that never happened.

One night, thinking there must be something better than a crazy old woman and dandelion soup, Stanley wrapped all his worldly possessions in a hand-me-down blue and white polka-dotted handkerchief, picked up his biscuit tin guitar, and ran away from home to join a traveling carnival.

Through the week, Stanley sat in a tent as "The Wild Man Of Borneo", and people paid their two cents to throw peanuts and popcorn at him.

Every morning he knocked on the door of the carnival owner's trailer to ask when he was going to get a chance to sing.

'Soon, Stanley,' was always the answer. 'Real soon.'

In the town of Broderick, Stanley jumped freight and joined the seven piece band at a burlesque theater. Where he started drinking. And fell in love with a tall, blonde exotic dancer by the name of Busty Valentine, whose real name was Misty Pearl. But Stanley was a violent drunk, and Busty left him for a trombone player.

Carrying his biscuit tin guitar, and a broken heart, Stanley drifted from Texas on the east coast, to California on the west coast, and back again. He played in beer joints, and at roadside cafes for the price of a hot meal. He'd bought his first pair of shoes, but they hurt his feet, so he tied the laces together and slung them over a shoulder.

Back in the Lone Star State, he rolled into Laredo like a tumbleweed. And it was there Stanley met Texas Bob.

Texas Bob was a classically trained guitarist, who couldn't find any work for his "fancy pickins".

His real name Moisie Aaron Liebowitz. And he'd been a high school quarterback before dropping out to play at Dance Halls and such.

They sold Bob's 48 Studebaker Champion for the money to make a record at Sun Studio in Memphis Tennessee. The car had cost $1500. They sold it for $300.

'That's cause it were yellow,' said Stumpy.

'What's wrong with yellow?'

'Real men don't drive yellow cars.'

'That's horse-shit,' said Bob, 'n you know it.'

They toured with Johnny Cash, Elvis Presley, and Carl Perkins. On the road, Stumpy developed a drug habit, washing everything down with bottle after bottle of straight bourbon.

They set up as song writers in Nashville Tennessee. When they couldn't get anyone to sing their songs, Texas Bob said to Stumpy, 'Why don't you do it?'

The record went to number one on the country charts, with titles like My Ex-wife Came Back (And Burnt My House Down), and A Dog Called Tiddles (He Squats When He Piddles).

They won a Country Music Award, and then a Grammy, for best original song. They performed at the Grand Ole Opry, and toured to sold out performances all over America.

Stumpy spent $2,000 on a pair of crafted, tooled spanish leather cowboy boots. Only to get drunk one night, and wake up in an alley the next morning to find his boots had been stolen.

'Why don't I have shoes for church, Granny?'

'There ain't no shoes in heaven, child.'

They never had another hit song.

They started fighting.

Texas Bob left to buy a watermelon farm in Dripping Springs, 23 miles west of Austin, in the Texas Hill Country.

Back in Nashville, Stumpy recorded an album of duets with Tammy Wynette. But the album was never released after Stumpy was caught trying to cross the Mexican border with his pockets stuffed full of cocaine.

His defense attorney argued the drugs were for personal use, but the Judge wasn't buying it, and sentenced Stumpy to twelve years in the State Penitentiary, with the chance of parole after six.

Released from jail, Stumpy found a job sweeping floors at a bar called The Whistle Stop Ribs N Wings. In the early hours of the morning, after everyone had staggered home, he would sit on stage and sing to an empty room.

Then, one night, he had the none too bright idea of stealing from the cash register. He "borrowed" the bar owner's pick-up truck, a bottle of Jack Daniels, and drunk at the wheel, he was killed in a head on collision with a school bus.

Texas Bob came to Stumpy's funeral. It was just Bob, the Preacher, Stumpy's coffin, and the rain. He was buried with no shoes on.

You don't need shoes when you're walking on clouds.

Texas Bob went back to his watermelon farm.

So ends the true, if tragic, tale of Texas Bob Laredo and Stumpy Hollers.

Part 1 of The Wizard Of Whyr

No one in the village thought her odd or peculiar at first. Scrubbed clean of the muck and filth of the forest, the child was thought to be uncommonly fair. But fey she was. And fey she proved to be.

The child could recall no memory of having a mother or father, nor any kind of family at all, before the crofter had come across her, wandering lost and alone.

She had fallen from the sky, she said, and so they called her Raindrop.

By some dark magic, her thoughts became realities. The child need only imagine herself biting into a soft ripe peach and the fruit would appear in her hand. She thought her narrow cot with its coarse woollen blanket cold and uncomfortable, and slept that night in a proper bed, under a thick quilt of goose-down. The small dank cottage of the crofter who had taken her in became a spacious house, two stories high with a thatched and gabled roof, and filled with sunlight streaming through leaded-glass windows. There were servants to bathe and dress and cook for her. And instead of an old cart, there was a fine and handsome carriage, drawn by a team of four white horses in jingling harness.

When the crofter worried how he was going to pay the servants and feed and keep the horses with only the few coppers in his purse, she changed them for gold. A grove of alder trees became an apple orchard. Grape vines covered what had been a bare and barren hill-side. Fields of barley and corn ready for the harvesting appeared where before there was nothing but marsh and bog. And the crofter himself awoke one morning to find his bald pate crowned with thick black curls, and his mouth full of strong white teeth in place of those that were once yellow and rotten. His crooked stoop was gone, and his bones no longer ached, nor did his joints creak. His eyes and ears were as sharp as they had been in his youth.

She cured the sick and healed the lame, the old and infirm, those whose minds were afflicted with the moon madness. Livestock grew fat in fertile green pastures. Geese and chickens lay eggs with double yolks. There was wheat enough to grind until heavy sacks of flour were stacked to the mill's rafters. No one in the village need go hungry, nor fear the cruel bite of winter when their larders were empty.

Such a change in fortune could never be kept a secret for long, and as word of the witching child spread, so with it gathered the crows - wicked souls who sought to use her gift for their own profit; but she would suffer no such evil to prosper, and the cruel and the corrupt simply vanished, never to be seen again. Only then did the people of the village begin to wonder what the child might do next. And even though the girl had never harmed any of the villagers, they were country folke, and it was in their nature to fear what they could not explain.

Nor could the child explain her mysterious powers, or where she, or they, had come from.

She was an angel, some said. A blessing from the heavens.

Others believed her to be faerie. A wood-nymph.

But nymphs did not fall from the sky. They were of the earth. Bound to the old and sacred places by bonds they could not break.

A witch.

A miracle.

A puzzle.

Rumour and gossip brought an old man to the village. His robe and cloak were of no particular colour, but shifted with the light from brown to green to blue, like the feathered wings of a kingfisher. He walked with the aid of a tall staff, and told any villager he met that he wished only to ask the child if she might soothe his bunions.

The inn-keeper's goodly wife said to soak his feet in vinegar while he waited, and brought him a jug of it, along with a basin and a towel.

You're too kind, said the old man.

Pish-posh, replied the inn-keeper's wife. Brown vinegar for bunions, my old mother used to say, and white for blisters.

A boy was sent to fetch the crofter - who appeared with the child some short time later.

Raindrop looked at the old man curiously.

I know you, she said. You are the wizard... Aldhyrwoode.

And I know you, said the wizard. You are the Dragon's Pearl.

The Dragon I speak of, said Aldhywoode, is the Emperor of Qin Xa. And Raindrop is his daughter.

The crofter couldn't hide his disbelief. Does she look Qin to you?

The Emperor of Qin Xa is not of the Qin, Aldhyrwoode told him, but of a far more ancient race. The child looks like any other human girl, but perhaps you cannot see her as clearly as I do.

I found her in the forest, said the crofter, almost petulantly, and the forest is a long way from the Jade Temple.

It is, agreed the wizard, but not for a flying machine.

The crofter looked lost. Eh?

Aldhyrwoode lit his pipe. Order us a pint of the inn-keeper's best, he said. And something for the girl.

Raindrop had been listening the whole time. Tell me more about my father, she said. Why don't I remember him? Do I have a mother?

And how did the child know you? Added the crofter, returning with two foaming mugs of ale and a glass of cold butter-milk. When she doesn't know her own name. Her real name. Or anything of her past.

So many questions, sighed Aldhyrwoode. You had better get another round in. It's a long story.

Your father's name is Ataam, he told the child. And yours is Eav. Your home is a palace built on the side of a high mountain, that rises above still more mountains, and these mountains are said to be the highest in the world. The Qin call these mountains The Stairs To The Eternal Throne. And your father, The Dragon Emperor, is believed to be the Sky God come to earth. Your powers come from your mother, but I cannot tell you her name, or where she is. That is something you must ask your father.

When can I see him? She asked.

Soon, said Aldhyrwoode. He is already on his way here.

And what of me? Asked the crofter. I love the child like she was mine own. What if I don't want to hand her over?

Would you really be so selfish? Said Aldhyrwoode. Or so foolish? Eav does not belong here. She does not belong to you. Or to this village.

Others might not agree.

Then you must convince them. You are a good man. They are good folke. And none of you can say you have been poorly rewarded for your kindness. Must I tell you right from wrong?

The crofter looked at the girl and shook his head. No. But it might be wise if...

The wizard touched a fingertip to his nose If Eav was to vanish as mysteriously as she appeared.

Why don't I? Asked Eav. I could think myself home.

Then you would be there, said Aldhyrwoode, and your father would be here.

Oh. Right. So I should wait? Why do you smell of vinegar?

Aldhyrwoode had forgotten all about his soaking feet under the table. He pulled them out of the basin and wiped them dry with the towel.

Eav laughed and said, You don't really have bunions, do you?

I really do, said Aldhyrwoode. And the inn-keeper's wife was right. They don't ache at all now!

Where does Raindrop - Eav - know you from? The crofter asked. Have you met before? Is her memory returning?

It is her blessing and her curse to know everything and everyone, said Aldhyrwoode. It was Eav who created the world with her thoughts. She is Mother Earth. And we are all her children. And - Aldhyrwoode held up a hand - before you say she is still only a child herself, Eav is older than time. The child you see is not who she really is.

Then why does she not remember? Said the crofter. Making the world is not something you would forget.

Oh, I don't know, said Aldhyrwoode. I'm always forgetting where I left my keys, or my spectacles, or my hat...

This is no time to jest!

Who's joking? I don't see anything funny about it.

Tell me about the flying machines, said Eav.

Yes, said the crofter. What are they?

The flying machines, said Aldhyrwoode, are machines that fly. What else would they be?

If you had told me such machines existed before I knew Rai - Eav - I would have thought you too far in your cups, said the crofter, but now...

And why not? Asked the wizard. Birds fly. All that is needed is enough power to lift an object off the ground and keep it in the air. The De-Xian discovered a way to create such power by harnessing the energy of the stars.

The De-Xian?

Are Eav's people, said Aldhyrwoode. De means new in Qin, and Xian means star. So they are literally the new star people.

So, what are you saying? That Eav fell out of one of these flying machines? And survived?

Fell, said Aldhyrwoode. Or was pushed.

Pushed?

Or perhaps the machine crashed. I cannot say until I have looked in the forest. Or it may be that Eav was never in a flying machine at all. That she thought herself here - for some reason. And cannot remember because she wished to forget.

Why would I do that? Asked Eav.

Indeed, said Aldhyrwoode. Why?

So, I could remember if I wanted to?

I think so. Yes.

But I don't want to?

Aldhyrwoode nodded. It would appear that way.

The door of the inn creaked open and a red cloaked and hooded figure stepped inside. Hands with long claw-nailed fingers pushed the hood back, revealing a strikingly beautiful woman the colour of ebony with high cheekbones and emerald-green eyes. Master? How much longer? The De-Xian are here.

Ah! Aldhyrwoode clapped his hands together. Thank you, Shadow.

To Eav he said, Your ride is here.

The girl only had eyes for the woman. Or, to be more precise, the soft-furred black ears that twitched so beguilingly. Are those... ?

Shadow was my cat, Aldhyrwoode explained, but cats are not practical companions.

Reaching across the table, he closed the crofter's slack-jawed mouth.

A pair of Skraaal guards were posted outside the inn's door. They bowed to Eav and called her, Mother.

The Skraaal are descended from the De-Xian, Aldhyrwoode told the crofter.

Where is the ship? He asked Shadow.

There is a clearing in the forest, she said, not far from the man's house.

Eav held Shadow's hand, and the cat-woman purred.

A few steps behind them, the crofter was fascinated by the swish-swishing tip of Shadow's black tail, where it poked out from under the hem of her cloak.

Aldhyrwoode nudged him with an elbow and said, Eyes on the path.

The trees were giant Redwoods, tall and straight, with hardly any undergrowth, and a full moon made the trail easy to see. More Skraaal guards joined them as they neared the wide shallow bowl of the clearing. The crofter had regained his senses somewhat, and looked from the tall green skinned lizard-men to the fair-haired child.

Is that how the girl really looks? He asked Aldhyrwoode.

Her scales are smaller and closer together, answered the wizard, and more silver than green.

Like a fish?

Not exactly. More like a serpent.

A snake? Said the crofter.

Uhm... Not exactly.

What hovered silently above the ground of the clearing was a long slender tube of some dull dark grey metal. There were no obvious windows, but a circle of soft blue light from an open door illuminated a ramp. Around the De-Xian airship, a score or more of Qin warriors in gold armour stood ready.

Why so many soldiers? The crofter asked. Are you expecting trouble from the village?

Not the village, no, said Aldhyrwoode grimly, searching the night sky above the treetops.

Who then?

Eav's mother.

The crofter looked even more perplexed than usual. All this for one woman?

Aldhyrwoode shook his head. No. Not a woman. Eav's mother is... something other.

The crofter clutched at the the sleeve of Aldhyrwoode's robe. What are you not telling me?

The wizard shook him off impatiently. No more questions. Say your goodbyes and let us get the child safely onboard.

But surely her mother would never harm her!

Pushing past the now panicked crofter, Aldhyrwoode said, We cannot be certain of that. Females are often unpredictable.

And he urged Eav and Shadow to, Hurry.

They were nearly at the ramp when Eav's father strode out to meet them. Like his daughter, he had assumed human form, and wore long flowing robes of black on black embroidered silk that accentuated the paleness of his complexion, and his hair and eyes shone silver.

Just as Eav let go of Shadow's hand to run to her father, there was a terrible piercing shriek, and the sound of air rushing over enormous wings. And a great beast was silhouetted against the moon as it rushed towards them. Skraaal archers loosed crossbow bolts to try to fend it off, while the Qin warriors closed protectively around The Dragon Emperor and his daughter.

Go! Aldhyrwoode urged them. Quickly!

Shadow hissed, baring sharply pointed teeth.

The crofter stood frozen to the spot. Is that... ? It can't be!

Oh, yes it can! Said Aldhyrwoode. Run, you fool!

All was chaos.

The great golden dragon roared.

The Emperor lifted Eav in his arms and all but threw her up the ramp, into the airship.

The Qin warriors did not follow, but formed a shield with their bodies, prepared to die defending their Sky God.

And with them stood the wizard, Aldhyrwoode.

He pointed his staff and a streak of ear-splitting lightning burst skyward, only to be engulfed in dragon-flame.

Again came the terrible piercing shriek.

Still the wizard stood defiant.

Again the great golden dragon came sweeping spiralling down out of the night sky.

And again that sky was lit by bolts of crackling searing lightning from Aldhywoode's staff.

The De-Xian airship accelerated away, a streak of grey in a vacuum of white noise.

The piercing cry echoed one last time.

And then the great golden dragon -

The two princes, Aldhyn of Rhealmyrr and his cousin Alejandro, the younger brother of Rafael and second son of Rhowyn, Duke of Navarre, had climbed to the top of Castellayne’s tallest tower to discuss how to “borrow” their grandmother’s flying carpet.

How do we know if it still works? Asked Alejandro.

Aldhyn shrugged. We don’t... And we never will if we can’t think of some way to get into Aldhyrwoode’s rooms without being seen. The carpet will be guarded by more than locked doors.

Sorcery?

Wizards are famous for it.

Then there’s the raven, said Alejandro, Ovidieu.

And Shadow. Don’t forget Shadow.

That cat gives me the creeps. It’s older than Grandfather! How is it not dead yet?

Aldhyn didn’t know. The wizard’s familiar could talk, but no one, as far as he knew, had ever thought to ask it.

We could stuff him into a sack, said Alejandro, and throw him in the moat.

Which one? Asked Aldhyn. Shadow? Ovidieu? Or the wizard?

Alejandro thought the plan might work for all three.

As temperamental as any Don, the always ardent Alejandro had acquired the habit peculiar among the people of Navarre of waving his hands around when he was speaking. Emphatically underlining every third or fourth word with a wagging finger, or a clenched fist, a chopping motion, or holding both palms open to the sky as if beseeching the fates. Aldhyn had learned to keep a safe distance from his too easily excitable older cousin, and waited until Alejandro was clutching the edge of the stone step they were sharing before leaning in to kiss him on the lips.

Alejandro looked surprised. What was that for?

Do I need a reason?

It’s not like you to be so... impulsive.

That wasn’t exactly true. Aldhyn could be cautious, and sensible, but he was also Robin’s grandson, with the same taste for adventure. Flying to the fortress city of Jal Naghrahar on Queen Saavi’s magic rug had been his idea.

One game of Dragonmhyrr, he said, rolling his eyes, and suddenly I’m the boring one!

The game almost lasted a week! Alejandro exclaimed. And I’ll never get those hours of my life back!

Aldhyn laughed. Oh, poor cousin! Think of all the pretty maids you might have tumbled!

That’s it!

What’s it?

We lure the old fox out of his den with a bit of skirt!

Aldhyn shook his head. I’ve never seen Aldhyrwoode look twice at a girl.

A boy then.

Or a boy.

Not even you?

Certainly not me!

Or me, said Alejandro. Why do you think that is?

Aldhyn shrugged. He’s old. Any wood in the alder shrivelled a long time ago.

How sad, Alejandro said. To love and to be loved by so many, and yet...

To never have that someone special, said Aldhyn. Am I your someone?

Alejandro winked. You’re one of them.

Clothed in dark colours and armed with talismans against the wizard’s magic, the two princes crept silently into Aldhyrwoode’s chambers. Aldhyn knew them like the back of his own hand, but in the pitch black of midnight he was suddenly lost. His foot caught the leg of a chair and it scraped on the flagstoned floor.

The wall sconces suddenly flared. Blindingly bright.

Why not just ask? Said Aldhywoode, regarding them from the arched doorway of his atelier. It would have saved you going to all this bother.

You... You knew. Said Aldhyn. And then wondered why he should be surprised.

There are no secrets in Castellayne, said Aldhyrwoode.

He scratched Shadow under the chin where the cat sat, smugly perched, on his shoulder.

Or anywhere else, Alejandro muttered.

Come back tomorrow, said the wizard. Both of you. The rug will be ready and waiting.

Aldhyn looked doubtful. Just like that? No lectures? No warnings? No promises to be careful?

Don’t take sweets from strangers, said Aldhyrwoode. Try not to get into too much trouble. And come back in one piece. Alive if you can. But, no. No lectures. All young men should have at least one great adventure in their lives.

Queen Saavi insisted on sending her personal guard with them. Bannock son of Bowden, grandson of Balon O’Byrne, was only some few years older than the two princes, and was yet to have his own “great adventure”.

King Robin and Aldhyn’s mother, Princess Marisanne, were there with Aldhyrwoode to see them off. The stairs to the top of the wizard’s tower were too many for Saavi, but they could see her waving from an open window as they circled the royal keep.

Aldhyn had learned how to control the magic carpet with his mind. He thought about the window and his grandmother and the rug hovered just below the ledge.

Come with us, he said, and held his hand out to her.

Saavi shook her head. Oh, no. I couldn’t. You go. I’ll stay here with my slippers and my comfortable chair.

A whirl around the castle then? To The Greenwoode and back?

No, no. Really. It’s sweet of you to think of me. But I really can’t.

Aldhyn could see how much his grandmother wished she could. Just one last time.

All right, he said. When we return. To The Greenwoode and back. It’s a promise.

He and Alejandro both kissed her goodbye.

Sir Bannock kissed the back of her hand, ever gallant. Perhaps I should stay? Your Majesty might need me.

No, she won’t. Said Saavi. And she shooed him away saying, Go. Take care of my grandsons. If I know Alejandro, he’ll need you more.

Jal Naghrahar was a lapis lazuli gem set against a golden backdrop of rugged sandstone cliffs and surrounded by emerald jungle. After a week in which they’d almost been trampled by a herd of elephants, swore to never eat the food again, ate the food again, were kicked or bitten or spat on by camels, chased a monkey that had light-fingered Aldhyn’s purse of coins through a crowded bazaar of hawkers and beggars only to lose it, and themselves, in the twisting turning alleyways of the old city, had rescued Alejandro from an enormous eunuch whose only purpose in life was to guard the Maharajah’s hareem, were kicked and bitten and spat on by the women of the hareem when they tried to drag Alejandro away from them, and were stalked by a tygre of the most fearful symmetry, Bannock decided he’d had enough excitement, and the two princes agreed with him.

Alejandro was the first to notice. So large and brightly coloured were the sunflower yellow pennants of Rhealmyrr that normally streamed from their tall poles high above Castellayne’s towers, that they were ominously conspicuous by their absence.

Something’s wrong, he said.

Someone must have died, said Aldhyn, who could think of no other reason for the flags of the kingdom to have been taken down.

Not Grandfather, said the sharp eyed Alejandro, recognizing the figure of King Robin waiting for them to land on top of the wizard’s tower with Aldhyrwoode beside him. See? My father, too. And my brother. Your mother’s there, Aldhyn. And mine.

And Her Majesty? Asked Sir Bannock.

No, but... She wouldn’t be. The stairs.

I’m sure Grandmother’s perfectly fine, said Aldhyn.

One of her ladies in waiting had found Queen Saavi sitting, sleeping she thought, in her chair by the fireside. A slipper had fallen off, and when the girl had tried to put it back on, Saavi hadn’t stirred.

Felix Ulveus, exiled from Greyshale, set sail for parts unknown. But then brown-skinned children from the New Worlde began appearing in the slave markets of Qin Xa.

The young Petroan, Xanis of Synax, marched into the forests of Darkelyn to hunt the Horned Men. He and his phalan of eight hundred vanished without a trace.

Bjern Bearskinner lived to see a (great) grandson on the throne of Rhealmhyrr, though the circumstances of Aldhyn's conception were never forgotten.

Bjern and Harald Hard-arse were thought to have perished during a voyage to the snow bear glaciers after their longship became trapped in the ice.

Queen Freya of Greyshale was succeeded by her sister Freida's oldest of seven sons. His name was Harald.

Sir Roger of Delthemhyrr, Robin's boyhood friend, passed away peacefully in his sleep a week before his one hundredth birthday. A father, grandfather, great grandfather, and great great grandfather.

The years saw Prince Aldhyn seated on the throne of Rhealmyrr, and Rhowyn's oldest son, Rafael, wear the crown of thorns of Navarre. With his brother Alejandro as his Marshall.

The roads between Castellayne and Kaldiz were seldom empty with all the comings and goings. There were fetes, and feasts, and tourneys.

But with each passing season, Robin became more and more withdrawn. And Aldhyrwoode began to worry.

Robin and Aldhyrwoode walked into the enchanted glade together.

There was no sign of the nymph, Annaed.

Or the giant woodsman who guarded the sacred pool.

It was a hot day, and the long walk had tired Robin. He sat with his back against the trunk of a flowering hawthorn, the sweat on his brow cooling in the welcome shade.

I’ll just close my eyes for a moment, he thought to himself. Just for a moment.

Awaking some time later, he couldn’t help thinking his boots had shrunk.

They definitely looked smaller.

And not just his boots, but the feet inside them!

Wake up! He told himself. You’re dreaming!

He shook his head to clear it.

The hand he used to wipe the sleep from his eyes looked different somehow.

He held it up in front of his face. Then the other.

They were a child’s hands!

What illusion is this? He wondered aloud.

He crouched beside the sacred pool, about to splash water on his face in the hope of banishing this strange, fevered, dream and...

He saw his reflection gazing back at him.

It was a child’s face!

My sweet Robin Redbreast, said a voice he knew instantly.

It was the maiden.

Annaed! Robin exclaimed.

Did I startle you? I’m sorry.

No, said Robin. Yes. We were playing, weren’t we? I don’t remember falling asleep, but I... Where is the old man? Asked Robin, looking around the glade. He was here. I’m sure he was. He had a long white beard and... He walked with a staff but... I don’t see him now.

The greybeard will visit us again, said Annaed. Do not fret.

She stood before him. The most beautiful vision he had ever seen. Her long flaxen hair woven with wildflowers. A chain of tiny white daisies graced one slender wrist. Twists of green ivy were tied around her ankles. Her skin was pale, and smooth, and as perfect as the finest porcelain from far Cathay. A land the prince had only heard of. Though he couldn’t think where. Or from whom. Her lips were a rosebud. Her blue eyes sparkled like starlight.

For sooth, he said. Tell me blithe spirit, are you real or faerie?

The maiden smiled. I am as real as you are, she said.

I had a dream, said Robin. My father died and I was the king. I married a princess from a far away land... There was a great battle...

The maiden silenced him with a kiss and stroked his hair.

Come and lay with me, she said. The clover is sweet and the bees will not trouble us.

There was the rustle of fallen leaves and the giant woodsman came out of the forest.

Hello! He called. The young master has returned to us, I see. Look who else I found!

He was holding a green leather halter. A butternut-grey pony trotted along behind. The pony saw Robin and whinnied, tossing its shaggy head.

And what of the wizard Aldhyrwoode?

You might ask for him at The Drowned Duck.

The End

Felix Ulveus had grown up in two worlds. Neither of which suited him. His white skin burned too easily under the unrelenting sun of Navarre, and the light reflecting off every hard, flat surface of the stone citadel of Kaldiz hurt his palest of pale blue eyes.

On Greyshale, the grandson of Bjern Bearskinner had needed to prove himself again and again. Blacking the eyes and bloodying the noses of other boys. There, at least, his size had helped. It was easy for Felix to be stronger, faster, better at everything the raiders respected. But even in his grandfather's hall he'd been an object of fear and superstition.

Only among the wardens of the north did his albinism not single him out as being odd or peculiar. And it was during those too infrequent visits to The Greenwoode with his father that he'd felt his most at ease.

He could have been happy at Castellayne. King Robin had shared with him a secret glade. And the nymph Annaed had gifted him his first kiss.

Only with a leaf, she'd whispered to him, can I talk of the forest.

He had thrown all that away the afternoon he'd chanced to find Princess Marisanne alone in the stables. She was older by some six years, but he was already taller and stronger and, oblivious to her suffering, he'd slaked his urgent, adolescent lust between her trembling thighs. His hand clamped around her throat to choke off her screams.

He'd left without explanation. Fearing King Robin's wrath. Riding north towards Wyrm Crag, then west as far as Willow Rush on the Peat river, north again through the Mountains Of Ghorme, and across the wastelands into Darkelyn. At first he'd thought to wait until he could make his way east, to the coast, where there were Norren settlements in the hills around Byrne Slough. From there he could take ship back to Greyshale. His mother Freya was queen there. No one knew where his grandfather was. The Bearskinner hadn't returned from one last voyage to the New Worlde, and all believed him lost at his sea.

Would his mother grant him sanctuary at the risk of souring the friendship with Rhealmyrr and King Robin?

A man should make his own way, he'd decided. Fight his own battles.

In time, when he was ready, he would sweep through Navarre with fire and sword. And without its strongest ally...

Crush Rhealmyrr under his heel.

To the horned men of Darkelyn he was a god.

On the eve of the summer solstice they brought him a virgin girl.

He gave them her strangled corpse in return.

Among the savage horsemen of the plains tribes he was The Frost Giant.

Such was his strength he could squeeze a man's skull with the fingers of one hand until the ears bled and the bulging eyeballs burst out of their sockets.

In Petros he was an abomination who crucified.children.

He slaughtered and pillaged at will.

No cub now, Felix Ulveus was a snow bear full grown.

_

Duke Rhowyn of Navarre stood with his head bowed, crowned in rose coloured light where the morning sun was refracting through a stained glass window set high in the chapel's frescoed wall. Don Matteo had been laid to rest alongside Rhowyn's beloved Alejandro. Sebastian and Isolde lay, together for eternity, in the transept's matching twin opposite. Waiting near the altar was the newly appointed Marshall, Don Eduardo Des Montoya.

Don Eduardo was the brother of Rhowyn's wife, Lady Caitlyn Louisa. The bond of friendship had been slow to take root between the two men, but the years had seen it grow, season by season, until their respect for one another was buttressed by true affection.

Your Grace?

Rhowyn turned. Yes, I know. It's time. You have a long ride ahead of you.

The Petroans would be expecting Navarre's forces to join theirs five days hence, beyond the Fern river. From there the two armies would skirt the foothills of the Mountains Of Ghorme and advance together into the flat grasslands of the plains.

Without the support of Navarre horse the Petroan heavy infantry could be separated and surrounded by the plains tribes on their sturdy ponies and decimated by arrows, weakening the squared shield walls until they collapsed, and their long spears were next to useless.

I'm tempted to come with you, said Rhowyn. Felix has gone unpunished for too long. But you understand why I can't, don't you? Matteo's son played with mine own boys when they were children. That we might meet in battle would be...

Eduardo nodded to show that he understood.

Rhowyn's two sons were staying at Kaldiz for the same reason.

Does he know, do you think? Eduardo asked Rhowyn.

That my sister gave birth to his bastard child? I doubt it. Nor does he deserve to know. I'm just thankful the boy wasn't tainted with the albino's evil seed.

Felix Ulveus avoided the Al Den Gir warriors with their stench of sour mare's milk as much as was possible, preferring to pass his orders on through the horned men he'd chosen to lead the raiding parties that brought back slaves from settlements all along the border of Petros to be sold on the auction blocks of Qin Xa. A pretty boy could bring a small fortune in the east. The few who survived castration and the long sea voyage were prized by the Qin as exotic bed warmers. There was less demand for girls and women, so the Gir usually kept them as saddle wives and future breeders.

Human sacrifices were custom among the plains tribes. Young females in their moon blood would be buried up to their necks and left to die of thirst or exposure, thus ensuring the fertility of mares and women alike.

The boys of a rival tribe who were unlucky enough to be taken captive were pinned to tree trunks by arrows through their hands and feet, while still alive, so any pregnant women would give their husbands sons.

The Snow Bear didn't encourage it, but nor had he tried to put an end to it. He doubted he could. And besides, it served his purpose well enough. His enemies feared him. How was that not a good thing?

King Robin walked with the wizard Aldhyrwoode in the walled garden at Castellayne where the hundreds of white rose-bushes planted all around the pink granite memorial to Robin's mother were in full bloom. The wizard's hair and beard were silver, and he'd begun to lean more and more on his staff, but his back was still straight and a young man's eyes looked out from under caterpillar brows.

He liked to say he was still a spring lamb, though few lambs could number their years at three and fully five score.

At eight and three score, Robin had more grandchildren than grey hairs in his beard, and the face beneath it was as smooth and flush cheeked as his youngest grandson's. A youth of six and ten, Prince Aldhyn was so much like Robin in so many ways that people often remarked on it. Something the boy's mother, Princess Marisanne, was thankful for.

This trouble with Felix, Aldhyrwoode said to Robin. I think you should stay well clear of it. Rhowyn has the right idea.

Rhowyn has Eduardo to lead his army, said Robin. Who is there here but me?

Why not send Sir Wulfram?

Because the captain of the castle guard needs to be here, to guard the castle.

From what? An invasion of field mice? There hasn't been any unrest in the kingdom since the uprising of the clans. And Roger's son Sir Rufus holds the north. Even Felix's mother Queen Freya wants no part of it.

For all his faults, said Robin, Felix is still her son. She would save him if she could. I promised to return him to her, alive. The only way I can keep that promise is if I'm there.

And what if something happens to you? Asked Aldhyrwoode.

Then, said Robin, Marisanne will be queen until Aldhyn comes of age.

Not Rhowyn?

It was Rhowyn who suggested it. He says he can't be both a duke and a king. He's happy in Navarre. His son Rafael will follow after him. The Dons have agreed to it.

Felix is Matteo's son, said Aldhywoode. He has as much right to claim the thorned crown as Rafael.

True, said Robin. But who in their right mind would nominate him?

The wizard wasn't so sure. Stranger things had happened. It would be better, he thought to himself, if Felix Ulveus could somehow be removed as an option altogether.

That very same day a raven flew westward from the wizard's tower.

Felix Ulveus watched the Gir scouts ride into camp.

Well?

The most senior of his horned men bowed and said, Bronze heads. Too many to count. The scouts say there are steel heads with them. Many horses.

An alliance then, Felix said, talking to himself more than he was to the men around him. Between Petros and Navarre. They mean to crush me. But I'm no beetle to be so easily ground under foot. Tell the Gir to string their bows. We will ride to meet the steel heads. The Petroans are only foot soldiers. They might as well be tortoises.

The horned man frowned. We fight?

We sting them, said Felix. We kill a few and then we fly away. Like hornets. They'll try to catch us on their heavy horses. We sting them again. And then again. And all the time we'll be drawing the steel heads further away from the bronze heads.

The horned man nodded. It was how the plains tribes fought. Hit and run. Wear the enemy out. The Gir on their small ponies wouldn't stand a chance against the knights of Navarre in close combat. But an arrow from a Gir bow could pierce armour plate before the steel heads could even free their swords.

He turned to explain it to the others...

Big horse is slow horse.

From his place on the far right of the first rank, Xanis of Petros looked out on a wall of grass taller than he was. His men stood ready, their shields locked together and their iron blade tipped spears pointed toward the enemy. Or where they thought the enemy would come from, at least. It was impossible to see. Stretching away on his left were three other phalans, two hundred men wide and four deep. On his right were four more. There were as many spears as there were blades of grass.

Don Eduardo repeated his orders. There would be no reckless pursuit. No mad dashes forward. No matter how many times the enemy rode close enough to fire a volley of arrows and then gallop away. The lines of heavy cavalry would advance at a walk, not engaging, but pressing the Gir back. Turning them. Forcing them closer and closer to the ranks of Petroans and their forest of spears.

Only when the wild tribesmen were held firm against the anvil of Petros would Navarre's hammer fall.

The Snow Bear saw the trap closing. Calling back the few hundred Gir and less than a score of horned men who were left, he turned north and rode for the Darkelyn forest. Only to see the sunflower yellow pennants of Rhealmyrr cutting off his retreat.

Roaring defiance, he sawed at his horse's reins and turned to spur it in the only direction that was still clear. The shoreline and the endless blue sea.

That was when he saw the longship.

Its oars churning the water white.

Not slowing as it headed straight for the narrow strip of stony beach.

Keel scraping.

Helmed warriors leaping over the sides.

Waving their arms.

Calling his name.

Long, low, and windowless, the interior of the feasting hall on Greyshale was a puzzle of shadows on even the brightest of summer days. What it was. What it shouldn't have been. What it had never been, for as far back as Felix Ulveus could remember, was empty. No torches flickered. The fire in the large, round hearth in the centre of the hall was naught but ash and embers. The gloom was almost impenetrable.

Hello! He called. Mother?

A voice came out of the shadows. She's not here, boy.

Anger flared. Felix turned. I'm not your...

The back of a hand as large as an oar-blade slammed into the side of his face. It loosened teeth and almost dislocated his jaw. He laughed and shook it off. You'll have to do better than...

The huge, hulking shadow shambled closer.

Felix's palest of pale blue eyes widened. But you're...

Dead? Asked Bjern Bearskinner. You'll wish I was.