Chapter One
Chapter 1
The boy dreamed he was a boy dreaming he was a general.
Back in his room in Liverpool, back under the covers with his curtains slammed shut and the heating on full blast, he could wish the world away and be nobody to nobody instead of all things to all men. The Gaia was a bad dream, Yannis was a bad dream. He was not a warrior wish charger. He was not a revolutionary. He was safe and boring and sleeping late; all he had to worry about was not missing Tara’s swimming trial at Saint Alexander’s Academy.
There was a weight on the end of the bed. A figure dressed in black sat there.
It was all a bad dream.
‘I used to consider all dreams bad,’ said Yannis, in his casual drawl. ‘Pale shadows of the true death and so not really serving any purpose; neither a taste of something happy nor a warning of something dread. Of course, my brothers disagreed; Hypnos and Morpheus saw sleep and dreams as wonderful opportunities for tests and visions and messages, while the veil between worlds is thin et cetera. I suppose they got the last part right, else I couldn’t be here, could I, Jason?’
Gil burrowed under the covers. ‘You’re not real.’
‘What is reality but what we make it? A wish is granted for the asking,’ said Yannis. ‘So, let’s get to the reason I’m here.’
‘Leave me alone.’
‘But, Jason, you can’t be alone or anonymous anymore. You’re famous, like I said you would be. And I don’t just mean among the buffoons who clatter around Atlas for his revolution, I mean infamous throughout The Gaia for killing me. I know people think you died in the process but that won’t last. You can’t hide forever. As for killing me, I suppose I should express my disappointment at your success in vanquishing me. You might want to think about whether it was your best move, given that Gaia is heading into a time of war. Having banished me, the God of Peaceful Death, you only have yourself to blame for what takes my place.’
Gil pulled the covers back. ‘You were trying to kill me at the time.’
Yannis was there, with his dark glasses on, the hint of his fiery eyes behind. He sniffed. ‘Nonsense. I was making a point. Every team needs a captain and I was letting you know I was the senior partner. I’ve told you, I’m The Harvester, not a killer. You were meant to replace me in the long run but, as it happens, you’ve made it the short run.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
Yannis tapped the bed. ‘Oh, Jason, I know you don’t believe in fate but, when it comes down to it, you will do exactly what they foresaw.’
‘Who?’
Yannis gave a short chuckle. ‘I don’t suppose it matters if I tell you now; you won’t remember this when you wake up, not until it’s time to.’
‘Enough riddles. Who? Capricorn? Phoebe? Atlas? All Twelve?’
‘To the Twelve, Jason, you’re the general; you’re the key.’
Gil screwed up his eyes and pulled the covers back over his head. ‘Will you just leave me alone!’
The weight on the bed shifted, bounced once, then again.
Gil thought about kicking it but instead sat bolt upright. ‘Leave me alone!’
The two-year-old boy jumping on the end of the bed was startled and his lip quivered for a second. It was Dylan. Behind him stood Bess, his mother, and Tara, Gil’s best friend in the world (this or any other). They were in the underwater realm below the Bay of Harmony in the domain of House Cancer Oceanus in the land of The Gaia; back in the dream that was not a dream. Gil tried to smile. Their expressions were of shock giving way to disapproval at his shouting. Bess moved forward to collect her son, looking sheepish.
Tara tutted, unimpressed.
Dylan said, ‘But it’s Christmas.’
‘What? Sorry. I didn’t mean you; I was having a bad dream.’
‘That’s alright,’ Bess said, ‘We shouldn’t have disturbed you, Gil.’
‘No, it’s fine.’ He smiled at Dylan, beckoning the boy closer, ruffling his hair. ‘Thanks for getting me up, little mate.’
Tara said. ‘What was the dream about, General Grumpy?’
General? Was that something to do with it? ‘I forget,’ he said.
Tara smiled, unconvinced. ‘Did you also forget about our race this morning; swim before lunch, our Christmas tradition?’
Gil laughed. ‘Tara, we lived in Liverpool in the north of England, not Australia. We have never been swimming on Christmas Day. It’s usually freezing.’
‘Traditions have to start sometime,’ she said. ‘Get your kit on.’
‘Get your kit on,’ said Dylan. ‘Uncle Atlas said there’ll be presents.’
‘Uncle Atlas?’ Gil said, giving Tara a quizzical stare.
She pulled a face which said ‘Don’t ask.’
He pulled a more exaggerated expression. ‘Ooh, Uncle Atlas, Aunty Tara!’
‘Erm. We’ll let you get ready for your swim,’ said Bess. ‘Come on, Dylan, let Gil get dressed in peace. We can help with the food.’
‘And presents!’ said the boy, as he jumped off the bed and ran ahead of Bess.
When they had gone, Tara said, ‘Dream about what?’
‘Just a dream.’
‘You said a bad dream.’
‘It’s gone already,’ he said, ‘Look, can I get dressed now?’
The water was cool and clear. The taste of salt was somehow sweet, like burned caramel, but the spa waters of The Gaia were more than simply pools. They provided a mixture of medication and meditation for the weary and, for those who exercised in the water, energization, exhilaration, and thrill. They held minerals, effervescences, organisms and things Gil did not care to think about as he splashed his face and body to get ready for the race. A handful of nereids were bathing or floating in the pool already. Gil had noticed an increase in the numbers of menacing looking characters around the caverns lately – more like Dexamenus in size than Mara – but had not thought too much of it. Atlas was planning a revolution after all. He had considered cautioning Tara about getting too involved but knew she would tell him to sort out his own life before he started interfering in hers. If she did agree to come with him, away from Atlas, he would have a better opportunity to talk some sense into her, although he was not sure his own plans were without risk.
The nereids paid little attention to Gil and Tara until they realised it was to be a race. Unlike the gambling helven, the nereids saw swimming as much more than a game. It was a matter of pride.
‘No charging. No moving the water,’ Gil said as Tara splashed her wetsuit.
She looked affronted. ‘Don’t insult me! I could lap you even before I became a goddess of the deep.’
‘You should not joke about such things,’ said a nereid girl nearby.
It was Mara, one of the troopers Gil had come to know as the red guard even though their clothing was always deep blue and green in the underwater realm. Somehow it changed to red above the surface for reasons he did not yet know. Mara had become a friend of sorts to Tara, although Gil knew her true loyalty lay with Atlas, son of Lord Cancer and de facto ruler of the undersea realm in his father’s absence.
Lord Cancer was one of The Gaia’s ruling Twelve Signs, powerful sorcerers who modelled themselves on the zodiac symbols in terms of their name and livery and, in some cases, physical characteristics. Gil and Tara had not met Lord Cancer, but his sons, Atlas, Prometheus (who preferred the more casual ‘Theo’), Epimetheus (known as Pit) and Menoetius (Meno to his face, Menace behind his back) all looked human enough. Atlas was tall, broad, blue-eyed, and nauseatingly handsome with a shock of blonde hair. His younger brothers were slimmer versions of him apart from Meno who was dark-haired, hulky, and prone to fits of temper. Theo had his blonde hair spiked into red tips and considered himself as much the statesman as Atlas.
Gil had got to know them in the time he had been at the Bay of Harmony and, while he did not altogether trust them, he at least felt he was not under constant threat since Atlas had made it clear to his people no trouble would be tolerated. He had kept secret the fact that Gil and Tara were still alive after battling Yannis on the beach above the underwater domains and had, in fairness, made Bess and her son welcome. He assured them he would offer sanctuary to her two daughters once Gil liberated them from captivity. Quite pointedly, Atlas had not offered to help, as he had his own plans for the One True Tree. He had tried only once to enlist Gil in his planned revolt against the ruling Signs in favour of a more balanced democracy of the native Gaian races but Gil had been clear he wanted no more conflict once he had righted a few personal wrongs.
According to Tara, Atlas lived in hope of Gil’s assistance but pride meant that he would not ask again. He joined them now, in his half-armoured, nereid skin-suit. ‘Did I miss the race?’
Gil gave Tara a raised eyebrow.
‘I didn’t tell!’ she said, palms up in protest.
‘I hear it’s a tradition,’ Atlas said, smiling.
Gil said, ‘Apparently so.’
The race was four lengths of the fifty-metre pool.
Gil was a more than competent swimmer. He had a longer reach and a more powerful kick than Tara. Him having one arm with skin hardened like stone was an obvious disadvantage in water but she agreed he could charge a little of his wish power through it to make it flexible. However, her technique was superior and her focus was impressive, her stamina honed from training he had ducked in recent years, so there was never any real doubt over who would win. Gil was not that hung up on winning, usually, and he knew Tara was very much the home favourite in the nereid realm. He was happy to see her happy, although he made a good show of the race. Dylan and Bess cheered for him while Mara and several others shouted for Tara. Atlas was silent and dignified until he declared Tara the winner and rewarded her with a kiss on the cheek which made her redden more than the effort of the swim.
Tara panted, looked around to see who was seeing her blush. She linked arms with both Gil and Atlas.
‘Let’s eat,’ she said, ‘I have an appetite.’
Christmas was not really a nereid thing but, since the leaders of The Gaia were humans, the festival had caught on in popularity and become a multi-faceted excuse for excess and fun, coming together and sharing and, above all, food.
It was a veritable feast. There was fish of every type, shellfish dressed in hot oils or herbal butters, salads of sea vegetation of a thousand varieties, seaweed, sweet flowers from the surface, jelly cakes which shone in the light, plates of crunchy biscuits and dishes of soups, terrines, and fragrant slime, some of which appeared to be wriggling. Several of the offerings looked a bit too exotic for Gil’s taste. Tara had no such reticence. She piled a plate and was eating even before she sat down.
‘Sea snails; don’t you just love them? Uber-delicious!’
‘Not the word I’d use,’ Gil said.
Tara took another of the grey, oozing delicacies, wiping juice from her chin. ‘What can I say; I’m a carnivore at heart.’
Atlas tapped a glass and the crystal ring silenced the room.
‘A toast!’ he said, ‘To new beginnings.’
Everyone raised their glasses.
‘And we have Gil to thank in some respects. Our own hard work would not be so far along if not for his removal of The Harvester, who even now lies in his stone tomb at the bottom of the bay.’
‘Blocking the damned vortex,’ said Meno, grumbling. ‘Crustaceans unchecked.’
A crustacean, a huge monstrous crab-like creature in the corner, shuffled.
‘We’ll attend to that when the time is right,’ said Prometheus.
‘Anyway,’ Atlas said, ‘Gil dealt a heavy blow to the Twelve. We have seen an end to the reign of Gemini. Leo is made weak by infighting and the Pride of Lionesses is scattered fighting unicorns throughout The Veldt. Capricorn has the One True Tree but not yet the support of all of Twelve. The Gaia is in flux. It is a time for new beginnings, for opportunity, for change.’
Gil bit back his question. As expected, Atlas paused only for drama before continuing, ‘My friends, it is time for the water to rise.’
Chapter 2
Claire Stacey paced the floor. She had not slept much. The voice in her head had been conspicuous by its silence. She had demanded whether this was its plan all along; incarceration in some nightmare fairy-tale tower! She had made and dismissed a dozen plans about escape via door, window, arena and corridor, each involving a scenario where she kicked Mucktub the warven guard and creepy Bone Master like a pair of footballs into the distance and burst victorious through the Rose Gate, where Good Evan was just arriving to whisk them away. It had all been a terrible mistake. She and Callista were not rejects. They would join the Cloud Elite and enjoy a life of privilege and prestige.
‘We’ll get out. Good Evan will come,’ Claire Stacey said.
‘What if he doesn’t?’ Callista asked, ‘Will we stay here forever?’
‘Not if it means those things taking bites out of you. How’s your arm?’
Callista was sitting up in bed, her head turning to watch Claire Stacey pacing. ‘It feels fine; just stiff, like I’ve been punched.’
‘When have you ever been punched?’ She examined Callista’s arm where the unicorn had bitten. The wound was healed already, there was only the faintest bruising.
‘I’ve got brothers,’ said Callista.
‘I didn’t know.’
Callista pulled her bottom lip in. ‘I don’t suppose I’ll see them again.’
Claire Stacey patted her hand. ‘Who knows, Callie? Once we get out of here, anything can happen.’
‘You’re just trying to make me feel better.’
‘Is it working?’
Callista’s thin smile did not reach her eyes. ‘My dad says you can make yourself happy by saying the word happy because your mouth makes you smile when you do.’
‘He sounds like a nice dad.’
‘He is ... he was.’ She teared up. ‘He was a bit cheesy. He treated me like a baby, and I’m eleven and a half. Do you think I’ll see him again? Really?’
‘Let’s not give up hope, eh? Happy, happy. See, it works. Your dad’s a genius.’
‘That’s what he says.’
The door opened and Mucktub entered without knocking, followed by another warven holding a fat stick. Its function was obvious. The girls stood up in response and Mucktub gestured for them to follow him. Faced with the creature armed with the baton, Claire Stacey was hesitant but launched a verbal attack.
‘Now wait a minute, you! We want some answers. Why were we locked in? Where’s that boss of yours? She was bitten yesterday!’
As Callista passed him, Mucktub inspected her arm and grunted in apparent satisfaction.
‘Fud und wurk,’ he said. He walked out, clearly expecting them to follow, which they did. Despite Claire Stacey shouting more questions, he simply plodded on, ignoring her demands or attempts to get in front of him until, by the time she ran out of steam, they had reached a dining hall of sorts.
‘Fud’ turned out to be a buffet of fruit and hard breads they shared with two dozen or so other girls in the room of long benches and tables. Girls served bowls of thick porridge. Ever suspicious of fruit, Claire Stacey picked at first, until hunger eventually overcame her misgivings. Callista did not hold back at all, ruled by her own appetite. None of the other girls spoke. A few gave sympathetic smiles but just as many looked on warily. Several stared into space.
Warven loitered at the edges of the room, waiting but not watching, and Claire Stacey shivered when she remembered a gothic tale of subterranean dwellers fattening up humans as food. There were no knives or forks, only spoons. As potential weapons went, it would have to do. She surreptitiously slid one into her waist band. The girl sitting opposite met her gaze.
‘What?’ Claire Stacey said, challenging.
‘It won’t do you any good,’ said the girl. ‘Or her. They’ll punish you both.’
‘What for?’ said Callista, looking up from her food.
‘You’re paired. Responsible for each other. What one does affects both.’
‘We’re friends,’ said Callista.
‘More than that, now,’ said the girl to Claire Stacey, ‘Put it back if you don’t want trouble.’
Their staring match was broken when the pale, lanky oversees called Tsakali, The Bone Master entered the room. Warven snapped to something like attention, although their crooked stature meant little change in posture. The atmosphere shifted, as if the herd sensed a predator among them. Girls rushed to finish the food in their bowls or brushed crumbs from their clothes.
Tsakali said, ‘Good morning, ladies. I trusst you sslept well. Time for work.’
Warven jostled the girls to stand. Claire Stacey resisted, but more of the little jailers emerged from the alcoves and they were very strong. Her protests were met with grunts and shoves. None of the other girls reacted. She became separated from Callista, ushered with a group of girls into a side tunnel which was dim at first then inundated with dazzling sunlight. In the squash, someone pulled the spoon from her trousers. She was fed into a queue towards a barrier where warven inspected the girls, checking hands and teeth and eyes, and patting each one down, like a search at a security station. In the queue beside her, the sour girl from breakfast dropped the spoon and shoed dirt over it.
They were poked and pushed into two groups. The sour girl and Callista marched left while Claire Stacey and a bunch of others were led right. Neither warven nor girl spoke until they reached a block of stables where open stalls contained messy pens of damp straw and torn bedding. Most of the wooden sides were scored or had holes punched through. The acrid smell of urine made her eyes water. A warven handed Claire Stacey a shovel.
‘Muck,’ he said.
Chapter 3
The smoke in the cave stung at Imran's eyes no matter how many times he blinked. The tears seemed to burn his cheeks as they streamed down into his thin beard. He had made the mistake of rubbing at his eyes only once, and it had caused such a searing pain that he had been unable to see from that eye for what felt like an age. Blinking was the only relief, but it was fleeting. He let out an involuntary sigh of pain with each grating flicker of his eyelids.
The ceiling of the cavern was crisscrossed with seams of metallic rock and had several dangling scraps of root and the occasional stalactite. There was a hazy cloud of acrid smoke which hung above like a menacing hand. Heat seemed to pulse, like a beating heart, from the floor beneath. Smoke rose in puffs from cracks in the rock floor, seeming so pretty in their glistening plumes, like dust caught in shafts of sunlight.
Two boys sat with Imran on the flat stone bench in the room’s centre. One or other of them giggled each time Imran winced but otherwise they were silent. He knew they were called Ellis and Pest because Taurus had told him so when he had directed him to wait with them in what he had called the ante-chamber. Neither boy had greeted him or acknowledged him in any way beyond the sniggers when he complained about the smoke, first with words but now with his deep sighs and tutting which caused them such amusement. They both wore goggles. They had ignored his attempts at conversation and Imran had realised quickly that they would find fun in his status as a recruit to House Taurus, so he was wasting his time looking for anything other than what they had done so far.
Obediently, Imran endured and waited, unsure of what might come if he did not.
In fact, since the return from the tribulation, the atmosphere in House Taurus had changed from one of welcome and excitement to work and gruff formality. Even the great man himself, apparently so pleased to have Imran join his team, had been short in words, if not in temper. His voice was deep and breathy. He had said little to Imran beyond the congratulations for passing the test and then, as if distracted by something more important, led him off the central stage in the great hall of the One True Tree, before any of the others, into the passageway which led to the Sign's domain. The only delay had been to allow Imran to be examined by a circle of stone-featured men who Taurus had introduced as golems. They had touched him like they were inspecting a new piece of equipment, tapping his shoulders with fingers as hard as stone. They had, however, spoken in soft, deep voices, like whispers, initially to one another but then to congratulate and welcome Imran to House Taurus. They had told him he would be more than a general in no time and he had nodded along, although he had no idea what they meant. Taurus had stood silently, arms folded, waiting for the golems to finish before he had announced, curtly, to Imran, that it was time to leave.
Imran recalled the hurried walk through the transition tunnel from the great hall. He hardly had time to feel the sense of nauseous distortion before he was through the stuffy passage into a wide-open clearing somewhere beyond the One True Tree. The trees were pines. The sky was pale and cloudless. The weather here was much colder than it had been during their trials, and Imran wondered how far he had been transported. They paused for a few minutes, while Taurus released the catches at the back of his collar and heaved off the great bull helmet. He handed it to Imran who took it slowly, with a sense of awe, thinking he was to examine it.
Taurus simply said, ‘Don't drop it,’ and guided Imran's left hand to the underside of the helmet where a stubby strap served as a handle.
The mask was surprisingly light but cumbersome, due to its size and the huge horns.
Taurus pulled his hair out from the tight pony-tail he wore and pushed his fingers through it, fanning it into a dark mane. He was sweating. ‘Stand behind me,’ he said.
Imran stayed still, as the man who was his sponsor and leader and teacher stepped forward into the rocky clearing. Gesturing with both fists at once, Taurus charged the wish power and Imran felt and heard the crunching underground rumble he was creating. Then, like teeth from the earth, twin columns of fat, twisted rock emerged from the ground, six metres apart. At first, Imran thought they were stone trees, they seemed to shift as they grew, sprouting branches which reached for one another and formed a thick archway. Spirals and carvings adorned them and it was on seeing these Imran realised they were trolls, pushing up to form a structure like the bridges he had crossed with Yannis and the others so many days ago. At the arch’s apex, the trolls held between them a huge keystone which bore the stylised glyph of a circle crowned by horns, the zodiac symbol for House Taurus. Beneath the arch, the air between them wobbled in a haze, giving off welcoming heat against the forest’s chill. Then the shimmer solidified into pale doors, deep grey, matching the stony hue of the trolls. There was a great sigh, as the doors swung inwards to reveal a passage descending into the earth.
‘Keep up,’ said Taurus, without looking back.
Ever obedient, Imran hefted the great bull mask and did as he was told, passing through the arch and seeing the trolls’ heads turn ever so slightly to watch, as he passed beneath. He knew Taurus was a man of few words but, as he was the only source of information open to him, Imran began a conversation.
‘They're magnificent,’ he said.
Taurus seemed caught unawares by the statement and glanced back as he walked.
‘What?’
‘The doors,’ said Imran. ‘They're magnificent.’
Taurus nodded. ‘Functional,’ he said. Then, as if remembering they were there, he snapped his fingers at the doors and they began to close. There was a second of total darkness before the walls themselves glowed into life, seams of luminescence flickering, like broken lamps, then gathering power to pulse and light the way.
‘Will I learn to do that?’ Imran said.
‘What?’ Taurus asked, with an edge of annoyance on his voice.
‘The doors,’ Imran said, hesitantly. ‘Will I learn how to do that?’
‘You'll learn more if you listen than if you talk so much,’ said Taurus, and turned to march on down the tunnel.
‘I'm just interested,’ said Imran, nervously.
Taurus stopped and looked back. For a second, Imran expected him to shout. There was a flash of irritation in his expression which quickly vanished.
‘What else?’ he asked.
‘Are we very far from the One True Tree??’ Imran said and immediately regretted it. He was showing weakness, missing his friends. It must have sounded ungrateful.
Taurus smiled, as if at a private joke. ‘Not far enough,’
He led Imran through a series of tunnels. The light remained constant but the heat, which had been so welcome against the chilly air, became more and more uncomfortable. The helmet seemed to grow heavier. He began to puff as they walked. Then they reached a room with a huge, long, stone bench, cluttered with all manner of metal and stone implements, which had at one end a shape like a great anvil. Taurus pointed at it and the helmet.
‘It goes there.’
He watched Imran struggle to heave the weighty mask to shoulder height and slide it into place. Taurus did not help or even react when Imran lost his grip and almost dropped the thing, simply crossing his arms to wait to see how he fared. When it was safely on its stand, he nodded.
‘Wipe it down with the oil rag. When you're done, eat and rest in there.’ He pointed to a side doorway. ‘Get some sleep. You'll be woken when it's time.’
Imran approached the table and scanned over the various tools and boxes which stretched its full length. There were pieces of machinery, cogs and cranks, spikes and spindles, also rudimentary circuit boards and bunches of wires. There were gauntlets, pieces of helmets, racks of horns and things which looked like leg braces. Beside the table stood mannequins with pieces of armour hanging, half-made. There were heavy books stained with oily fingerprints, scrolled blueprints and maps, sketches and doodles one of which showed four circular structures, like the Olympic rings surrounded with scribbles and measurements. In amongst the bric-a-brac were cans of oil, tubs of gunk and apparatuses he could not identify. Finally, he saw a box of rags and reached for a heavy cloth which smelled heavily of camphor and oil.
‘This one?’ he asked, but, when he turned around, Taurus had gone.
As Imran cleaned the metal bull’s head, it gave him the chance to examine it more closely. It was made of overlapping plates of beaten metal he took to be steel; the edges were scalloped, rounded rather than sharp. There were tiny patterns on some of the scales, like stick-figures, geometric shapes and even some lettering which was too small to read in the dim light. The design allowed the helmet to shift and turn, like armour, and for air to get through beneath the flaps. The muzzle and brow were one cast of metal; the lower jaw a hinged second piece. The only parts of the outer helmet not some form of steel, each almost a metre in length, were the shafts of true animal horn. Imran did not recognise the type; they were deep red and carved with patterns and lettering too jumbled to interpret. He wondered if they were horns or perhaps tusks and what beast had given them up.
When the outside of the helm was clean, he tried it on.
He stroked the smooth, cool metal and gazed into the empty eyes of the mask. It seemed to call for his experimentation. He checked the corridor and the side doors first. It was silent all around him. He lifted it easily, wondering if he had become accustomed to the weight or whether it somehow wanted him to try it on. Inside the great metal dome, there was cloth padding and small cushions covering the sharp hinges. A central pad rested on the top of his head; the weight of the helmet was perfectly balanced. The eyes were in fact short tubes housing fat lenses. As well as creating a sense of magnification, they drew in so much light that Imran blinked and was surprised by the colours in a room which had seemed so dingy to his own eyes. The symbols carved into the hanging armour shone eerily. The mask felt cool and strangely comfortable. He heard his own breathing against the mouth grill and it reminded him of Taurus’s breathy orders. He returned the helmet to its stand, wiped off his finger marks and stood back to admire his work.
‘We all do that,’ said a voice behind him, with a short laugh.
Imran started and spun, both annoyed and frightened at being caught doing something he thought was unseen. A tall, skinny boy stood in the doorway. He was dressed in a long jacket, dark leather trousers, and hefty boots. His face was smudged with dirt. He had goggles, fat lenses rimmed in metal, sat on his forehead. He carried a bundle of clothes.
‘We call it Hefty. He calls it something else, Hephaestus. He has a spare called Vulcan. Ellis said it’s a classical reference but I never went to a fancy school so I don’t know. Anyway, Hefty, by name and by nature, is what it is. Just don't let him catch you wearing it.’ He held out the clothes and Imran took them without thinking. ‘He said you're to wear these. Sleep first and don't forget to eat.’
He turned to leave and Imran began to ask his name but only got as far as ‘What ...’
The clothes were leather, worn in patches, smelling of oil which made them stiff. Imran carried them into the side room where Taurus had said he would find food. There was a low bed with heavy blankets. He found a pair of boots already underneath the bunk. The room was stuffy but not as overbearing as the workshop and he felt a flow of air coming from a vent high in the wall. He wondered if this was some sort of prison cell, but there was no door. Perhaps it did not need one. He doubted he could leave unless Taurus wanted him to. On a short table, there was some thick bread and a soup which might have been hot when he had arrived but was now barely warm and topped with a greasy film. It tasted of onions and had stringy meat pieces in it. He gulped it down and mopped the bowl with the bread. There was warm water in a flask. He touched the dark clothing again but decided he would be better sleeping in the loose cotton wear of the One True Tree and would change when he woke. He fell easily into a deep sleep.
What seemed like only moments later, he was roused by a sharp kick to the side of the bed. The skinny boy was back.
‘It's time to go to work,’ he said.
He waited outside while Imran changed.
Taurus met them on the corridor. He too was dressed in the oily leather-wear which the boy and Imran now sported. He grunted a greeting but did not speak, and the two boys fell into silent file behind him. After a short march, he pointed for the skinny one to enter a side room but had gestured for Imran to enter the doorway on the opposite side.
‘Wait in the ante chamber with Ellis and Pest. They’ll tell you what you need to know. Don’t wander off. I'll be back shortly. Let's put that new skill of yours to good use.’
So, Imran had waited with Ellis and Pest. They told him nothing. His eyes stung ever more painfully until, as he thought the tears were never going to stop, the skinny boy returned. He gave the other boys a disapproving look, shaking his head. ‘Funny,’ was all he said to them. Then, he tutted and tugged at the back of Imran's collar. Instinct made Imran lean back to resist but the boy persisted and pulled free a set of goggles folded into the back of the jacket.
‘It's better with these on,’ said the boy.
Imran scowled at the sniggering others. The eyewear made an immediate improvement, although his eyes still watered for a while.
‘We were just messing, Beau,’ said the smaller boy.
‘Fine, Pest,’ said the skinny boy, Beau. ‘But suppose he has to see to make it work. Did you think about that?’
‘He didn't say so,’ replied Pest.
‘No,’ said Ellis.
‘Of all people, I’d have thought that would be the first thing you’d think about,’ Beau said.
‘Make what work?’ Imran asked, tired of being spoken about as if he was not there.
‘Your charger power,’ Beau said. ‘Do you need to see to do it?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Imran said, slowly, deliberating. He ignored the renewed sniggers from the others. ‘It depends on what I'm doing.’
‘Delving,’ said Beau.
When Imran did not respond, Beau pointed at the ground. He spoke as if he was talking to a child, but not unkindly. ‘Delving. Deep as we can. Digging.’
‘Digging for what?’ Imran asked.
The boys responded in unison with a phrase they had obviously spoken many times before. It had the sing-song tune of a classroom greeting. ‘You'll know what you’re looking for when you find it.’
Then a shadow fell across the doorway.
‘Time to get to work,’ Taurus said.
He marched across the room to the back wall. At his approach, came a grating sound and a doorway in the stone opened. The silent room was filled with a rumble like distant waves on a shore, but the blast of heat from the next chamber took Imran's breath away and, despite the goggles, he blinked, as his eyes began to stream once more. He copied the other boys as they pulled their leather overalls up to cover their chins and noses, and drew up their hoods snug against their goggles, but it offered scant relief from the stinging temperature as he followed them into the next chamber.
Chapter 4
Blue-green light dappled on Tara’s face as she struggled to pull the swim-fin from her foot. She performed a hopping dance and eventually over-toppled onto Gil’s bed. She let out a squeak of amusement and the creatures watching reacted to her surprise. Dozens of lobsters, crabs and other shell-backed things which Gil could not identify skittered on the outside of the domed window-cum-ceiling of the chamber and slid, clicking, as they failed to find purchase, to an undignified pile on the sand below. A lurking octopus reached out from under the silt and mercilessly grasped a struggling prawn.
Tara lay on the bed, exhausted and grinning as she finally plucked the fin free and wiggled her toes at Gil.
After the feast and then relaxing in the grotto, Tara had tried a new, streamlined suit with fins to go even faster. Much more at home than him in the undersea kingdom, Tara thought it amusing to flap noisily all the way from the pool back to his room. He was already dry, barefoot, and waiting to peel off his wetsuit.
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ she said.
‘Are you sure your boyfriend won’t mind?’ said Gil, sticking out his tongue.
‘Atlas isn’t my boyfriend,’ she replied, baring her teeth instead of her tongue.
‘Does he know that?’ Gil said.
‘Just as long as you know that,’ she countered. ‘He’s fine but he doesn’t want Theo to know where we’re going.’
‘How come?’
‘Theo tells his dad everything.’
‘And Atlas doesn’t want him to know?’
Tara shrugged. ‘Apparently he’s a bit of an ogre.’
Gil sniffed. ‘One thing we haven’t met yet in this crazy world.’
‘Anyway, the point is, as you know very well, I make my own decisions,’ Tara said.
He nodded. ‘All too well! But, seriously, Tara, are you sure you want to come with me? I have to go – I owe people and this is the first in a series of paybacks. Tristinitee seems like the right one to begin with; I met him first and he’s in lumber simply because he helped me when I came to The Gaia. Plus, I might get some answers from Phoebe at the same time.’
Tara sat up, pulled a face that showed how little she thought of his chances of getting answers from Phoebe Salmon St James, one of the magic-wielding leaders of the land of The Gaia. She noticed the cascading creatures outside their under-water chamber for the first time. She casually waved a hand at the struggling octopus and, outside, the ocean’s current responded to her wish-power by scooping up the struggling crustaceans and carrying them to safety back at their roost atop the dome.
She sighed. ‘I suppose you can’t swim and eat and stay on the side-lines for ever. Atlas doesn’t mind you being here but I know he’ll keep asking you to join his revolution if you stay. Have you told Bess you’re going for Tristinitee before you try to find her daughters?’
Gil nodded. ‘She understands the girls are safe. She doesn’t like waiting but knows Tristinitee is part of the plan to get them back; I need him to contact Michael before I show my own face at the One True Tree. If I barge straight in, it’ll raise too many questions, about Yannis, you and Atlas and what happened at the Bay of Charybdis. I don’t think I want to explain that just yet, or draw attention to your non-boyfriend.’
Tara sat forward. ‘But you still plan to show your face at the Tree?’
Gil watched as a single lobster broke from the pack and skied down the outside window. ‘They think we’re both dead, but that won’t last. I don’t think I want it to. Besides, that’s stage two. First Tristinitee, then the girls.’
Tara stood. Barefoot, she was shorter than him but more powerfully built, like the athletic swimmer she was – shoulders broad but lean, body toned and strong. The sheer, nereid wetsuit made her look every inch the sea nymph. Her mohawked hairstyle, once almost bald at the sides where her head had been burned, was slowly re-growing, and the faded signum resembling a red flower on her forehead made her look alien in the watery light. She wore a single pale shell on a string around her neck. Gil thought that of all of them, the wish power - the elemental magic of this fantasy world - had changed Tara the most, so far.
She said, ‘What if Tristinitee doesn’t want to be rescued? What if he isn’t actually a prisoner? You hardly knew him.’
‘I considered that, but Atlas said nobody willingly lets a narcissus take their place like some evil twin.’
‘Bess did,’ she said, testing.
‘Only to make others think she and her son were dead and stop looking for her. That was different; an emergency. Plus, I don’t think she understood much of what was going on; she still doesn’t, poor thing. Tristinitee is a naiad who would know what was happening. He was such a timid thing, I can’t help but think he was manipulated, maybe even forced, by Phoebe. I worry about him. One of those narcissuses came after me and it wasn’t pleasant.’
‘Narcissi?’ she said, playfully.
He shuddered at the recollection of the narcissus; the phantom copy which had substituted his young naiad friend shortly after he first arrived in The Gaia, and the second, more vicious water-creature which had attacked him in the subterranean lake when he had gone to see Ares. Ironically, Gil had known the narcissus copy for longer than he had known the real Tristinitee until it had been unmasked and destroyed before his eyes, but he still felt a fondness for the timid water-sprite who had shared his cheese sandwiches and taught him the first rules of The Gaia’s wilderness.
‘I have to try,’ he said.
‘Have to or want to?’ said Tara, raising an eyebrow,
Gil laughed. She had lectured him so many times about his sense of obligation that it had become a standing joke. ‘Want to,’ he said. ‘Free choice; not guilt. Thank you, Miss Motivator! It’s you who keeps reminding me to sometimes just dive in and stop pondering the ifs and buts and maybes. Now that I’ve made a decision, you’re getting me to check it and check it again!’
She grinned. ‘It’s a test.’
‘Did I pass?’
Tara waggled her hand. ‘Still needs work.’
‘And you still want to come?’
‘Like I said – you’re a work in progress.’
Chapter 5
That first day of work was more gruelling for not knowing where Callista had been taken. The sour girl had gone with the other group. Those who remained with Claire Stacey were a bedraggled bunch of thin and pale and timid creatures who barely made eye contact, let alone speak. The warven supervisors, Mucktub among them, circled like menacing dogs and did not need do anything more (if indeed they could do more) than point and grunt to make the girls jump with fright and rush to obey. So much for the great feast Good Evan had predicted!
‘Hey, Shovel Girl, isn’t there supposed to be some sort of grand party today?’ Claire Stacey asked, when the warven had circled out of range to hear.
The closest girl looked up from their job of scooping damp hay and shot a glance at the warven before nodding nervously.
‘Do we get to go? I’m feeling a bit like Cinderella.’
The girl’s eyes widened, and she returned to work with renewed vigour as Mucktub came closer, pointing to a section where torn rags and wet grasses had tangled around a post in the unicorn pen.
Claire Stacey took the opportunity to stand and stretch out her back. The warven sneered at her and gestured with open hands, asking why had she stopped.
‘Keep your hair on, Mucktub. I’m just asking about the party today. Aren’t we supposed to get a day off?’ She dropped her shovel to the floor and stretched both arms high, easing her shoulders. ‘I know it’s only my first day, but a friend of mine said everyone gets to go to the …’
A slap across her rump from his baton cut her short. She yelled ‘Ouch’ and twisted to protest, but more blows came. A second warven joined Mucktub and together they rained hits on her back and legs, slapping her hand when she tried to block them. A third warven hit the girl she had been working beside who immediately cowered to the floor. As Claire Stacey began a wordless growl and reached for the spade, the girl snatched her wrist and pulled her towards the floor, with a pleading look in her eyes. Stubbornly, Claire Stacey resisted, until a well-aimed blow struck the back of her knee and she buckled anyway. Once she was down, the beating stopped.
Mucktub kicked the shovel to her and she grabbed it quickly, her knuckles whitening with tension.
‘Don’t,’ said Shovel Girl. ‘They’ll punish everyone else.’
Mucktub was sneering, as if daring her to try something.
‘We’ll feast once the chores are done,’ said shovel girl.
Claire Stacey thought, ‘Chores? Was this some old-time, primitive prison camp with added hard labour?’ Mucktub pointed at the debris. The girl whispered a further plea and Claire Stacey bit down her anger, thinking of what she would do to Mucktub and all the warven, and Tsakali and the blasted Gemini twins if she had her powers.
‘But if you had them, you would not be here. Be patient.’
That voice was in her head again. Patience was not really her thing. She hefted the shovel and dug at the heap of muck. Those who said revenge was a dish best served cold had it wrong – she was as sure as hell going to get her own back on that little runt as soon as the chance came up. Plus, she did not plan on sticking around to let her temper get cool. She swung the load quickly behind her at the place she knew Mucktub was standing.
‘Whoops!’
When she turned around, he was, impossibly, five metres away.
‘How did he move so fast with those diddy legs?’ she muttered.
Shovel Girl moved alongside and helped to scoop the debris.
She whispered. ‘They pop.’
‘Huh?’
‘Warven move underground as fast as we do above it. It’s like they tunnel, but without tunnels. They use their cloak shield thingies. It makes a popping noise.’
Claire Stacey stabbed again with the spade. ‘If I get my hands on the little git, I’ll pop him, alright. I’ll bury him so he can’t get out.’
Shovel Girl chuckled. ‘I’d like to see that. Let’s finish so can go to the feast.’
A feast it was heralded to be and a feast it was. Having grown used to the fresh fruit and endless buffet at the dormitory, Claire Stacey was sceptical that the random celebration would be anything special, but she was wrong. There was no fruit salad in sight. They left work to find long tables laid with hot meat platters, cooked pies, roasted potatoes (she had not seen a potato since she had been here), bowls of steaming vegetables and jugs of gravy, juice, and custard. Christmas puddings squatted like footballs among the display. Spoons were the only cutlery. No knives, more’s the pity.
‘Wait, is it Christmas? Is that what this is about?’ Claire Stacey asked.
The warm weather and the change of pace had thrown her sense of time, but it made sense – they had been taken by Yannis in early November. Crikey, had they really been in The Gaia that long? The shovel girl did not answer, instead rushing to find a seat and started attacking the food without ceremony. Some children produced small packages wrapped in cloth from their pockets and handed them to friends.
‘You cannot be serious.’
The swelling of emotion was cut short when Callista appeared beside her.
‘Wow,’ she said. ‘Is this for us?’
She looked pallid; all the blood gone from her face. She managed a thin smile, but her lips were almost blue. Drool spilled from her mouth.
‘Blimey, Callista, are you alright?’ Claire Stacey asked.
‘They said I’ll be fine once I get something to eat.’
Claire Stacey grabbed Callista as she tipped forward. She did not even react to being swung back upright. He eyes were on the feast.
Claire Stacey scoured the room for the warven, but they had either left the girls to celebrate alone or headed off for their own feast. Evan had said everyone celebrated. Christmas! Just when she thought this place could not get any weirder. For the first time since leaving their room, she was unwatched by the guards. She ushered Callista to the bench. The other girls ignored them, busily grabbing and eating and shoving food onto plates like they had no time to lose. Callista reached for potatoes and Claire Stacey moved the plate closer, adding ham and hot cabbage. She poured berry juice for them both. Callista steadied herself and began to eat, slowly at first, then gulping it down like the others.
‘Go steady. How long is the feast?’ Claire Stacey asked the girl opposite.
‘Until the food’s gone. Then the warven come back and we go to our rooms.’
‘Then slow down!’ Claire Stacey said.
The girl looked puzzled. ‘But the food’s too good.’
‘But you’re … oh, never mind.’
She figured these girls had become feral long ago, so would not listen to her. The way they were putting the stuff away, there was not much time. She pocketed some potatoes then leaned to whisper to Callista.
‘Callie, remember what Good Evan said? We have to meet him. We have to go before the guards come back.’
‘But I’m so hungry. Tired and hungry. Can’t we go later?’
‘Later is too late. The guards will be back. Let’s go.’
Callista groaned. ‘Do I have to?’
Claire Stacey sucked in her breath. It was becoming too ridiculous – Christmas lunch and a jail break! ‘Yes, you do! Callie, this might be our one chance.’
‘Alright.’
‘My friend feels sick,’ she said to the girls opposite. ‘I’ll take her to our room now. It’s that way, right?’ She pointed to the passage.
The girl scowled at her as if she was an idiot. ‘No. That’s The Rose Pavilion; the viewing stands. The rooms are that way.’
The Rose Pavilion? It could not be a coincidence.
‘Oh, really?’ Claire Stacey said. ‘Maybe we’ll just get some fresh air instead. Save us some pudding! I’ll finish this outside.’
Surely, The Rose Pavilion had to lead to the Rose Gate! That would save backtracking from their room through the corridors and winding stairwell. She lifted her plate and spoon and hooked Callista to the door.
Outside, it was still hot although the sun had dipped below the grandstand and cast half the arena in shadow. It looked empty. Perhaps everyone got the day off. Empty was good, although the lack of girls, unicorns and warven gave the place an eerie feel and it was impossible to tell if somebody was watching from one of the thousand seats. She discarded the plate of food and slid the spoon into her waistband. They climbed the stands on the shadowy side. Callista was trying to eat as they ran, and Claire Stacey resisted the urge to slap the food away and scream. Searching for the level they had crossed when they first arrived, she checked back into the arena, assessing the angle. There! The oval shape was almost right, the height of seats just a little low. Callista groaned a protest and the sound echoed across the expanse. They moved into sunlight which dazzled her vision for a moment. Callista let go of her hand. Somewhere across the wide space a door banged shut, a slap of wood on wood. Somebody was moving in the stands. She shielded her eyes and rose a few more steps, checking their location. Yes, that’s it! The banging noise repeated – or was it an echo from the passages? They had to move around and there it was - the corridor where Tsakali had shown the unicorn training ground for the first time.
‘This way, Callie.’
Callista dropped her potato, groaned and ducked to pick it up.
‘Leave it!’
Then they were into the tunnel. Callista seemed to focus, now her meal was over, moving more determinedly. The passage seemed longer than Claire Stacey remembered. They doubled back after taking the wrong offshoot and emerging into a storage room stacked with folded umbrellas, broken seats and flags in the colours of the various Signs. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling. It was Callista who spotted the right way and got first look at the Rose Gate; the twisted ironwork with the living flowers entwined. It marked the entrance to the One True Tree and the way out.
They ran for it, reaching it together, slamming into the ironwork and feeling the pinch of rose thorns as they did. The gate held fast, locked. Of course, it was! Callista stood back as Claire Stacey pulled the stems aside to expose the heavy block in the centre with an oversized keyhole. The spoon fit but would not turn. She put her shoulder to the gate, ignoring the thorns, and shoved. There was an encouraging click. Yes! Then, the spoon buckled and slipped out, its end broken off.
‘Stax! Callie, can you do something with this? Blast the lock or move the gate or anything?’
‘I’ll try, but the bite makes my powers weak.’
She waved at the gate and the roses rippled, shedding petals and releasing a wave of scent, but the iron they embraced did not budge.
Claire Stacey pushed some flowers aside and peered through the gap to the corridors into the One True Tree. She whisper-shouted, not sure whether to broadcast their position or keep it quiet.
‘Evan! Good Evan, we’re here! Are you there?’
She checked nervously behind them. Had the girls finished their feast yet? Were the warven counting heads and ushering them back to their rooms?
She had to risk it. She shouted. ‘Evan! Anyone? Is anyone there? We need to get out?’
Callista slumped to the floor. ‘My head feels funny,’ she said, whining.
Claire Stacey knelt. ‘He’ll come soon. I’m sure he will. He promised.’
‘I’m so tired.’
They sat beside the gate.
‘Do you think he’s forgotten us, Claire?’ Callista rested her head on Claire Stacey’s shoulder.
‘Of course not. He promised. We have a date,’ she said, sounding almost as unconvincing as she felt.
An hour later, by the time the warven entered the corridor to find them, Callista was asleep. Claire Stacey stood up and held the broken spoon as a warning. Mucktub sniggered and the warven produced their punishment sticks. Then one of them threw down something like a circular shield, stepped onto it and dropped through the floor. The hole vanished, with a popping sound. While Claire Stacey was still processing what she had seen, the warven reappeared behind her and smacked her knee, buckling her leg and sending her to the floor.
This time, the beating did not stop because she was down.
Chapter 6
Tara and Gil arrived in Renacre Field in the shade of the oak tree where Gil had first entered The Gaia. He did not yet know the limits of the new transition or teleportation power that Yannis had taught him but he had so far only managed to transport to places he knew. After only a handful of minor practice runs inside the underwater tunnels at Atlas’s Bay of Harmony complex, his first long-distance trip with Tara was not the time to experiment. He had considered aiming straight for Phoebe’s mountain hideaway, but Atlas persuaded him that a more open approach would be better. Before they left, he had cautioned that Phoebe should be treated with care for all she held herself out as an ally.
‘The Great Fish does have teeth,’ he said, laughing. ‘But seriously, Gil, I advise you approach her openly. Your new power makes you more valuable to her than ever. It is probably best kept secret for now. You might value a fast way out more than a quick way in.’
On Atlas’s advice, Gil had taken to carrying a pouch of sand tied to his belt so he had earth ready and accessible should he need to create a portal.
Atlas’s words to Tara had been plainer. ‘Come back to me.’
Despite Tara’s denials, Gil wondered about the state of the relationship between his best friend and the de-facto leader of House Cancer. In their days there, Gil had not seen the mighty Sign Lord Cancer Oceanus himself. Atlas insisted his father was unwell, so he and his three brothers were seeing to things. Those things included planning to tip the balance of power from the human overseers, the Signs, to be shared with the exotic, elemental creatures of The Gaia. So far, Gil had declined to become part of the impending rebellion, but he was not sure Tara was as reluctant. Atlas had saved her life and, even in the short time she had spent in his aquatic world, Tara seemed very much part of his cohort, maybe more. She flirted with Atlas, something Gil had not observed her do before.
So, they had taken Atlas’s advice and planned to approach Phoebe’s tunnels via the same route Gil had taken weeks before, starting in Renacre Field.
In truth, he liked the symmetry of it.
The last time he had seen it, Renacre Field had been in flames, set alight by the diminutive, bellicose nixie inhabitants as part of the spectacular culmination of their seasonal conflict. Although he had, necessarily, fled the conflagration at the time, Gil now knew that the fire served to clear the dead grasses, fertilise the earth with ash and burst open the seed pods allowing new nixie lives to sprout.
They found the tree and the space under it untouched by fire, and that the groundcover, though sparse, was different from the rest of the field – mixed ferns and short shoots from fallen acorns. The expanse of the wider field was grey with ash, churned like a farmer’s field after ploughing, and devoid of the majestic golden grasses Gil remembered. Instead, fine, feathery shoots were pushing through. Here and there, knee-high twists of green stems stood like scaffolding, hung with serrated leaves and spherical buds.
He scanned the field for any sign of movement, knowing its apparent stillness was no guarantee that the tiny warriors were not watching, perhaps even approaching. He placed his hand to the ground, sensing for them, sending out thoughts of benign greeting, asking permission to be in their domain. He got nothing back.
‘Perhaps they’re in the buds,’ he said. ‘I can’t sense anything but bugs and birds.’
‘Maybe you’re not as adept as you think,’ said Tara.
She was nodding her head towards a figure half-hidden behind the tree. Golden eyes observed them from a gnarly brown face winged with twiggy hair. It was a helven tree guardian. A cautious hand emerged, gesturing at the field and its nixie structures.
‘Most are sleeping,’ said the newcomer, ‘But I’ll wager the fore fore scouts know you are here.’
‘We’re not here to fight them,’ Gil said, standing up. Tara remained casually still, smiling at the helven. ‘One of them is my friend. Her name’s Kai.’
‘That is a short name for a nixie,’ said the helven.
Gil laughed a little. ‘You’re right about that. I never managed the whole thing.’
‘Where is she?’ the elf asked, warily, but she ventured a little around the tree. She was shorter than Tara and Gil, but stocky, unlike the willowy helven he had met before. Her skin matched the bark of the tree.
‘She’s not here, she’s … far away.’
Tara coughed, pointedly. She mouthed the word permission.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Gil. ‘I forgot my manners. Is this your tree? Last time I came, it was empty. My name’s Jason, call me Gil, and this is Tara. Do you mind if we’re here - under the tree, I mean? We’re just passing through.’
The helven fully emerged and stood quite calmly between Gil and Tara, one hand touching the bark.
‘I am Fehrn. My tree remembers you were here at the victory while I was visiting the grandfathers. He let you and a young naiad sit in his branches until the fires were lit.’
‘That’s right,’ Gil said. ‘I’ve come to find the naiad, his name’s Tristinitee.’
Fehrn said, ‘The nixies remember too. They were displeased you took the spartan.’
‘I didn’t take her,’ said Gil, doubtful anyone could take Nixie Kai against her will. ‘She came with us.’
‘They do not see it that way.’
‘Gil,’ said Tara, softly. ‘They’re here.’
In the field, closest to them, the bare ground provided no cover but Gil could still see nothing moving. Only when he let his eyes take in the whole expanse did he notice twitches and movement of tiny things in multiple spots. There must be several dozens. He turned from Fehrn towards the advancing nixies, just as the first one leaped.
Gil’s instinct served him well. Ever since the battle with Yannis, his wish power had been more intuitive, sensing and responding to danger before his conscious mind did. Despite the spa waters and the efforts of the nereid medics, the injury from Yannis’s sword had not fully healed. Instead, Gil had a forearm of thickened, abrasive skin, stone-textured and dense, but incongruously quick and responsive.
He batted the charging nixie aside easily, prompting gasps from Tara and Fehrn. Then he raised his hands, openly, calling into the field.
‘Honourable ones, we aren’t here to fight,’ he said.
The birdsong grew silent. Instead, clicking sounds filled the air. Fehrn moved back, closer to her tree. Louder ticks followed, concentrating at a point in front of Gil.
‘That isn’t going to happen,’ Gil said.
Tara whispered, ‘What did they say?’
Fehrn translated, ‘Her name is Nixie Ojo Lae Sparta. She says he must yield or pay harvest; a ritual opening to battle.’
‘Shouldn’t she have said that before they attacked?’ Tara asked.
Fehrn gave an accepting grunt.
Gil pressed the point. ‘You struck before challenge. Is that the honour of Renacre Field; to attack peaceful travellers?’
He heard, ‘Tick, tick.’
‘She says he crossed the field unbidden,’ Fehrn said.
‘We didn’t,’ said Gil. ‘We arrived at the tree without crossing.’
More ticking sounded.
‘What’s she saying?’ Tara asked Fehrn.
‘They’re debating. Some say the single attacker was hasty and they should hear Gil’s story, the fore fore scouts concede they didn’t see you arrive.’
Even in the daylight, tiny flames were visible, blinking on and off, held by sticklike figures only inches tall, as the nixie warriors made their views known.
‘That’s good, right?’ said Tara.
Fehrn gave a pensive sound, still listening, thinking, then said, ‘No. Others say Ojo Lae is dishonoured by her failure to guard the seed pods. The only way to redeem it is to …’
‘Fight!’ Gil shouted, as the first wave of nixies erupted from the ground.
