Mamelon - Chapter 19

CHAPTER NINETEEN

In vain, Shireen, blood sister of the long since assassinated Michal the Great, pleaded with the Dark Mage to come to bed. Ragund had been pacing the chamber floor half the night already.

      “Astor!” Ragund curled his lip and flung an accusing glance at his wife as if it were all her fault that things were not going according to plan. Indeed, he had to confess, things were a mess. That fool, Radik had lost Heron.  Even so, it hardly mattered. The krill leader had redeemed himself in Ragund’s eyes a thousand times over by capturing Michal and the elves…only to lose them too.  “Grrrrr!” he gritted his teeth and paced even harder.

      His thoughts turned to young Michal. It was inconceivable that he, Ragund, had not known Galia’s son had been transported from the motherworld and was, even at that very moment, a pawn of immense value in Astor’s oily hands. It stood to reason that Galia’s son had to be worth more than her grandson. Or did it? True, Michal was a first son, but no less a motherworlder for that. Heron, on the other hand, was not only direct bloodline, but also pure Mamelon stock.

      The Dark Mage shook his head. There would be time enough to settle that little riddle once the Tomb of the Creator was rediscovered and he, Ragund, was on top of the situation. He shook his head again. Myriad reflections bouncing off a balding pate shot darts of light in all directions.

       “Come to bed,” Shireen purred seductively.

      Ragund continued to ignore her, as puzzled as he was angry. True, Astor was no mean adversary. But neither were his, Ragund’s powers, any less a force to be reckoned with.  Hadn’t he even coerced the spirit of Ca-an to his own ends? Yet, Astor had defeated him at every turn so far. Not only had the White Mage been alerted to young Michal’s existence before he, Ragund, had the slightest inkling, but he had managed to smuggle him though a Time Gate with total discretion.  At the same time, he had successfully contrived to divert attention from Galia’s son by encouraging his adversary to home in on the grandson.  Such a simple ruse, yet it has worked.

       Ragund ground decaying gap-teeth and fumed. Not only was the interloper abroad in Mamelon, but also in the company of a Keeper, for Ri’s sake! It was small consolation that he had easily penetrated each of that idiot Ricci’s pathetic warding spells although to precious little avail. They continued to elude him; elves, motherworlders, even an itinerant Nu-gen! Nor did he entirely blame Astor for that. “Elves!” he raged.  It was a myth, even among most elves, that their powers were confined to the Forest of Gar.  The elf king and queen would be aiding their kin in ways that he could only guess. It is a slippery thing, elven magic. You never know which way it might turn or when it will strike next. 

      His first error of judgement, Ragund reflected miserably, had been to rely on Bog Folk.  But they, too, were unpredictable although they had never failed him in the past.  All things considered, bog folk were stupid; pliable, but stupid. Krills, on the other hand, were a different species altogether.  The Dark Mage scowled. He had expected better things from Radik. The krill leader was shrewd. It is unlike Radik to be caught off guard unless…

       Ragund stopped pacing and stood quite still. He could have underestimated Astor and the elves, he supposed. But hadn’t he taken them into his calculations, matched them ruse for ruse, even handed Astor the Keeper on a plate, thinking to distract him?  Astor’s fondness for females was legendary. It was even said that he had once been taken with La, the elf queen. Nor, so the tales went, had she rejected his overtures. While there was no disputing the female Bethan’s strategic importance in the dying planet’s salvation, her role lay in a conclusion of events that stretched far ahead. She was of no immediate importance, as far as he could determine.  The fact that she had fallen in with a Nu-gen was an unexpected bonus. Ragun permitted himself a wry smile. Poor Astor, it must have come as something of a shock to have an ignorant tribesman, of no status or consequence whatever, upset his plans. He resumed his pensive pacing.

      Why, Ragund kept asking himself, had his attack on Fah-y-Noor failed? Hadn’t he unleashed more dark energy than he thought possible? True, Radik had done well to capture all five refugees. How, then, had they made their escape with such apparent ease while he, mage that he was, remained unaware of anything amiss until it was too late?  Has Astor have entered into an alliance of sorts with the elves?  But that was impossible. Neither would willingly share so much as a single grain of magical power with the other. “How then…?” he growled, and spat on the floor.  Questions to which he should know the answers but did not filled his head to bursting. How? Why?  He spat again. “Who…?” 

      Abruptly, he ceased his funrious pacing. At the same time, he flung Shireen a look of such baleful malevolence that she, for her part, felt compelled to slide her voluptuous form under black satin covers and draw them over her face.

      “Druids…!” Ragund spat a third time.

To be continued

Mamelon - Chapter 18

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

If Gail Wright was aware of her father’s approval for the way she had raised her sons to handle themselves passably well under duress, she chose to pay it scant attention.  Astor, she would dearly have preferred to forget, was inclined to blow as hot and cold as motherworld weather. Besides, she had greater concerns on her mind.

     After persisting with the crystal seer bowl, she had managed to track down Mick and Bethany. Slightly reassured that Astor had both in his sights, although not impressed with Ricci, she had scanned the northern territories for any sign of her youngest child. Time and time again, she tried to impose her desperation on the shifting patterns of crystal but none yielded any clue as to Pete’s whereabouts. She broadened her sweep but was careful to avoid Lunis, City of Moons, judging that a head-on clash with Ragund was best avoided for now. Time enough for that, she brooded, as she scoured the red and purplish hues of Mamelon. “Nothing!” she exclaimed aloud for the umpteenth time, “Peter, Peter, where are you?” she moaned softly.

“He’ll be warded,” suggested Tim Wright, twenty-first century architect, slipping with reluctance, yet easily enough, into the long ago but only half-forgotten and never utterly renounced identity of Timon, Holy Seer of Mamelon.

“Of course he’s warded!” Galia responded sharply, “But how and why? Peter is of no importance to Mamelon. It’s Michal they want, although Bethany may have a part to play,” she conceded pensively.

“You think she may be a Keeper?”

“Don’t you?” Galia countered irritably.

Timon shrugged. “Only time will tell. But you mustn’t worry about Peter. He’ll be fine.”

“Speaking as a seer or a father?” she retorted, but immediately relented and even managed to raise a watery smile, “I’m sorry, that was…”

“Undeserved and unkind,” he agreed but without rancour.

“I could try and contact my father, I suppose?” she suggested guardedly.

“Over my dead body…!”

“What else can I do?” she wailed.

“Keep looking,” urged her husband.  “I will not have that old fox manipulating us  or the children. Besides, you know he won’t thank you for it. He’ll get in touch again when he’s good and ready.”

“So long as you and I are good and ready too,” she murmured acidly. “I still can’t believe he contacted you and not me. I am his daughter, after all...”

 Timon swallowed, with some difficulty, the obvious comment that sprung to his lips. None knew better than he how little love there was, or had ever been, between father and daughter. He continued to mull over a half-formed plan of his own that involved drawing upon a Forbidden Power.  Forbidden, yes, but a Holy Seer might access it should ever the direst need arise. And what could be more so than for a parent to protect his children? 

  Wait, instinct cautioned urgently. Nor could he deny the sense of it. For if Tim Wright was no less concerned for their children than their mother, Timon of Mamelon could rally precious little motivation for dealing with druids. They cannot be trusted, and who knows that better than I? Besides, it was only a hunch that any still existed. Astor was reputed to have druid powers, but quite apart from being a meddling old rascal, his father-in-law was also a powerful mage in his own right. True, Astor may yet prove to be a viable source of direct help. For now at least, though, it is one best avoided.  That the old devil would keep a weather eye on his grandchildren, their father did not doubt for a moment, but only while it happened to suit whatever Grand Plan was presently preoccupying the self-styled Mage of Mages.

  Tim-Timon glanced over Galia’s shoulder. The shimmering crystal revealed nothing but passing images that, for all their shadowy brevity, told a sorry tale. It did not take a seer to comprehend that the once lush Mamelon landscape was surely dying.

  “Nothing…!” Gail-Galia sobbed and snuggled gratefully into the strong arms that enfolded her.

 The seer bowl’s light began to fade and, with it, any chance of spotting the familiar carrot top head.  Impossibly, it had vanished without trace. Or else, both frantic parents privately acknowledged, but not to each other, Peter Wright was dead.

To be continued

Mamelon - Chapter 17

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Irina took small comfort from the fact that Bethan’s disappearing act left her a clear field with Michal as, one after another, each was hurled into the same rocky cavity.  All had been badly beaten. Nor had the krills spared Irina although she fared marginally better than her male companions. Krills hated elves and plainly relished dishing out a good pasting to Pers and Kirin.  If they seemed a trifle wary of Michal, it was down to his ‘foreignness’ rather than any show of temper.

      “That will teach you to turn your back on krill hospitality!” Radik cackled. Then the krill leader and his men returned to share provisions around a roaring campfire. Laughing and exchanging bawdy jokes, they were glad to squat close to the flames.  Scorching by day, the desert grew icy cold after dark.

      None were bound. Brother and sister collapsed sobbing in each other’s arms. Then it was Kirin’s turn and Irina gave him a tearful hug. Over his shoulder, she caught the motherworlder regarding her shyly.  Mick’s bruised mouth managed a rueful grin. He opened his arms wide. She broke away from Kirin and leapt into them, pressing her head against his tunic. Mick, for his part, was content to lay a battered cheek against the silky tangle of her hair, eyes closed, for what seemed to each of them an eternity.  Kirin could hardly bear to watch although, seething inwardly, forced a comradely smile.

      Pers glanced at Kirin and let out a groan that was not entirely down to his every limb’s feeling as if it had been smashed to a pulp. “What a mess!” he exclaimed wearily.

     “At least we are all together.” Irina snuggled closer to Mick. But she, too, had seen Kirin’s expression. Catching her brother’s warning look, she broke free, albeit with an exaggerated show of reluctance. Pers suspected his sister of sheer provocation. Then he glimpsed the corners of her mouth twitch, and was sure of it.  He sighed. As if being taken by krills is bot enough…

       “Not all!” Mick groaned.

      “We are better off without them,” declared Irina, “I don’t trust that Mulac. Bethan should choose her companions more carefully, Michal,” she flung the words at him.

     “She’s my girlfriend and her name is Beth,” snapped Mick, indifferent to the elf girl’s hurt expression.

       “In the motherworld perhaps, but this is Mamelon. Besides, she seems taken with the Nu-gen,” Irina commented with raised eyebrows. Pers groaned. She had never been one to concede a point gracefully, his sister. 

      “You’re just jealous, you stupid…female!” Mick shouted angrily, but then looked away so no one would see the tears that sprung to his eyes. Irina winced as if he’d struck her. Serves her right! he told himself.  Flattered at first, he was beginning to weary of the elf girl’s constant flirting. That’s not strictly true, a still small voice acknowledged. He chose to ignore it.

       “I wonder whatever happened to the little magician…” Pers mused aloud.

      “How typical of his kind to save himself and let the krills take the rest of us!” Kirin sneered.

     Mick was thinking along much the same lines. Not once, but twice now, Ricci had abandoned them. Even so, he felt obliged to leap to the little man’s defence. “He’s only an apprentice magician and I’m sure he’ll find a way to rescue us before the krills decide to play football with us again.”

      “Football..?” Pers eyebrows rose quizzically.

      “Forget it,” Mick was too tired to explain.

      “It is a game they play in the motherworld,” said Kirin, much to everyone’s surprise.

      “Next time they sport with us, it will be no game!” muttered Pers ominously.

      Irina gasped. Kirin glowered at his friend and went to her. “See, you have frightened your sister!” He gave the elf girl a hug.  

      Mick reddened and turned away. Nor was his confusion solely due to mixed feelings for Irina.  So much had happened, and it was all happening too fast. There was so much he didn’t understand. How could he? During the latest krill attack, the puli in his pocket had proved no more useful than a pebble on Margate beach. He’d begun to expect great things of the stone, especially after its spectacular performance previously. Now they were back at square one, worse even. He had lost Beth again as well as that idiot Ricci. As for the Nu-gen, “Good riddance!” he muttered under his breath. And where was Pete?  Homesickness settled heavily on his stomach, refusing to budge even when Irina slipped a hand in his and met his weary look with a dazzling smile.

      “All will be well, you’ll see.”  But the elf girl’s battered face radiated an optimism Mick could not begin to share.

     “As the aryd said to the doolie,” retorted Kirin. It was not particularly funny, but everyone laughed and it eased the tension. Mick exchanged grins with the elf in a rare moment of rapport. But Kirin quickly reverted to form and looked sulkily away. Mick shrugged. If that’s the way he wants it, so be it. He actually quite liked Kirin and wished they could be friends. A part of him sympathised with the elf. He could not forget how he’d felt seeing Mulac grab Beth’s hand and drag her after him as if he owned her. Mick scowled. Beth hadn’t even seemed to mind. Impulsively, he drew Irina closer.  She met her brother’s eye and started at the strength of his unspoken criticism. Even so, she did not resist the moody motherworlder’s arm circling her waist.

     Kirin caught his breath sharply. One of their guards sniggered. It was too much for poor Kirin. He charged the interloper, Michal, like a mad bull. Mick, who had been half-expecting just such an attack, quickly recovered from the initial shock. He and Kirin were soon rolling on the ground, scrapping furiously. Irina hovered and made plaintive squealing noises. Pers, though, wasted no time diving into the fray. The  elf was angry. They should not be fighting among themselves. He finally managed to separate the pair although not before sustaining more bruises and another black eye for his trouble. 

     Meanwhile, the two guards had edged closer and were plainly enjoying the spectacle. Pers and Mick exchanged meaningful glances. Kirin, though, preoccupied as he was with looking to Irina for sympathy, missed this fleeting interchange. The elf girl, however, did not. Instantly on the alert, she returned her brother’s wink and instinctively understood what was expected of her.  Kirin, glad the fight was over, was feeling sheepish and hard done by when the motherworlder suddenly caught him off guard with a forceful shove. He went reeling and fell heavily. Before he could strike out, the other had straddled the elf’s chest and pinioned his arms. “Be ready to run!” hissed Mick. But the elf was full of such hatred, he did not hear.

      Deep down, Kirin sensed that something was not quite right. For the first time in his life, the elf denied his natural instincts. A frenzy of emotion ran riot in his head until it felt near to bursting. His only concern was to be rid of the motherworlder once and for all. Drawing upon all his reserves of elven strength, he heaved and twisted free.

     The fight resumed. “Not so rough, eh…?” Mick whispered, and then saw the murderous look in Kirin’s eye. The elf wasn’t shamming. A voice in his head warned that he was fighting for his life. He lashed out. The pair fought like demons, much to the delight of the guards and growing consternation of Pers.

      Irina, blissfully unaware that the fight was for real, rose to the occasion and grabbed one of the guards by a scaly arm. “Stop them before they kill each other!” she pleaded.

      “Do something!” Pers remonstrated with the other guard.

    Both krills gave a harsh cackle and remained oblivious to their danger until it was too late. Simultaneously, brother and sister made their moves. Each caught the guards a lightning blow in the face, following it up with a chopping movement of elf hand to scaly neck. The guards stood no chance, slumping senseless to the ground before any self-defence mechanisms had time for even a knee-jerk reaction. 

     “Come!” whispered Pers with an urgency that penetrated even Kirin’s raging frustration.  But he and Mick continued to square up to each other. Neither moved or said a word.

     “Now!” urged Irina, beside herself. Then she made the mistake of rushing up to Mick and grabbing his hand. “We must hurry!”

         Kirin saw red. “No!” he yelled, “You belong to me!” He lunged at Mick yet again.

      Irina would have screamed if Pers hadn’t clapped a hand over her mouth and issued a grim warning. “Do you want to kill us all?”  Barely sparing the pair on the ground a second glance, he seized her by the wrist and crept stealthily into the darkness, dragging her after him.

        In vain, Irina tried to struggle free. “Michal!” She opened her mouth to scream. But Pers had no intention of being caught again. Without allowing himself time to think, he silenced her with a single blow, slung her over his shoulder and raced  silently into the gloomy Mamelon night.

      A particularly savage blow sent Mick sprawling. Kirin made as if to follow up his advantage. Mick froze, unable to move a muscle. Suddenly, something hit a nerve in the elf. He looked dazedly about him. Irina was gone! She was no longer with them in the tiny cave. He looked again. Pers, too, had disappeared.  Angry and confused, he rounded on the motherworlder. Mick’s expression told him all he needed to know.

        The elf’s heart sank.

     "Well done!” said Mick scathingly and watched unsympathetically as realization and distress dawned in the elf’s stricken gaze. But there was no time to waste. He staggered to his feet, massaging his jaw. “Now, come on!”  He moved forward, sluggishly, only to have a lone krill look out of the darkness directly in his path. It took in the situation at a glance and opened its ugly mouth to raise the alarm. “No you don’t!” muttered Mick between clenched teeth and flung himself at the scaly creature. The pair went flying. Mick hung on, but the krill was by far the stronger. A ferocious hug all but squeezed the breath from his body. By the time they hit the ground, Mick was barely conscious. Neither the cruel eyes boring into his face nor a vile stench emitting from thick lips twisted in triumph could touch him any more. Only an agony of crushed ribs kept his native spirit alive.

      Kirin watched in fascinated horror as the krill drew a blade from a handsome sheath at its belt and lifted it high, poised to strike at the exhausted motherworlder.  Yes, yes, a gleeful voice shrieked in his head. The elf nearly jumped out of his skin. The sound was completely alien to him yet excited him like no other. Nor did he have any difficulty recognizing it for what it was…pure evil.  The slight elven form gave a shudder. What have I done?  Mortified, he stared, wide-eyed. The krill blade descended teasingly, in slow motion, until it pricked the motherworlder’s throat and drew blood. Suddenly, the creature moaned as if in pain. The hand gripping the knife pulled back slightly, the scaly wrist twisting as it if wrestled with some invisible restraint.

      Mick felt himself tumbling into a dark void. In his head, he sung the Okay Song. It seemed the natural and obvious thing to do. His terror eased somewhat as he imagined himself a child again being comforted by his mother, picturing her face with such clarity that she might have been standing over him. He even fancied that he heard her sweet soprano voice joining with his shaky tenor in the old, familiar lullaby.

      Kirin heard it, too, faintly at first but growing stronger until his head seemed to be swimming with music.  It stopped with a suddenness that made him cry out, so intense was the feeling of irreparable loss left clutching at his heart. All at once, his vision cleared as if a veil across it has been flung back.  He saw the krill poised to kill the motherworlder whom he, Kirin…hated. In an appalling flash of insight, the elf bore witness to a hideous yellow fog. A dark spot within it began to swell. Kirin cried out.  A seventh sense told him that this evil thing was no less than his own spirit, looming large and impenetrable before his very eyes. From a place in such nether regions of self he had never reckoned to go, the music started up again, although he could tell it was but a dying echo. Even so, it was an inspiration. Gar was calling to him. All was not quite lost. “Elves…!” he cried and leapt upon the krill’s back, wrenching back its knife arm with a burst of super strength.

      Mick remained semiconscious and unaware of the battle that ensued between elf and krill. He came to in time to see Kirin drive the creature’s own knife between its scales where he judged its heart to be. The krill reared up and then fell back, uttered a long, low moan while continuing to flap about for a bit even after sneaking its last breath. He gaped at Kirin in blank astonishment.

      “I have killed!” the elf could only sob, pitifully, over and over.

    “You saved my life!” murmured Mick incredulously as he stemmed a flesh wound with a handkerchief. “Thanks, but we must hurry!” he whispered in the elf’s ear as he tried to pull him to his feet.  But Kirin would not budge. “Come on!” Mick hissed, “Before his mates get here. It beats me why they’re not swarming all over us already!”

      “Elves…!” Kirin repeated, but in an entirely different tone than the warlike cry he had uttered earlier. He began to cry. “Elves…!” He sobbed again, weeping freely now and moaning softly. Yet, he did not appear to Mick as being in any great distress. Rather, the elf seemed almost happy.

        Mick felt a sticky wetness against his palm, glanced at it and back at the slight figure slumped in his arms. In spite of their danger, he could not suppress a sharp cry at the bloody discharge from a wound in the elf’s chest.  Even as he did so, Kirin gave a long, low sigh and went motionless. 

       Frantically, Mick felt for a pulse. There was none. The elf was dead.

     “Take him and go!” commanded a firm but not unsympathetic voice in Mick’s head. Dazedly, he gathered the elf in both arms, lurched towards the cave exit and prayed that a dim light from the krill’s campfire nearby would not expose them as he crept into a welcome but freezing Black Hole of night.

     “Where are we going?”  But if Mick was hoping for an answer from the unseen presence he sensed so strongly while not quite believing in it, he was disappointed.  Yet, he knew better than to display either frustration or disappointment. Instead, he pressed doggedly on. 

       Dawn came without any warning, the twin moons replaced by an ascending glow that, in turn, brought with it a revelation that halted the weary youth in his tracks.

        A splendid dome glistened in the distance. At first, Mick thought it must be a mirage. Somehow, it seemed to lack substance, almost as if it were pure light. Whatever, it’s weird. He shrugged, shifted the corpse in his arms and proceeded to stagger towards the dome. Every bone in his body was crying out for rest. More than anything, he longed to be rid of his burden. Yet, an uncanny instinct urged him to carry the elf to a safe place. Did the mysterious dome offer sanctuary, he wondered?  Could there be any connection with the puli in his pocket that lay as cold and still as poor Kirin? There was only one way to find out. He put on a spurt in spite of his fatigue. All around him, the landscape’s bland indifference to his growing desperation stuck him as palpably more unbearable than any open hostility.

      An aryd swooped out of nowhere, its bulbous eyes hideous with evil intent. Mick had no choice but to stand his ground. He hadn’t the energy to run. The creature came straight for him like a bullet from a gun, waiting until the very last second before it zoomed off at a tangent, soaring with a grace that belied its ungainly appearance.  Mick saw the whites of its eyes and thought he detected an outraged astonishment, as if the winged thing was unaccustomed to and therefore unprepared for blind confrontation. Even so, the rush of its giant wings came like a blow that sent Mick reeling in its wake.  He tottered clumsily, like a child learning its first steps, but soon recovered his balance and continued to head for the dome.

     The strangest sensation came over Mick. He felt as though he had been rebuked by a dark, ungodly force that persisted, determined to force him to his knees. He swayed and nearly fell, but if ever stubbornness was a virtue, now was the time to make the most of it. He plodded on. Each step was an effort, the result of sheer willpower. A searing heat had already replaced the bitter cold. A haze rose and swirled everywhere like clouds of steam. Meanwhile, the dome flitted in and out of his vision with tantalizing frequency without ever seeming any closer.  At last, panting and feeling dizzy, he dropped to his knees with a bleak cry of despair, still clasping the elf to his chest. “Ri, help me!” he groaned, unwittingly invoking the ultimate power acknowledged by all Mamelon.

     The dizziness grew worse. Something stirred in his leggings pocket. The puli..? Somehow, he thought not. La’s gift was capable of power, yes. But this, this was a life force. Then he remembered a second gift,  a tiny crystal the elf king Ka-Ri had slipped him. His breathing became easier.  Ka meant him no harm. Mick managed a wry smile. If ever there was a time he needed to believe in elves and their magic this was it.  Suddenly, the vision of a huge whale came upon him. Absurdly, the biblical tale of Jonah sprung to mind. Mick began to panic. The beast’s jaws opened wide. A sensation of being transported into regions beyond imagination took hold.  “Am I dying?” he wondered aloud, and was instantly more amused than frightened. All at once, he felt incredibly calm. Resistance, he realized intuitively, would not only prove futile but foolish. Relieved, he gladly submitted and let himself float like a fallen leaf on a Kentish breeze…into sweet oblivion.

      On awakening, Mick felt wonderfully refreshed. I must have slept well, was his first conscious thought. He yawned, stretched, and for one heavenly moment could have been at home, in his own bed.  Then the foreignness of his surroundings rushed up at him and he remembered. His heart sank. But before he had time to brood or even collect his thoughts, a voice spoke from a shadowy corner of the blissfully cool chamber where he lay.

     “For a motherworlder, you’ve done well, young Michal. Your mother hasn’t done a bad job on you, I must say. Not bad at all.” A shadowy figure rose and approached the bed.  Mick perceived someone dressed all in yellow, with white hair and a beard. He could easily have been Ricci’s father. Or grandfather. Mick hastily corrected himself for the stranger had to be very old, although it was harfd to justify this conclusion since the smiling face bearing down upon him was almost youthful. He remembered the elf.       

      “Kirin…!”

     “The elf waits where he must wait,” said the enigmatic figure. Mick did not like the sound of that at all, but was disinclined to seek further clarification concerning the dead elf’s whereabouts.

     “So, who are you?” Mick demanded. Immediately contrite, he softened his tone as he began to realise that in all probability he owed his life to the stranger. “Where am I, exactly?”

      “Exactly…? And what, exactly, is exactness? Suffice that you are safe…for now,” murmured the old man cryptically, “And I’ll thank you to be more polite to your grandfather,” he addedm but not unkindly and chose to ignore the look of astonishment on Mick’s face. “Now, rise and shine if you please. Much hangs on you, my boy, and time is short.  My, you’ve an education ahead of you and no mistake! But don’t look so worried. I am a brilliant teacher and you have the makings of an excellent pupil.” He grasped the bed covers and flung them off.

      “My…grandfather…?” Mick managed to mumble at last.

     “Yes, of course. You didn’t think I would let you go though this on your own did you? Now, hurry up and get dressed. We have much work to do….”

      “You wouldn’t happen to have any food, I suppose, and some water?”

      “I dare say I can manage that,” agreed the robed figure, “As soon as you’re ready, come through and I’ll have something prepared.” He turned to leave. “Just bear in mind, young Michal, that I don’t appreciate being kept waiting,” called Astor, self-styled Mage of Mages, over his shoulder.

To be continued

Mamelon - Chapter 16

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Beth could not have said exactly what prompted her to leave the others. True, she was fed-up with playing eye contact games with Mick nor was she in the least amused by his clumsy attempts make her feel jealous of Irina.  On the contrary, she felt quite sorry for the elf girl who was clearly smitten with Mick’s boyish charm. No, it was something else altogether, almost as if a voice in her head was urging her to get away from there without delay. At the same time, it seemed the most natural thing to go for a pee.

She was on her way to rejoin the others when something rubbed against her leggings.  Looking down, she gave a delighted gasp, “Ace!” The little dog wagged its tail and allowed itself to be scooped up and fussed over while slopping a pink tongue all over the girl’s beaming face.  In no time at all, though, Ace began to wriggle furiously and Beth put him down. “No, this way,” she tried to insist as it ran off in the opposite direction.

Ace paused at one of the outer tent flaps, flung her a look as it to say, “Well, come on! What are you waiting for?” and then proceeded to run back and forth without making a sound but persistently nibbling at her ankles.

“Ouch!” Beth cried out, but the dog only glared and continued its antics with increasing vigour. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

The dog squatted on its haunches, treated her to an ironic expression, and put its front paws together as if clapping. She’d have laughed, but for a warning look in the dog’s eyes. Of course I am. The sharp canine eyes conveyed a growing impatience, Are you stupid, or…what?

“You want me to follow you, is that it?” She could have sworn the little mongrel nodded. “But…the others,” she protested.

Never mind them. They must take care of themselves. We have more important things to do. Now, come on, a low growl seemed to say. Beth hesitated. Do you want to help Mulac or don’t you?

“Mulac…?” Beth checked herself.  This was ridiculous. How could she be having a conversation with a dog?  Yet, Mulac’s name rose unbidden in her head just as if Ace had spoken it aloud.

Ace promptly dropped on all fours and dived under the tent flap, without a backward glance, as if the matter was settled. Beth had to concede it was. Confused, puzzled and not a little frightened, she crawled under the incredibly lightweight folds in time to glimpse a patch of white flank disappearing into the gloom. She chased after it and thought she saw something move out of the corner of one eye. But it was too far away to be sure. Besides, it took all her concentration to make out the dog’s shadowy form zigzagging crazily through the scrub. Panting hard, she had to struggle to keep up.

Without any warning, the dog stopped and performed an adroit belly flop. Beth nearly trod on its tail and swore. As it was, she tripped and went flying… straight into Mulac’s open arms.  She was unprepared and instinctively opened her mouth to scream. His kiss silenced her, and it was a while before she broke free. “This is neither the time nor the place,” she mumbled and wished she sounded more disapproving. “How dare you!” she added somewhat belatedly.

“I knew you would come,” was all he said.

“I must be mad!” Beth’s self-confidence returned with her anger although against whom it was mostly directed, the Nu-gen or herself, she remained unsure.  Neither did she quite understand why they were talking in whispers.  “It’s not as if you couldn’t have tracked us down yourself,” she flung at him accusingly. “What happened to you anyway?” she demanded, partly out of genuine interest and part;y by way of keeping a moral high ground she felt in imminent danger of losing.

“I wish I knew!” Mulac groaned. His voice sounded hoarse to her ears and choked with uncharacteristic emotion.

Beth felt compelled to stand back and consider the Nu-gen more closely. Something about him made her uneasy.  He was the same, yet not the same.  The oval disc dangling from his neck had lost its shine. It had always reminded her of a wolf’s eye. Now it was as if the wolf had gone blind and no longer posed a threat.  Suddenly, she understood what it was about Mulac that had been missing before. But even as she put a name to it, she became more disturbed than ever. For the word that sprung to mind was vulnerability. Once a wolf, emanating an animal lust for life, the Nu-gen now seemed curiously…tame. “What’s wrong?” she asked gently.

Mulac hesitated then lifted one hand very slowly to his face. “I am blind,” he confessed with a simplicity that tore at Beth’s heart. Instinctively, she glanced at the wolf’s eye but dismissed the ironic comparison as pure fancy. She braced herself to look directly into the sightless eyes. They were, she realised for the first time, very beautiful. She wanted to gather him into her arms, but sensed an embrace would not be welcome a second time. Their reunion had been spontaneous, impulsive, an acknowledgement of feelings for one another that neither cared to look at too closely. He was Nu-gen. Such emotion was alien to him. And she was Bethany Martin from Tunbridge Wells. It occurred to her that perhaps his blindness was a warning to them both. Almost at once, she dismissed the thought as too fanciful and melodramatic for words. 

“Come on, we can’t hang around here.” She took his hand but he snatched it away. “Be practical, mule-head!” she railed at him, “Let me help you.”

“I am Nu-gen,” he stated flatly.

“You are blind,” she reminded him and was shocked by her own forthrightness.

Mulac said nothing and hung back a while before stretching out his hand. Beth, too, hesitated before taking it.  As she did so, she half-expected to be struck by lightning or something. But nothing happened. Moreover, she felt nothing. Not even pity stirred within her. Certainly, there was none of the passion that gripped her as she had responded to his clumsy kisses. Even so, it was good to feel the warmth and roughness of his hand in hers. She would have led him back the way she had come but Ace darted off in another direction.

“What is it?” growled Mulac. Beth explained. “Follow the dog,” he told her.

“But the others…” she prevaricated.

“He led you to me, didn’t he?”

“Yes, but…”

“Then he must know things.”

“He’s only a dog!”  Beth laughed.

“He knows things,” repeated Mulac, “We must follow him and find out what he knows.”

“But Mick and the others, they will be looking for me.”

“And they will find you when the time is right. Meanwhile, we follow the dog.”   Beth agonized, pitting instinct against emotion.

“Do you trust me?”

“Of course I do.” She did not hesitate and he looked pleased.

“Good. We follow the dog.”

“If you say so,” she muttered without conviction.

“I do,” declared the Nu-gen in that same uncompromising tone that was guaranteed to make her hackles rise. Only, this time she took some perverse reassurance in the fact.  At least he was not full of self-pity. She could not have handled that.

As it happened, Ace led them to the spot where Beth had left the others, but by a roundabout route that meant nothing to her.  While the dog sniffed around, Beth and Mulac were glad to rest. Suddenly, Beth spotted something shiny on the ground. Bending to retrieve it, she recognized Mick’s key ring and gave a sharp cry.

“What is it?” Mulac leapt to his feet. She told him, close to tears.

“So he dropped it here. It proves nothing.”

“It was clipped to his belt. He left it here for me to find,” she insisted.

Mulac sniffed the air. “Krills have been here!”

“Oh, no, not again…!”  She burst into tears.  Mulac put an arm around her. “I hate this place, this…Mamelon!” she sobbed, “I hate it, I hate it!”

“It was not always like this,” he murmured into her hair. “One day, things will be as they should be and you will love it here.”

“I don’t think so!” she returned hotly. Mulac made no answer but squatted on the ground and rummaged in his knapsack to produce sticks of what she took to be liquorice for them to eat as well as a flask of vinre.

“Sit,” he told her brusquely, “A little food and drink make even bad times seem better.”

“I’m not hungry or thirsty,” she mumbled. It seemed no time at all since she had been tucking in with Mick and the others.

“Well, I am!” said the Nu-gen.  After watching him for a while, Beth had to concede he may have a point and accepted one of the liquorice sticks. It tasted delicious, not like liquorice at all but more like a tangy cheddar cheese. The vinre, too, helped calm her nerves. She looked for Ace, but the little dog was nowhere to be seen.

“What is the matter?” Mulac felt her tense beside him.

“Ace has gone!”

“He’ll be back.” The Nu-gen shrugged so matter-of-factly that it did not enter Beth’s head to doubt him.  She shivered in spite of the night air’s clammy heat. It was Mulac’s turn to tense. Then he put an arm around her and let her snuggle against his tunic. Neither spoke. Before long, she was asleep. But the Nu-gen brooded long into the night.

When he had stumbled in the mist, in agony from the humming noise piercing his eardrums, Mulac had not lost consciousness at once.  He tried to call out to the others, but no sound emerged from his lips as he engaged in a fruitless battle with mounting panic. Instinctively, he glanced behind at where the danger lay. A yellow fog was rolling through the mist like a hazy fireball, looming bigger and bigger as it bore down upon him. He had struggled to rise. But his left leg dragged on every muscle and he was forced to cower where he lay.  He was Nu-gen, he kept telling himself. Fear meant nothing to him. Yet, he understood only too well, that what gripped his heart in an iron fist was sheer terror.

The approaching horror had gathered pace and was about to swallow him whole. Staring annihilation in the face and powerless to defend himself, stories about his forefathers sprung to mind. Was this, he wondered, what it was like to lose one’s soul?  Nor did it seem strange to put the question even though, as Nu-gen, he had been reared to believe he had no soul to lose.  Suddenly, in his mind’s eye, he saw wolves. Wolves…?  A distant memory tugged at his mind.  “Who am I?” he asked himself without thinking.  All at once, he was distracted. A small dog appeared out of nowhere. It leapt at him before he had time to grasp its intention. Too weary even to be surprised, he rolled on his back. The dog landed on his stomach. The ball of fog was practically upon them. The dog growled. He only vaguely saw the animal take a defensive stance. Past caring, he shut his eyes and awaited the worst.

As he closed his eyes, the awful humming had ceased. Instantly, he began to feel like his old self. He felt the dog shift slightly where it still lay on his stomach but sensed  the immediate danger had passed. Experiencing a sensation like clammy fingers poking him all over, he had presumed the fog was upon them.  At the same time, terror gave way to an intuitive sense of its groping impotency.

Then he had opened his eyes and seen… nothing. He was blind.

Panic had welled within him again, its clawing fingers reminding him of the fog. Only, this was worse. He sensed the mist had thinned, maybe even lifted completely.  Why, oh why could he not see for himself?  The dog stirred.  Instinctively, he reached out, but it eluded his grasp and ran off.  Come back, he’d wanted to yell at the top of his voice.  Yet, although his lips moved, they made no sound. I will, don’t worry. He seemed to hear an answering call in his head and put it down to wishful thinking.

After a while, he had got shakily to his feet and taken a few tentative steps only to trip on something he took to be a fallen branch and go sprawling. For the first time in his life, he, Mulac, wept.

How long had lain there, hugging his misery as if it were the only meaningful thing left to him, he would never know.  A picture of Bethan, called Beth, floated into his mind’s eye and lingered. “Help me,” he heard himself sob and saw her so clearly that she might have been real.

“I’m coming!” The image of her lips had moved, and he knew it would not be long before she found him. The motherworlder’s lovely eyes had filled with tears and a passion equal to his own. He felt himself come alive again. Yet, how could this be? He was Nu-gen, and Nu-gen had no time for such things. Oh, they had feelings, of course they did. They knew about love, hate, jealousy… They could be happy, sad, and moved to run a whole gamut of feeling. Sometimes, they might even experience a special rapport with another in the tribe. But this fire, this passion, it was alien to Nu-gen. He feared it almost as much as he had feared the fog. But where he had dreaded the fog swallowing him whole, he would gladly give himself to this. Who am I to feel this way?” he demanded of his inner self and recalled asking himself the same question even as the ball of fog had caught up with him and proceeded to probe him, mind, body and spirit.

He had staggered to his feet and plunged resolutely into the darkness that was all that awaited him. In spite of his blindness, some deeper instinct came to his aid. He sensed he had nothing to fear so long as he kept the image of Bethan in his head and followed sounds in his ears, much like a dog barking, as if issuing directons. 

Safe now, Mulac looked down at the sleeping Bethan beside him and let the warmth and smell of her invade his remaining senses. So much so, he could not bear to sleep. Indeed, he put up a game fight. Inevitably, though, sleep won if disinclined to temper any victory with mercy.  “Ah-hhh…!” Mulac screamed, tossing and turning in a cold sweat.

“What the…?” Beth woke and had to struggle free of the Nu-gen’s grip on her arm. “Mulac, wake up!” His eyes flew open. Instantly, he relaxed his hold. The anguish of his expression at not being able to see cut her to the quick and helped her stay calm. “You were having a nightmare.” She wiped his face with her scarf.

“Nightmare?” he groaned.

“A bad dream….”

“Ah, yes!” Now he understood. “Strange, how asleep I can see and awake I cannot. Awake is like…being dead,” he said with a gentle irony that devastated her more than if he had ranted and raved. She fumbled awkwardly for something to say to reassure him, rejected various clichés and was relieved to hear a familiar barking.  “Ace..!” She scrambled to her feet. The dog bounded up to her, wagged his tail, cocked his head on one side then ran off again. “He wants us to follow,” she told Mulac.

“So, what are we waiting for?” The swarthy Nu-gen instinctively pushed Beth’s helping hand away. But his sense of balance left much to be desired and he was forced to reach out for it again.  He heaved himself up and would have withdrawn the hand, but she clutched his fingers tightly.

“Don’t you dare let go of my hand, do you hear? She told him. “You need me as much as I need you.  It may not suit either of us, but that’s life. Am I right or am I right?”

“You may have a point,” he conceded dryly and let her guide him. It took every last drop of willpower. He felt naked and humiliated. But what choice did he have? “Females!” he grumbled under his breath. Beth heard, gave his hand a gentle squeeze and was rewarded with a blast of muttered oaths.  They trudged on, Ace leading the way.

An early morning haze was already lifting by the time the unlikely trio reached the desert proper. Beth stopped, awe-struck. Ahead of them stretched an appalling expanse of red sand likely to intimidate the most formidable spirit. The barren landscape of Fah-y-Noor, Place of Skulls, was much as she imagined hell.

Ace ran ahead, jerkily, with numerous stops and starts. He would wait for them to catch up, and then dart off again, disappear beyond one of the numerous sandy dunes only to hare back in a short while, alternatively barking encouragement and growling with impatience.  Time passed slowly. The sand scorched the soles of their boots. Mulac had taken to placing his left hand upon her right shoulder as he padded, morosely, one step behind; to Beth, it felt like a ton weight.

Above, the sun glared with relentless ferocity. Inconsequentially, Beth found herself wondering yet again why Mamelon had two moons but only one sun. Just as well or we’d be fried alive for sure.  Several aryds swooped, made a low arc just above their heads and hovered like ghouls. “We must find shade and rest,” she gasped. They had been trudging for miles, surely?  Yet the far-off purple haze of mountains seemed no nearer than when she had last peered over the scarf tied around her face. Meanwhile a gritty dust continued to tear at the few exposed parts of her flesh like a swarm of vicious insects.

“No time,” Mulac, insisted “We must press on,” he panted. How could he tell her that there was no shade?  Surely she must know the flask of vinre in his pack did not hold infinite mouthfuls?  The Nu-gen grimaced.  He had crossed deserts before. But, this Hah-y-Noor, this was something else. Would they die in this terrible place, he wondered? Do I care? Of course he cared! And, no, we are not going to die. He was sure of it. All at once, without quite knowing why, he felt elated.  In his mind’s eye, an inviting cameo appeared. He saw a steady stream of water among a cluster of rocks trickling into a grassy patch shaped like the palm of a hand. “This way!” he cried.  Dropping his hand from Beth’s shoulder, he hastened ahead. It was his turn to lead, and he did so without flinching.

“What are you doing?” Beth cried and ran after him.

“Trust me.”

“But…you’re blind!

“Take my hand, there is a sand storm coming.”

“You’re mad!”

“Probably,” Mulac agreed. He waited for her to catch up and then grabbed her arm.  Exasperatedly, Beth shook herself free.  Suddenly, the storm struck and she could not see Mulac at all even though he was standing right next to her.  He groped for her hand and this time she knew better than to pull away. She resisted, however, as the Nu-gen attempted to lead her through the swirling red sand. “We should wait until the storm passes!” she yelled.

“By then we’ll be dead,” he shouted back. Beth began to panic. By now she was utterly confounded and as blind as he. Battered by wind, grit and sand, she screamed above the awful cacophony, “We should wait for Ace. He’ll find us, I know he will!”

“Do you want to be found alive or dead? Trust me,” he repeated.

How can I? she would have retorted had a powerful gust not almost flung her to the ground. Sand poured into her mouth, gagging her. Mulac made no answer but dragged her to her feet and pulled her after him. Beth submitted, resigned to going along with this…utter madness.

Mulac headed for the fist-shaped rocks. So vivid were they in his mind’s eye that he was convinced they were no illusion. How he could be so sure when he had never passed this way before was beyond his understanding. He only knew that he was right. Bowing his head against the sand, he battled on, thankful that Bethan had decided to co-operate.  Suddenly, the ground became much firmer albeit still belching grit and sand.  He paused and peered ahead with sightless eyes that were smarting terribly and ‘saw’ a promontory just ahead. Shelter... He tried to hurry, but it made no difference. Progress was agonizingly slow. 

Finally, they made it. The desert floor sloped sharply, propelling them into a niche of rocks that formed a small cave just big enough to allow two exhausted refugees from the storm to crawl inside.  Immediately above them, a jutting rock wagged an impotent finger at the desert’s blood-red fury.

In such a confined space, the bedraggled pair had no choice but to lie down. Both welcomed an excuse to press tightly against the other. Neither, though, was proof against the onslaught of raw emotion that reared and fell upon them like a pack of hungry wolves.

They made love.

Eventually, they slept and it was Mulac who woke first although he closed his eyes again almost upon opening them. The fragrance of Beth’s hair under his chin triggered memories of their lovemaking. In spite of a raging thirst, he managed a grin. No female had ever satisfied him better or made him feel so…complete.

Complete? The Nu-gen played with it on his tongue. It sounded strange, yet apt. Then the silence hit him like a sledgehammer and he gave a long sigh of relief. The storm must have passed.  A warm wetness began stroking his face, now tickling his nose. Recognizing its source, the Nu-gen opened his eyes and reached out for the little canine. Well done, the dog seemed to say, wagging its tail and waking Beth. 

“Ace..!”  Beth was even more delighted than Mulac to see the little mongrel again.

“What’s that?” Mulac pricked up his ears.

“It sounds like…” Beth strained to hear.

“Running water...!” Mulac leapt to his feet and sent the dog flying. Ace did not seem to mind in the least and led the way, barking loudly, to a clutch of rocks nearby that closely resembled the fingers of a hand. Into a tiny indentation, not unlike a child’s palm, dripped a steady trickle of water. There was only room for one at a time. Beth expected Mulac to go first. Uncharacteristically, he hung back.  She promptly knelt down and cupped her hands although she did not drink immediately but lifted her precious load to the Nu-gen’s quivering lips. The wolf’s eye around his neck glinted in the sunlight as if winking. It crossed Beth’s mind that the wolf approved of her and she found the whimsy oddly comforting. Then she lay flat again and drank her fill before assisting Mulac to take her place.

“We have wasted enough time,” growled Mulac. “Fill the flasks with water then we must leave. Whatever waits for us in the Purple Mountains will not wait forever,” he added with a certainty he could not explain. He pointed. “There is an underground stream we can follow. Since it has not dried up completely, it may well continue to provide water.”

Beth looked where he pointed but saw nothing. “How can you possibly know that? Besides, you’re…”

“Blind, yes. Thank you for reminding me,” he said scathingly. “Do not ask me to explain for I cannot. Yet, in my mind’s eye, I see what I see. You can trust me, or…” He shrugged and proceeded to scramble over some rocks ahead. However, she saw that he did so with none of the sureness of someone with normal vision. She pursed her lips. Mulac may well see whatever it was he thought he could see, but that certainly wasn’t everything. She finished filling the leather flasks and then hurried after him, grabbing his hand as he stumbled.  He snatched it away. “I am not a child. I do not need you to hold my hand,” he snapped.

“Well, I do!” Beth retorted.

“Huh!” was all Mulac said but the way his fingers entwined with hers and gave them a gentle squeeze belied the Nu-gen’s surly manner. Beth’s heart skipped a beat and she was almost glad he couldn’t see her face.

But Beth was mistaken. Mulac could ‘see’ her face clearly.  It was uncanny, this inner vision. By now, he was almost accustomed to it. Once the initial shock had worn off, he’d quickly adapted.  He did not accept it, and never would. At the same time, common sense dictated he must resign himself to the condition, for now at any rate. Nor had it taken long before he began to appreciate how this lack of normal sight was no ordinary disability. On the contrary, he had the strongest sense that it was a gift.  But, .how, why?  To add to his confusion, a voice inside his head insisted that no external forces had imposed this blindness upon him. Rather, this inner vision had been summoned. Should he feel reassured or take it as a warning? “This is madness,” he muttered, not for the first time. He shook his black mane and set his jaw resolutely. Whatever, if the weird phenomenon saw them safely across Fah-y-Noor, he supposed they must be grateful.

The pair set off again. Neither mentioned their lovemaking, nor were their thoughts ever far from it.

To be continued

Mamelon - Chapter 15

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“Where were they taking you?” Pers asked Kirin.

“To the Purple Mountains if we are to believe what they were saying among themselves,” the elf replied and shuddered at the memory.

“Do not believe all you hear,” growled Mulac.

“Brrr…!” Beth shivered. Was it her imagination or was the mist growing as cold as it was clinging?  A cloud seemed to be forming around them that seemed separate from the main body of mist. She shrugged. It must be her imagination. Even so, the clothes she wore, snug enough until now, no longer seemed to offer the same protection.

“Run! Run for your lives!” shouted Pers suddenly, “The mist, it means us harm!”  The alarm in his voice brooked no argument, but the same question on all their lips begged an answer.

“Why?” Mick demanded.

“By Ri, he’s right!” yelled Mulac, inwardly taking himself to task. Why hadn’t he seen it himself?  But there was no time to worry about that now. “Run, all of you!” He grabbed Beth’s hand and ran through a break in the swirling cloud. 

Although the possessive manner in which the Nu-gen assumed charge of Beth irked Mick no end, his better instincts warned him to follow close behind.  The elves did the same. Ricci, castigating himself for not recognizing Dark Magic when it was being literally shoved in his face, brought up the rear, although no lhastily for that.  He tried to think of a warding spell against the mist, failed miserably, and concentrated instead upon keeping the fleeing shadows ahead in view. The elves and Mulac were not his concern. They must fend for themselves. But the Master would never forgive him if he lost the motherworlders yet again.

Pers overtook Mulac and led the way, twisting and turning through the mist while the cloud chased after them like a huge white ball. Yes, chased. They all felt it. The faster they ran, the more furiously it licked at their heels. Mulac was content, for now, to let Pers take the lead. The elf, at least, seemed to have some sense of direction where he, Mulac, had none. Ricci found time to ask himself how the elf had become aware of the danger they were in before he did but promptly cast the question to the back of his mind for future reference; this was definitely not the time. The ‘thing’ was plainly targeting them. More to the point, it was gaining on them. Everyone sensed it. Irina held on tightly to Kirin’s hand. Mick, panting managed if only just to keep pace with Mulac. Beth, glad of Mulac’s hand in hers, struggled to keep up. All were almost glad to be running as it left them less time to feel afraid.

As he ran, Mulac heard a shrill humming in his head that grew steadily worse. Eventually, he let go of Beth and raised both hands to his ears.  He began to fall behind the others. By now, the pain in his head was so excruciating he could hardly see what little the mist permitted. Beth barely registered the fact that Mick had slipped a hand in hers and taken the Nu-gen’s place. It seemed natural enough, and she was frightened.  She simply assumed that Mulac was close by.

The mist began to thin. Was it his imagination, Mick wondered, or was the air getting warmer too? It was still cold, certainly, but less bitingly so than before. He shook his head. A faint humming noise in his ears had been a source of irritation for some time although not so much the noise itself as the sound it made. It resembled a familiar tune played badly; try as he might, though, he could not place it.

If slightly less chilled to the marrow, the exhausted fugitives felt no safer for that and kept on running.  Soon, the mist cleared completely. Even so, the sun radiated only a muddy light and little enough heat penetrated a flurry of tawny clouds.   They reached a small clearing among various rocks and scrub interspersed with pools of red sand that would give way soon enough to a vast sea of red just ahead.  Beth stumbled and fell, dragging Mick after her.

The elves and Ricci, recognizing that any immediate danger had passed and the motherworlders needed to rest, waited patiently.  Beth lay exhausted, on the ground. She drifted in and out of consciousness for some time before finally grasping that the ball of mist was no longer pursuing them and they were safe. “What happened?” she gasped to the figure sprawled beside her. She was glad it was Mick and felt reassured. At the same time, she was vaguely shocked to discover it was not Mulac. A spasm of unease passed through her weary body. Reluctant though she was to tear her gaze from Mick’s familiar grin, she looked around anxiously for the Nu-gen. “Where’s Mulac?”

No one answered her. Everyone looked nervously at each other, unable or unwilling to speak. Even Mick looked away.

“It must have got him,” said Kirin at last.

“But that’s…impossible,” she tried to protest but could only manage a hoarse whisper.

“Oh, but surely not…?  Nu-gen may be a crude people but they are as tough as old boots!” Pers tried to sound optimistic.

“There must be another explanation,” Beth agreed, amazed she could stay so calm, outwardly at leasr. Inwardly, she was distraught. Mulac had left his tribe because of her, after all. She felt responsible. In vain, she tried to ignore just how attached to the surly Nu-gen she had become.

“Mulac can look after himself. We must be moving on,” Ricci announced with a confidence he was far from feeling.

“But…we can’t just leave him to…that,” Beth gasped.

“I know, but…Well, what choice do we have?” Irina was sympathetic. 

“None,” said Kirin, “Ricci is right, we must move on.”

“We must go back. He may be hurt!” Beth was close to tears.

“No way!” exclaimed Mick. “It’s hard luck on what’s-its name…”

“Mulac,” prompted Beth angrily.

“Yes, well, poor old Mulac. But these things happen. The others are right. We’ve got to press on. Bloody hellfire, Beth, I want to find my brother and get out of this place! Don’t you?”  Mick challenged her directly. Tears pricked his eyes. He would have dearly liked to say more. Instead, a scornful look from Beth left him speechless. He turned a deathly pale and involuntarily succumbed to a coughing fit.

“Mulac is Nu-gen,” said Pers quietly. “If he is alive, he will find us. If he is dead, the tribe will come for his body. We must go on.” He approached Beth and placed both hands on her shoulders. “Much is at stake here. We have no time to waste.”

“Oh, and since when was helping friend in need a waste of time?” Beth made no attempt to conceal her bitterness. The elf neither replied nor looked away. She held the searching gaze with a defiance that began to wane as the large, liquid eyes instilled in her a growing sense of peace.  Even as her flagging spirits soared to new heights, they perpetuated a profound sadnessw.  Yet, it was bearable, the sadness.  In those few seconds she achieved an intimate rapport with the elf in the course of which all things became possible although none would be denied. 

Suddenly, Beth had a flash of intuition. Whatever this place, this Mamelon, held in store for her, she must bow to a greater wisdom, or fate, whatever. She shrugged. It hardly mattered, surely? “I belong here,” she murmured incredulously. Only Pers heard, thought he understood and returned her perplexed look with a shy smile. “Let’s go,” she heard herself say and strode off ahead of the others.

A much relieved Ricci followed briskly, but not before taking Mick firmly by the arm.  He needed to keep an eye on young Michal, he told himself. Not only was the motherworlder dragging his feet but was also plainly preoccupied with Beth’s extraordinary reaction to the Nu-gen’s disappearance. As if anyone ever gave a hoot for Nu-gen, for Ri’s sake!  At the same time, a seventh sense told him they hadn’t heard the last of Mulac. He was Etta’s charge, after all, and she was no mean force to be reckoned with. “I’ll say!” he muttered to no one in particular.

The elves hung back. “When the time comes, it will be just us three,” grumbled Kirin. “You heard the motherworlder. He wishes he had never come to Mamelon.  As for the female, she is his woman and must feel the same.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Irina retorted, “Females have minds of their own, too, you know.”

Kirin ignored her. “I tell you, my friends, this journey is ill conceived.”

“No one asked you to come,” Irina reminded him.

“You may be right,” conceded Pers gravely, “But these motherworlders are elf friends. I cannot believe they would willingly abandon us or wish us any harm. There is more than Dark Magic abroad. Can you not feel it?  Other forces surround us. Good or bad, only time will tell. Meanwhile, we must trust each other and stay together. That way, at least, we stand a chance of survival. Or we may never see Gar again…” His voice broke.

“If you say so,” said Kirin ungraciously before adding, “I, too, miss our beloved forest!”

“We all do.” Irina gave him a friendly hug, but he misunderstood the kindly gesture and held her tightly, not ever wanting to let go. He clung to her. The sound of her heart beating against his tunic was like music to his ears and her sweet breath on his face more intoxicating than any woodland perfume. “Come,” she said, and gently but surely urged him after the others.

  It was a deeply troubled Pers who watched them go. He sighed.  Among all the dark powers abroad in Mamelon, he continued to suspect that unrequited love was not the least they should fear. “What will be, will be,” he told a passing doolie but found little consolation in philosophy and hurried, with loping strides, to catch up and overtake them. 

 At last, they reached the edge of the desert itself. An amber twilight greeted them as they regrouped. All were cold, tired and hungry. Ricci promptly conjured up shelter, food and hot baths.

Mick regarded the huge tent with a mixture of relief and dismay. “Won’t the krills spot that a mile away?”

“Not unless their eyesight has improved considerably,” said Ricci in an injured tone, “Naturally, I have taken the precaution of warding us from prying eyes.”

“Not like the last time then?” Mick glared.

Ricci looked suitably abashed, but urged them to make the most of their opportunity. “Once in this wretched desert, who knows? Fah-y-Noor is unpredictable, to say the least. It has been known to thwart even the best magic!” 

“You wouldn’t be covering your back, of course?” Mick was unimpressed. But everyone laughed, and it helped ease the tension. Ricci promptly went into a sulk and disappeared into one of the tent’s various compartments.

Even Mick had to admit that, as a provider of home comforts, Ricci had once again excelled himself. Everyone was soon feeling refreshed and, outwardly at least, in good humour.  Beth sat slightly aloof from the others. Is she still brooding about Mulac, Mick wondered?  But Irina was pressing against him and he avoided Beth’s eye as the elf girl slipped a hand in his and snuggled closer.  Was Beth attracted to the Nu-gen? But that’s impossible, surely? Yet, this whole, bizarre situation is impossible so, why not?  Out of the corner of one eye, he saw Beth glance his way. Defiantly, he put an arm around Irina and drew her closer.  Her tongue stroked his ear lobe. He felt flattered, there was no use denying it. Nor could he quite ignore the lust fermenting in his loins as the ball of one velvety finger continued, indiscreetly, to stroke the back of his hand.

Any satisfaction Mick took from the elf girl’s attentions soon dissolved when he chanced looking at Beth. She was aware of the elf girl’s interest in him, he was certain. But her face was expressionless as if she didn’t even appear to mind.  Then his eyes met Kirin’s. Mick winced, experienced a rush of irrational spite and deliberately leaned across and nuzzled Irina’s hair. Kirin’s gaze darkened.  But Mick was too angry with Beth to care that if looks could kill the elf would have seen to it he dropped dead on the spot. He saw Pers lean and whisper in his friend’s ear. Kirin seemed to relax and turned his attention again to Ricci who had been amusing them all with various tricks.

Suddenly, Beth got up and left the room without a word.

Magic was second nature to Ricci. Such minor feats as these were meant only to amuse. Indeed, he was flattered the elves stayed to watch. Any distraction better than none, he wryly surmised. For he was not indifferent to the tensions he strived to ease. Pers, he decided, could be trusted to keep an eye on things as far as the Kirin-Irina-Michal triangle was concerned. He rather liked Pers. This was surprising since he was wary of elves.  Who isn’t, for Ri’s sake?  No, it was Bethan who worried him the most. She seemed preoccupied. He guessed that she continued to brood about Mulac although, for the life of him, could not understand why.

 Pers, too, found Beth’s behaviour incomprehensible. He hadn’t liked having to abandon the Nu-gen to his fate, but they had no choice. Besides, it was one thing to place a value on life but quite another to risk one’s own, especially for a Nu-gen. In the motherworld tongue, he began to reflect, Nu-gen would translate into No-Person. Considered among the lowest forms of life, it summed up the nomads perfectly. Certainly, they were expendable.

One of many tales surrounding them told how the first Nu-gen tribe was a band of druids who broke away from the Old Order and proclaimed themselves gods. They travelled all over, demonstrating a powerful magic. Most life forms stayed true to Ri but others handed over all their possessions for the privilege of being taken into the heathen fold. Their ranks swelled. The chief druid, Ca-an, grew so despairing that he sought the aid of Ri, Himself, to remove their souls one night while they slept. The rebels were thus robbed of all their power and, with it, any credibility.  Thereafter, they were despised and shunned everywhere they went.

The elf blinked back a tear. The story was one he had learned at his mother’s knee. Homesickness rose like bile in his throat. Then one of Ricci’s amusing tricks made him smile and he began to unwind again. It was a curiously entertaining experience, albeit a queer one, to see magic used for frivolous purposes. Elves liked to play, of course. But magic…magic was something to be taken seriously.  It surprised him that he was not in the least offended by such trivia. 

Some time later, Kirin casually remarked that Beth had not returned, looking directly at Mick as he spoke. Mick rose to the bait, got up, and left the room. Irina flung Kirin a look of fury that spoke volumes to everyone else. Ricci hastily contrived to avoid a battle royal with a new trick he hadn’t practised much but which worked so well that everyone clapped.

 “Beth’s gone!” Mick burst back into the room, “You said we were protected!” He glared at Ricci, and then hurled himself at the bemused magician. Both went flying. Mick’s hand fastened around the little man’s neck.  The elves looked on, too astonished to move. Ricci almost choked but managed to splutter a changing spell and got it right first time. Sliding out of the motherworlder’s stranglehold in the form of a snake, he barely had time to congratulate himself before the alarm was raised a second time.

 “Krills!” yelled Pers as the tent instantly vanished and they were standing in a small clearing that offered no protections. Besides, the elf’s warning came too late. Mick fought like a demon. The elves, too, gave an excellent account of themselves. But they were outnumbered and never stood a chance. Not for the first time, Irina fretted that elven magic was useless outside Gar. Soon, the scaly creatures had overwhelmed all four.

 The krill leader, Radik, stepped forward and regarded them with a malevolent grin. No one paid much attention to a reptile about the size of a grass snake slithering here and there like a thing demented. Eventually, it slid under the tent and wriggled off into a forbidding landscape that offered small refuge and was unlikely to give poor Ricci sanctuary for long.

 “So, snarled Radik, “We meet again, my lovely…” leering at Irina as he ripped open her tunic and placed both scaly hands on her breasts.

 “Don’t touch her, you ugly brute!” cried Mick, mortified. Radik swung round angrily. Another krill held him in an iron grip and there was no way Mick could avoid Radik’s fist in his face. Blood spurted from his mouth and he was sure his jaw must be broken.  Another rain of blows followed in swift succession. His body went limp. Seconds before he drifted into unconsciousness, he felt his captor hurl him, cackling, to the ground. 

 Irina opened her mouth to hurl abuse at Radik but an instinct for survival prevailed. Instead, she concentrated on the prostrate motherworlder. Dear Ri, don’t let him die, she prayed silently before chancing a glance at Pers, in poor enough shape himself, for support. But her brother was regarding Kirin with undisguised dismay.  The smaller elf was glaring, teeth bared, not at the krill leader but at the unmoving heap on the ground. 

 Kirin recovered his composure quickly enough, blushed crimson when he saw that he was observed and visibly shrunk from Irina’s contemptuous expression.

 Radik looked from one to the other of his captives, saw the joke, threw back his scaly head, and let rip with a roar of harsh, guttural laughter. 

To be continued