The Retribution of Thengon - extract

 Herein is a tale.

I came across this song, a setting of Galadriel's lament for Eldamar, sometime after the Bardess Sarah and I sparked off each other in this post. The song and the setting took form as a scene in my second book, The Retribution of Thengon. I like to have this song playing in the background while reading the description of the Sanctuary in the eighth paragraph, they fit together so well.

The high road for Tol Voldimar was busy, and they had to go slow for all the traffic, most of it on foot. Sometime that afternoon, they rounded a corner in the open bush and saw it. The youngest of the Seven Cities, the only one never occupied by the Foul Folk in the Fourth Foul War, was now a large, sprawling city of many peoples and tongues. The human houses were a mixture of square, timber-framed Southlander houses, Bafedi rondavels with bright geometric patterns painted on the wattle-and-daub, and a few with some of both; they filled in the spaces between the eladon houses – wide-eaved Celadon ones and tall Moreladon ones with pitched roofs, all surrounded by the leafy trees eladi loved. Oreladon hawkers wandered the streets with carts, selling everything from food to tools to prayer cards and statuettes of the lesser gods.

Since the whole party was pretty flush with cash, they booked in to a comfortable Hospitaller in the afternoon. There was a decent bath-house right next door, a domed structure with a cavernous hot bath and a wide, low-lit cold one. The attendants seemed to all be human, which Thengon found odd. By the time all were finished, the sun was well past its height. Tulan, Tor and Tomas got everyone to find some decent civilian clothes and herded them towards the Sanctuary. Tomas felt undressed without any weaponry on him, and he could tell he wasn’t the only one. Rodi had no civilian clothes, he walked out in the loose shirt and knee-length trousers that usually went under his armour. All had upgraded their kit in the towns between Aracondor and Lits’recuna, so he didn’t look or smell too bad.

The sun was low as they walked the crooked street to the Sanctuary. It had a single pointed spire, garlanded with stone furls of fern over the entrance, and a wide dome in the middle. The crowds had come out in the cool of the evening. There were small shops selling religious tat on both sides, and the usual hawkers, of all races and colours, making sure no-one was hungry. The smells of food, the sounds of street musicians singing in at least four different languages, the smiling faces, beautiful, sad, tired, happy, content, joyful, whirled around them. Aratanie rode on her father’s shoulders, pointing and talking about everything.

The Sanctuary was easily the biggest building Thengon had ever seen. The doorway was bordered by thin stone pillars bunched together like growing herbaceous stems. There were monsters there, outside, where they belonged – reptiles graced gutter heads, horned or tusked semi-human faces leered between arches. Thengon noticed that there were open spaces at the tops of the windows, and birds were passing into the building through them. Only the most important Sanctuaries had animal magi to tend live birds.

He gawked at the doorway and the carvings for so long, the others went in without him. Only Rodi was standing with him, as if hesitant to enter. His face was starting to get that slit-eyed look he got when he was looking for trouble, so Thengon kept quiet.

Inside, the antechamber was wide and cool. It was lit from above by light caught in the coloured glass of the tower, the top of which was still in the sun, even as the ground level was in the shade. Thengon was astonished. The ceiling of the tower was vaulted impossibly high above. Below the tower in the antechamber was a great fountain: three vast, scalloped basins of solemn black diorite, cut and polished smooth by artisans with the Ability. Rose petals floated on the surface of the water. The whole party washed their hands and sprinkled themselves with the fragrant water, as one does in such places. Little Aratanie had to be told she couldn’t paddle in it, it was for sprinkling only. They passed further in.

The Sanctuary was Iyavalaradon, devoted to all seven gods and the One. There were seven smaller Sanctuaries around the main space, each one decorated with a statue of one of the lesser gods in its centre and pictures on the walls of associated lore. Some had mosaics, with ceramic tiles of turquoise, azure, green and gold. Others had frescoes, painted like living colour on plaster when still wet. Some had both. Live birds and small, semi-tame animals wandered at will. There were plants associated with the various lesser gods growing in large pots near the windows. There were some open-sided cages for the birds, with perches for them to roost. Light was everywhere, even now as the sun was setting. It was a delight to be here! As Thengon looked on, he saw hooded acolytes lighting the glass-sided lamps all around. It was time for the Evening Song.

All at once, he heard the woody sound of a xylophone, bubbling in long, low notes, and an alto voice began to sing. Then a choir of male voices joined in as background, singing low harmonies in a slow, reverent counterpoint; and a large harp and a bass stringed instrument joined in. Thengon could not see where the song came from, it was somewhere higher up. The language was Ancient Eladon, the song perhaps unchanged in several thousand years.

Celestial peace washed over Thengon’s heart and mind. He swayed where he stood, and saw others sitting on the floor or on low stools that allowed you to fold your legs underneath. As the song became familiar to some, they joined in, singing along with the male voices while the woman or elada led with her melody. He had no idea what was being sung, but no longer cared about anything. He wanted to be nowhere else right now but here. The woman sang with an Art of Imaging, and visions of peace and superhuman beauty floated through the cavernous space of the main Sanctuary.

Eventually the Song ended, and Thengon came down to the waking world. It seemed flat, mundane, but flavoured by the Song which had been. He had missed Touvaret… but did they do this here every day – sunrise, noon and sunset and midnight? How could people bear such beauty, four times a day?

Restless again, he wandered along the polished, veined-stone of the walls of the main Sanctuary. Here were relief images from the Lore of the Sunlands, the long tales of the journeys of the Oreladi. Some of the scenes he didn’t recognise at all, he would have to ask his father, or one of the wise. Speaking of whom, where were they? The swift twilight was already giving way to darkness, and they might be closing the doors soon. Then he heard a shout, and his heart sank.

It was Rodi. Following the sound, Thengon found him in the sanctuary of Marta the Mourner. Her image was a lady in purple, white hair curving out from under her veil, dignified and solemn. The skill of the carver was such that she seemed implacable and sympathetic at the same time. Her hands were extended, as if in welcome or entreaty. Carved leaves of ivy graced her slippered feet, so real he thought they lived. In the flickering lamplight at dusk, it almost looked like the statue was moving. Facing the statue stood Rodi, with his close-cropped hair and scars, one ear missing its tip. He shouted, ‘Why did you take them from me? They didn’t deserve to die, rot it all!’ At first, Thengon was worried that the elado would break something… but then he saw, he was not roaring but weeping. Rodi fell to his knees, forlorn in the flickering candle-light of the chapel. No-one seemed to notice – or maybe they were used to events such as these. The Sanctuary was now quiet. No-one disturbed his grief.

For a long, long time, Thengon knelt behind Rodi on one of those low stools, trying to be present while giving him space. It looked like this fell to him. The rest of the Sanctuary was now dark, but for the seven-wicked lamp and the Secret Fire in the middle of it. Only the Sanctuary of the Mourner was still open, with people coming and going through a small, low door that you had to bow to enter, some of them weeping bitterly. He saw the others, and all seemed to understand. Thengon’s father bent low over his shoulder and murmured, ‘Aratanie has been seen by the Soultenders. We’ll be back at the Hospitaller. Stay with him as long as you can,’ and left.

So Thengon kept vigil with his brother in arms through the night. Tanno sat with them for a while, and the others looked in briefly. Thengon’s thoughts wandered back over the past months. He had been a friend, and more – they had bled together, watched out for each other in deadly danger, horror and falling walls and walking dead. When you trust a guy with your life, they mean something to you. He loved this cracked idiot, dammit, and wished he could let go of his killing rage.

Maybe they were friends because Thengon, too, knew killing rage. He remembered the transport of wrath he had flown into when Neslos came in his power; the devilish glee of causing pain and terror to another speaking being. But he deserved it! Yes, Neslos deserved it, and he got it; there were times when Thengon wished he hadn’t killed him, so he could hurt him more… but his screams and his tears haunted Thengon betimes. Would he have been sorry, if he had been able to speak? Would Thengon have stopped hurting him, if Neslos had been able to beg for mercy? What would he, Thengon Tomasorion, do then? Would he continue cutting and beating him? If not…

Thengon dropped his head before the Lady of Mercy. Mercy was shown only to the merciful, it was said. He had not shown mercy. It was wrong. He should simply have killed him, and be done… but…

But what? No-one is without evil. Great wrong was done to him, but he did wrong to others. What would happen to him, if, coming to judgement before the One, it was seen that he had condemned someone and treated them cruelly?

Aratanie – Aratanie had been brutally treated by that Neslos, and probably by Amandil. She would have cried for her mother, would have begged to go home. She would want it! She would want them to suffer!

Would she really? She was an innocent child – tears pricked Thengon’s eyes – she didn’t even know how to hurt people! She was pure and innocent. The statue of Nienil the Mourner seemed to gaze straight at him in the flickering light of guttering candles, and all unbidden came the image: Aratanie watching him cutting and beating Neslos, and begging him to stop!

‘O gods!’ Thengon broke. He curled up on the floor of the Sanctuary in a little heap of remorse. He had sinned.

Sometime soon after that, he heard the Song of Night being sung by the same voice as had performed the Evening Song, six hours before. This song was sombre, the harmonies dark, shifting suddenly to sweeter ones to show light in the darkness, then down again. An acolyte came and gave a blanket to him, and he saw Rodi already curled up on the stone nearby, a cushion under his head. He looked at the acolyte, and smiling, she gave him a cushion, too. They were the only ones left in the sanctuary. Another acolyte came by, knelt next to him with a small wooden cup and a glass carafe, and poured a drink for Thengon. It was strong, sweet wine of some kind. He admired the ruby red of the stuff, then drank. He was filled with warmth and consolation, down to his toes. He returned the cup with weary thanks, and she left.

Thengon saw Rodi, curled up and snoring on the flagstones in his blanket, and thought, I can still keep him company from the floor. It seemed like a good idea at the time, and he lay down. If Rodi woke up and wanted to smash something, he would get up and handle it.

 

He woke, stiff as a board. Rodi snored quietly in front of him. The little candles around the statue were all burnt out, the light from the main Sanctuary was the only light inside, but there was a dim kind of cold, blue light in the windows.

‘You must be a bit stiff, down there,’ said a deep voice, quietly. Thengon looked around and saw Tulan on one of those low stools. Tor was kneeling next to him.

‘Good morning fathers,’ rasped Thengon in a harsh whisper. ‘If indeed it is.’

‘It is,’ Tor answered, ‘and Good Morning to yourself.’ Tulan rumbled the same greeting. ‘If you want to go to the Hospitaller, you may, but they won’t be open until sunup, which is a while yet.’

‘I must go and see a man about a dog,’ Thengon croaked, euphemistically. ‘I’ll be back.’

When he came back, he asked in a whisper, ‘When did you come in?’

Tor passed him a kneeler. ‘We have kept vigil since we came in for the Song of Night. As clerics, we were entitled to do so.’ He spoke in a low voice, not a whisper.

‘I am sorry if I kept you from your rest,’ Thengon said, wrapping himself back in the blanket and knelt down. How did this place get so cold at night?

‘This was rest – you were just over-wrought from your travels.’ Tor winked at him. Pure-bred eladi slept little, if at all.

‘We wanted to be present when Rodi awoke,’ Tulan said in an even lower voice than usual, ‘and perhaps you too, wish to Unburden?’

Thengon sighed. ‘Yes, that would be good.’

Thengon and Torodil went down to the Secret Fire, where under Tor’s guidance he spoke the names of his wrongdoings, thereby exposing them to the Flame for burning. They then returned to the small sanctuary, where they waited as the acolytes trooped in, climbed the stairs for the upper level, and set up for the Morning Song. As the sun’s rosy blush blessed the cavernous Sanctuary, they sang a song of brightness and hope, every bit as delightful as the restful one of Night, only in bright, light harmonies that spoke of things to do and explore. The song woke Rodi, who blearily blinked at them and actually smiled. ‘You stayed with me all night? You’re such a good friend, Theng.’ Rodi got back on his kneeler for the Song, and afterwards Theng left them to go to the Hospitaller.

Later that day, when the whole town was settling down for lunch and a rest, Tulan and Rodi came in, laughing and joking like old friends. Thengon had never seen Rodi looking so normal. The habitual gloom was gone, and Theng couldn’t even imagine him getting slitty-eyed. He shook hands with everyone, but embraced Theng, thumping him on the back. ‘You heard Her speaking to you, too, I know you did!’ he said quietly. Theng didn’t know what to say.

WIP: The World of The Ironwood Staff

 A big part of worldbuilding is always map-making. The epic back-story of the Eladi of the Sunlands takes place on a huge continent stretching from the northern tropics to the southern temperate zones. It's taken too long to get this map into digital format, straighten out the details. This is what it looks like now, before I've put the place-names (i.e. without lettering).

The horizontal line through the lower part is the southern tropic (Capricorn in this world). I've added so much, the detail is eye-watering. Maybe it needs a complete re-drafting, at a much smaller scale.

Moth and Cobweb series, John C Wright

American author John C Wright (whose blog is on my blogroll) has penned a remarkable series of YA fiction, which just happens to incorporate a slew of very old west European mythology. The mythology is that of malevolent elves, which are neither the superhumans of Tolkien nor the pathetic fairies of the 19th century (drinking dewdrops from acorn cups and living in toadstools). He introduces them as powerful magicians, exploiters of man and mortal enemies of Christendom, and given their proclivities in these stories, I can see why our ancestors were terrified of them, and how Christianity acted to calm those fears. 

The Swan Knight Saga is a great introduction to the Perilous Realm of legend (including its taxonomy), the Arthurian cycle and the principles of Chivalry, which (mostly!) tamed the bloody urges of the barbarians that swamped Rome and turned them into Gentlemen.

Gilberic Parzival Moth is a strange and lonely boy who has grown up without a father, raised by a single mother who moves from town to town in fear of something she will not name. His only friends are animals, with whom he has always been able to speak. But when he awakens one night at the Thirteenth Hour, and sees for the first time the cruel reality of the secret rule of Elf over Man, he begins to learn about his true heritage, the heritage of Twilight.

And when his mother finally tells him the terrible truth of her past, he must choose whether to continue running with her in fear, or learning how to fight against ancient powers that are ageless, soulless, and ultimately damned. SWAN KNIGHT'S SON is the first book of THE GREEN KNIGHT'S SQUIRE, the first volume of MOTH & COBWEB, an astonishing 5-book series about magical worlds of Day, Night, and Twilight by John C. Wright.

The first book in the series is on Amazon, here.

But, as they say in the shouty ads, That's Not All!

The series is also being turned into a web comic by Arkhaven Comics. JCW has heartily approved of the illustrations, and there is no higher accolade.

Read and enjoy!

Swan Knight Saga

New Myth Pilgrim post

 As a follow-up to their previous post about The Glorious Death, Br lawrence talks to my fellow-traveller Dan Cote Davis again. In this episode, they talk about the Catholicism ofThe Lord of the Rings, the mystical worldview it assumes, and why it does a surprisingly good job of introducing people to faith.

The podcast is available here.

New Ironwood Staff background

 Now that I've finished serialising chapter extracts from The Ironwood Staff on Subscribestar, I'm serialising some of the backstory to the two books. This stuff was written down longhand all in a rush over the course of a few days, once I'd heard Mike Oldfied's Music of the Spheres. I have absolutely no clue how or why it sparked that in me, but I am a long-standing Oldfield fan, since my early 20s.

We had our origin the Place of Awakening, before the Sun and Moon. There are none now who remember it, the chances of the World have taken them all.

My grandfather’s grandfather lived in the ages of starlight. He remembered the Place, and how he and so many others fled at the coming of a being of light and power. Some stayed, and none know what became of them.

Of those who escaped, many were lost. There were shadows beyond the hills of the Place, and they came for the eladi in the dark. It was a time of terror, when one heard screams and pleading, sometimes cut short, sometimes the screaming and weeping would fade as the eladi were taken away. There were children then who lost their parents as they lay hidden, shaking in terror. As they lay in the bush, too scared even to breathe, Father Dorwin appeared, seeking the scatterlings. He had fled with them, but was strong and agile enough to fight off the nameless things that sewed the dark into a trap, and cut through it all. Father Dorwin saved so many in that time.

It may have been that he wished to return to the Place; but it was surrounded by forest, haunted by the Things In The Dark, but he perceived them and took them south.

Read the whole thing here. I'm having work done on a second edition as well, which should hopefully make the book more marketable and easier to read.

New Short on Minds

 On Minds.com, I have a post in response to a writing competition. The prompt was as follows:

Write a microfiction or flashfiction story (around 500 words) about HEAT. This can be funny, sad, exciting, lethargic, a theme, social commentary, fiction, non-fiction, or anything else. 

So, in between everything else (I seem to do a lot of writing that way!), I came up with this 

Shutterstock.com

‘Zombies are attracted to heat,’ Gerry pointed out.

I hushed him with a frantically understated gesture. I whispered, ‘We’re in public, you idiot!’ You don’t shout “Fire” in a crowded theatre, and you don’t say “Zombies” in Starbucks.

‘Shut up, you two,’ growled the boss. ‘Jim, see if you can get the staff to show you the back room. Gerry, go outside and look for a gate round the back.’

Gerry grumbled, but went back outside into the freezing rain. I went to the counter. No-one was free. I called out to the guy at the sink. ‘’Scuse me, mate! I need to have a word with the manager?’

The guy looked worried. I must have looked a bit odd, with my long jacket hiding the hardware and a wide-brimmed hat. ‘The manager’s not here,’ he said.

Typical, I thought. I needed to get past this one. The customers were already giving me the stinkeye. ‘Well, get me someone who’s responsible…’ I beckoned him over. He came close, and I said in a low voice, ‘There may be a public health problem with this building, I need to see the rooms in the back.’

The barista looked a little green. He ushered me through, without question – nice one! The facilities for the staff in the place were pathetic. I think the stock was kept in nicer conditions. There was a single toilet in the back, with a tiny basin. The room had a fair-sized window, taller than it was wide, of frosted glass, light shining from above, deep green shadow below.

‘What’s on the other side of that window, do you know?’ I asked.

The barista shook his head. I looked at the window. There was a handle to open a small pane above the main one. I froze. There had been a sound. The silence suddenly became very thick. I listened: there it was again! I turned to the barista, now a lighter shade of pale: ‘I think you should get out of here,’ and reached into the lining of my coat for my snawnoff.

‘Are you packing heat?’ the barista demanded.

I raised my voice to a police crowd-handling level: ‘Sir, please vacate the premises! We are professionals, you have to leave now!’

He fled. I keyed my com, ‘Boss, we have a possible contact in the alley.’

‘I need more than that, Jim. Do you have visual?’

‘Not yet, boss.’

‘Get it.’

I closed the toilet lid and stood on it. I opened the little hatch window as far as it would go, which wasn’t very. Gerry’s voice came over the com: ‘I’m at the entrance to the alley, boss. It’s overgrown with these weeds, and there’s snow everywhere.’

‘Visibility low?’

‘Yes, boss… I’ve got visual!’

I craned my neck as far as I could. Shit! It was standing right there! ‘So have I!’ I announced. The zombie heard me, and shambled towards me. From experience, I knew if I didn’t kill it, it would be on me in seconds. I manoeuvred my sawnoff through the window, but I couldn’t see the target and use the gun at the same time. I was going to have to guess! I squeezed the trigger. There was a bang and a flash, but nothing sounded like it fell. I pulled my arm back in and peered out. I was greeted by the sight of a zombie face, too close! I’d missed completely. Its lidless eyes gazed out of a face missing the lower jaw, teeth hanging into space. It was coated with a thin film of dry snowflakes. It reached for me, but it was much slower than I’d have expected.

Before I had too long to ponder my good fortune, Gerry’s subgun crackled loud behind the zombie. There was the sound of a falling body, and soft footfalls approaching down the alley. I stuck my gun through the window, blasting the zombie right in the face. It fell with a dry crack and rattle. I peeped out again, confirming the kill.

‘Two of them, boss!’ Gerry’s voice came from right in front of me, in the alley, and in my ear from the com. ‘They were moving slow, must have been freezing here all night.’

‘Thank God for that,’ I said. I’d never seen a Zombie’s face so damn close in my life! ‘Clear?’

‘Clear!’ Gerry confirmed.

‘Nice going, lads! Get yourselves out here, and let’s leave before the Bill gets here.’

Saved by snow. Who’d have thought it? The undead needed heat even worse than we did.

‘Can’t we get a coffee, boss?’ Gerry pleaded.

‘Van first, coffee when debriefed.’ I caught up with the boss in the front of the shop.

‘I’m bloody freezing! I need to heat up!’ Gerry whinged over the com.

‘I know, Gerry, but if we stick around there’ll be another kind of heat coming, and we’re not equipped for that. Let’s go.’

 

Scribblings

When I was in high school, I used to imagine my classmates as characters in a role-playing game. This scribbling is based on the same people (many of whom I can't even remember the names of now!), but I've made everyone an elven mage, of the kind in the War in the North game, from which I lifted the abilities.

The setting is not the same, however, being more like the world of The Ironwood Staff (extracts of which I've been serialising on Subscribestar). It was a long, rambling thing, still not finished, but the first part is below.

 
It was hot. The sun blazed down from an all-but-vertical angle, igniting the leaves of the celtis trees with green fire. Insects hissed and sang in the dense leaves. Birds babbled and piped. 

    I couldn’t sleep. Even though all civilised speaking-beings were resting in the hottest part of the day, and anything with any sense was seeking shade, I felt a threat on the heavy air. The feeling had been growing all morning, and now in the heat it brooded, waiting. The thatched gazebo where we'd stopped for lunch seemed like a trap.

    If evil was growing, it would attack in the dark. There were about six hours until the daylight was gone, four or five until the sun went behind the mountains.

    I must have dozed off. I was still looking out at the trees, but the sun was lower. The insects had quietened their mad hissing, but the birds were still quite loud. The threat had become palpable. I must have fallen asleep, after all. The forest was cooler, a relief after the blasting heat of midday, but the threat had only grown. ‘Come on, Magi,’ I said, ‘the footsoldiers need us.’

    Peter favoured me with sarcastic look. We were only junior human magi, scarcely a formidable force. The senior elven magi were another matter – a pair of them could hold their own against a dire baboon troop, it was said.

    ‘Only seven hundred and nineteen and a half days to go,’ said Sharon, wryly. Human women magi took service for seven hundred and twenty days, or until they got married, whichever came sooner. We were in it for a thousand and two hundred, whether we married or not. 

    ‘The forest feels wrong,’ said Cairn, as she put on her sun-veil. 

    ‘It does,’ I agreed. ‘I’m keen to get moving. We need to be at the command post before sunset, which gives us... three hours?' I guessed. 'It’s a two-hour walk, and if we’re delayed…’ I left it hanging.

    ‘I suspect undead’, said Mike. He flipped his wide-brimmed wizard’s hat onto his head and flicked his staff up from the ground into his hand, using his sandaled foot. The man’s enthusiasm was infectious.

    I grinned despite myself. The ladies shouldn’t have to face danger in a huge party of thirty, before we’d even reached the site of engagement; but blast me if it wouldn’t be good to try my quarterstaff and force bolts against a real enemy, for a change!

    ‘Right,’ called Nigel. ‘Everyone ready?’ He had somehow got himself appointed leader of the college for this first deployment. 

    ‘Everyone been to the jacks?’ called Debbie.

    ‘Yes, mum!’ the other Robert smirked. 

    ‘Let’s move!’ Robert shouted.

    ‘Not so loud,’ I cringed. ‘There’s something in the forest…’

    I was ignored, again.

    As usual when on long marches, I walked with Mike. We were in the back 10, behind the ladies (there were only 9 of them). As usual, the girls walked in groups to talk, their long, cool, loose-fitting dresses and short sunveils waving in the afternoon breeze, their ironwood staves moving up and down in no pattern at all. They kept no formation and they didn’t march, but strolled.

    As often happened, Cairn moved back until she was just in front of me and Mike. ‘I don’t know why they don’t let us ride,’ she said, ‘Two marches in one day!’

    ‘Beaurocracy,’ I offered. ‘The wagons were held up in repairs. And some of us aren’t confident riders, yet.’

    ‘It’s nice to know the Elves aren’t perfect,’ Mike said with a cheesy grin. ‘Even they make stuff-ups, sometimes!’

    Cairn laughed. ‘Yes, it makes me a bit worried – do they really know what they’re doing?’

    ‘They know, all right!’ Mike said, ‘They’ve trained us as warrior magi because they’ve run out! In the time it takes their next generation to grow up, our parents, us, and our children will have grown up and died.’

    The forest still seemed to breathe threat. I said, ‘Cairn, did you feel that watching-ness after the siesta?’

    She looked at me with frightened eyes. ‘I’d hoped it was just my imagination,’ she said.

    ‘What kind of word is “watching-ness”?’ Mike said, with mock indignation.

    ‘The most appropriate one,’ I said. ‘If this lot would only shut up, I might be able to work out where it came from.’

    ‘We’re deep in the Home Reaches,’ said Mike. ‘We’re either perfectly safe, or…’ he looked ahead into the trees, '… in serious doo-doo.’ 

    ‘What do we do?’ Cairn looked fearful.

    ‘We keep moving,’ I said, quietly. ‘Whatever it is, it might not be looking for us. The sooner we get to the camp, the better.’

    Mike and I had always hung around with our friend Nigel, before he rose up in the world. He was now up at the front, while Robert was at the back. Robert had always been assumed to be the leader, since he came from a magus family who had been in Greystone for a generation, and was the second of eight children. But now, he was 2IC. 

    ‘Robert,’ I said, turning back while still walking, ‘can we proceed under operation? The forest seems too quiet.’

    ‘What can happen?’ Robert just shrugged.

    A short, deep, barking sound suddenly erupted to our right: 'BOH!' It was distinctive, and far too loud. A baboon, but a very, very loud one!

    ‘That’s what can happen!’ I said. ‘It’s coming from the east, by south!’ It was to everyone’s credit that no-one panicked. 

    ‘Attention!’ shouted Nigel. ‘Charges to staves!’

    We’d better, I thought. Thirty brand-new magi, green as grass, without a hard steel weapon between them, and there are dire baboons within striking distance. Shifting their rucksacks, everyone held their staves at the ready, prepared to fire bolts of charged plasmic force at any enemy.

Nigel stood still for a few breaths. Then he said, ‘Now, follow the road!’ 

    ‘No stragglers!’ called Robert. If we allowed dire baboons to break our group up, we’d all be torn to bits.

    ‘We should go back,’ moaned Lara. One of the pretty girls, she had a strong sense of self-preservation.

    ‘Too far’, I said, tersely. ‘We’re closer to the regiment.’

    We moved along the road, carefully watching the trees. All of a sudden, there was a terrible shaking of   bamboo by the path, and a giant baboon came out to the clear space alongside the road. Standing at least as tall as we were, it moved on huge, thick limbs, covered in light, dusty-grey fur. Its small, close-set eyes looked at us with dim intelligence – and horrible intent. This was not a natural animal, but a monster bred for murder.

    ‘First ten, FIRE!’ shouted Nigel. Before he'd even said anything, twenty-one blue bolts slammed into the baboon, and it dropped like a stone, smoking from multiple wounds. The cheers that sprung up from the group died, however, when three other dire baboons burst through the trees. One of the girls gave a little scream.

    ‘Second ten, FIRE!’ called Nigel. Only five bolts streaked out, but hit more than one target, only irritating the monsters.

    ‘Stand together!’ bellowed Robert. The baboons spread out along our line. The monster facing us came right at me. Pushing Cairn behind me, I loosed all four of the bolts I had energy for, into it. Mike, Robert, Gary and Jacob did the same, and it too dropped dead. 

    There was a horrible scream. Sandra had not dropped back fast enough, and one of the monsters had her! The baboon’s awful fangs, easily as long as my forearm, flashed as they closed on her slender neck. It was the last thing it ever did. So many bolts slammed into it that it smouldered as it fell away from her. Sandra fell too, blood staining the front of her dress in a horribly broad stain. 

    There was no time to tend her. The last baboon was grappling with the guys at the front of the line. Sean, Peter, Brian and Lloyd were all beating the beast with their staves. Nigel had enough energy for an area strike, bringing his staff down vertically. A shockwave erupted from where the staff hit the ground, hitting any non-human or non-elvish form in a circle around him. After that, the monster was too worn out and injured to fight, and turned about to flee. It was struck by another few bolts, and fell in the grass, too injured to continue, or dead.

    The shock of seeing a living thing die at our hands was short-lived. Sandra was also down in the grass. A knot of magi were crowded around her. Debbie was laying a Healing Hand on her, and the other Robert had a potion ready to hand. It was beautifully quiet and peaceful as the Healing Hand took effect, and Sandra awoke and sat up. Her neck was now unmarked, though her blood still stained the front of her dress. Robert gave her the potion, and she took a sip, not taking the whole thing. Then she stood up, hugged her two healers, and took up her staff again.

    ‘Let’s away!’ called Robert H, and we were off again.

    The group was strangely jubilant as the sun lowered behind us. Sandra was the centre of attention for a while, but then everyone slowed down, singing songs we’d learned from the Elves in training. After beating off a gang of dire baboons, we felt like we could face anything! The threat I’d felt in the heat of the day suddenly felt like a trifling thing.