Sir Edgar Worseley had no way of knowing what time it was.  The mists surrounding the endless bog were so thick that the sun was completely cloaked.   His piebald snorse Juliet looked up at the sky and grunted, disappointed by the absence of sky.  The knight had been travelling for many hours but time seemed to slow down on the boardwalks through the swamp.  He had passed through the village of Shysie earlier that day but he wasn’t sure if it had been one hour ago or six. 

        Occasionally Edgar heard yaffle-birds' forlorn cries emerging out of the fog.  The sorrowful sounds of the yaffle were not something a heavily-armoured soldier liked to hear as they were always a prelude to rain.  The birds had an astounding sensitivity to meteorological change.  The call of the yaffle was inevitably followed by a downpour and the louder and more insistent the cry, the more heavily the rains came down.  The knight’s golden armour felt twice as heavy when it was wet and he quickly developed a deep dislike for the birds, as if they were directly responsible for the inclement weather.  The once proud, red plume atop his helmet, ironically crafted from feathers from the yaffle, still sagged a little from the last cloudburst and his matching red  cape looked like a sodden blanket hanging over the dripping, golden spaulders across his shoulders.

        Although his surroundings were bleak and the damp fingers of the fog and rain had pried their way under his armour, it had not been an altogether unpleasant journey.  Edgar was enjoying the respite from the bustling barracks of Pelinore where he was responsible for the training of young squires who yearned for the glory that supposedly accompanied the knights of Scoriath.  It had been three weeks since he had left the crowded streets of Pelinore and sailed across the sea to the land of Tuatha.  He was growing accustomed to being on his own and felt at peace as his tall snorse trotted along the damp boardwalks.  

        Despite the emptiness of the vast swamp, one rarely felt alone in the dank expanse of Mag Mel, for travellers through the mists were always closely followed by their memories.  Although the vapours rising out of the uliginous bog beneath the boards were generally noisome, the smells were endlessly changing and every now and then the swamp’s odours were characterized by one wonderfully peculiar aspect – they evoked memories of the most vivid kind.  The swirling mists were in a constant state of coalescence and although it was unclear whether the reactions in the air were chemical or mystical, one thing was certain – the intensity of the memories they educe was more powerful than any other known stimulant.  The smells produced by the swamp were the most provocative scents in the Myr.

        Juliet grunted again as Edgar pulled hard on her reins.  It had been the third such stop that morning and she was growing increasingly annoyed with her master’s erratic behaviour.  The knight sat up in the saddle and craned his head in the direction of the smell he had just picked up.  Closing his grey-green eyes, Edgar savoured the fragrance that wafted over his bushy moustache and up his nostrils.  It was the smell of autumn, more specifically, of burning oakaen leaves on a cold, still day.

 

---

 

The blacksmith Christian Worseley was raking up the large, star-shaped leaves that dropped from the 1,000 year old oakaens lining the broad avenue outside his house.  A little further down the arching street, his sons Edgar and Dominic played in the gutter where they had made a leafy mound of their own.  Dominic, the younger of the two boys, snuggled down in the orange pile of leaves and shot his brother an impish grin.  Edgar smiled back then snatched up handfuls of surrounding leaves and covered his younger brother’s head until he was completely obscured.

 

        Content with Dominic’s autumnal disguise, Edgar ran off down the footpath to a tall, decrepit house surrounded by sprawling weeds and dead flowers.  The occupant of the house, an ornery, retired public official who was only known by the moniker Taxman Tomkins was seated in a rocking chair ready to hurl abuse at anyone unfortunate enough to come within earshot.  Taxman was renowned for his cantankerous disposition and spent most of his day scowling at passers-by, insulting any who had the misfortune to look his way.  The old man’s jaw dropped when he saw young Edgar Worseley kick open his gate and come running down his garden path hollering at him to get up and follow.  Ignoring all Taxman’s protestations, Edgar spun a tremendous story explaining how the Mayor had summoned the old man to his chambers, requiring fiduciary advice on a complicated taxation issue.  

Grumbling as he came, Taxman hobbled down the broken footpath, trying to keep up with Edgar.  Upon reaching an unusually large pile of leaves outside the Worseley house, Taxman Tomkins stopped to regain his breath.  It was at that moment the mound of leaves exploded and Dominic Worseley leapt out of his foliaceous crypt with a groan that would chill the bravest heart.  He then danced around the old man like some crazed beast before running off down the street to join his brother who was rolling on the ground, his entire body wracked with crazed laughter.  Taxman’s face went ashen and a withered hand rose up to his chest, clutching at the tattered fabric of his tunic.  

        Moments later, the initial surprise had worn off and Taxman’s hand left his chest and was raised above his head in a fist.  He shook it at the boys whose laughter drowned out all the abuse the old man could spew at them.  Livid with rage, Taxman hobbled back down to his verandah where he continued an hour–long tirade decrying the aimlessness of today’s youth until fatigue overcame him and he nodded off to sleep in his rocking chair.

        When the coast was clear, the Worseley boys made their way back to their mound of leaves and started rebuilding it in preparation for their next victim.   Their father smiled wryly.  ‘One day, that old man will have a heart attack and you two will be sent away to the Hulks for a very long time,’ he teased, but they were too absorbed in their next plot to care.

 

---

 

Edgar sighed.  It was a nice memory but its poignancy brought a tear to his eye.  It had been a year since he had seen his brother Dominic and he missed him terribly.  It had been even longer since his father had passed away.  

Suddenly a fetid aroma filled his nose and Edgar’s eyes thrust themselves open as the smell of his mother’s boiling cabbago stew sent his mind reeling.  He had despised the stew as a boy, and did not want to dwell upon the long hours he had spent trapped in the kitchen, unable to leave the table until every last drop of it had made its greasy way down his throat.  Before any more of Mag Mel’s exhalations could take effect, the knight clambered back onto his mount and galloped away down the boardwalk.

 

 

Edgar could make out the tortured shapes of leafless trees on either side of the boardwalk.  The ground at the base of the trees was hidden under a thick carpet of mist.  The knight wondered if there was any solid ground in Mag Mel.  As far as he could tell, the entire swamp was just a bubbling cauldron of cold, mucilaginous mud.  He squinted as he peered into the grey miasma before him, hoping for some sign of the town of Marshmead, his destination and the largest of the settlements inside the swamp.  The boardwalk stretched on before him, occasionally lit up by lanterns that illuminated the dank tendrils of fog that curled about in the air, carrying countless olfactory surprises and disappointments.  The lanterns provided illumination at all hours, even at the height of day, when the pale orb of the sun floated above like a lonely, listless ghost.  The lamps were not lit by flame nor were they fuelled by oil.  Inside each, a solitary shatterbug buzzed unhappily, occasionally thumping against the glass prison in which it found itself.  When the shatterbugs first appeared in the Myr a handful of months earlier, the people of Mag Mel wasted no time in finding a use for them.  Once caught and contained, a shatterbug could be expected to illuminate a lamp for at least a month before its light faded.  In a few places along the boardwalk, Edgar noted patches of darkness, where lightless lanterns hung uselessly, each cradling the small, dead body of a shatterbug.

Before long, Edgar found himself at a crossroads of sorts.  The path on his left curled away to the north-east.  Although there was no sign, Edgar was sure this way led to the distant fortress city of Tir Thuinn on the ice-clad coast of Tuirren.  The southbound path would inevitably lead to the small fishing villages that clung to the northern shores of Lake Erras.  Edgar assumed the road ahead (if such a ramshackle assemblage of boards and posts could be called a road) led on to Marshmead.

        Although locating it on a map was nigh on impossible, Marshmead was a bordertown, lying on the north-south line that separated Tuatha from Tuirren.  Just like the fog that spread across the land, the border separating these countries was indistinct – Tuatha and Tuirren were as indistinguishable as identical twins.  Similarly, the peoples of the two nations were so closely related, it was almost impossible to differentiate them.  Many, many centuries ago, like so many other Myrran territories, Tuatha and Tuirren were at war.  As a resolution to the conflict, the kings of the countries divorced their spouses and remarried the queen of the opposing nation.  Every man in each country was commanded to follow suit with his own spouse.  Loyalties became so confused that the separate identities of the countries soon became lost.  Despite a period of intense personal jealousies and familial bitterness, the cultural exchange that soon took place was to the betterment of both societies and the twin states of Tuatha and Tuirren lived in harmony ever since.

        Edgar paused momentarily at the junction.  The mists removed him from reality.  The knight’s thoughts spread out in all directions and suddenly the smell of sea filled his nostrils.  Although he was hundreds of leagues from the ocean, in his mind Edgar was home.

 

---

 

Sitting on the promenade lining Pelinore Harbour, Edgar could feel the crowds pressing at his back.  Before him a flotilla of tall ships sailed into the broad harbour.  He was young, just a boy, and his heart raced with anticipation as he awaited the arrival of one of the Myr’s greatest heroes…

 

---

 

 

‘Ouch!’ he yelped and took a glove off to examine the hand his snorse had just bitten.  Juliet shuffled from foot to foot, clearly unhappy about yet another delay.  ‘You didn’t have to bite me, Juliet!’ Edgar sulked.  ‘A simple nudge would have sufficed.’

The snorse was unrepentant and rocked forward, waiting for the gentle kick behind her ribs that would grant her permission to trot away from the junction and the mephitic smells that worked their way into her head.  Not all creatures enjoyed the same olfactions, and the mist that bore the salty smell of the sea to Edgar brought something decidedly less pleasant to the snorse.

        Edgar could see his mount was annoyed, but he was not going to let the beast get her way so easily.  He pulled a pristine handkerchief from a pocket on his belt and quietly blew his nose.  The snorse glowered as her master took his time slowly folding up the handkerchief into perfect squares.  She opened her mouth to bite him again.

        ‘Don’t even think about it, you temperamental nag!’ he chided her with a smile, his affection for the beast not hidden by his words.  Her eyes rose up on their stalks as she reconsidered whether biting him was in her best interests.

Edgar put his glove back on his hand.  Underneath the leather it throbbed and he knew the next time he looked upon it, it would have a bruise in the shape of the snorse’s mouth upon it.  He prodded the beast with his heels and they set off again.

        ‘I promise, no more stops until we reach Marshmead,’ he said softly, leaning forward in the saddle, tenderly patting Juliet’s neck, hoping to placate her a little.  She purred a long, resonant grunt in response which Edgar took to signify he was temporarily forgiven but would not remain so should he stop again.

He sat back in the saddle and scanned the blurry landscape.  ‘If you’re wondering what we’re doing here, Juliet,’ he said softly, ‘I’m beginning to wonder myself.’  His manner and speech were characterized by great gentility.  Although Sir Edgar Worseley was one of the most feared and highly regarded knights in the Royal Guard and a terrifying adversary on the battlefield, he was also chivalrous to a fault, and would not dare break his promise to his steed.  They would now ride onward and not stop until the village at the centre of the swamp came into view.

        Despite the numerous delays, Edgar shared Juliet’s sense of urgency.  He had not journeyed all the way to Mag Mel just to smell the air.  He had taken leave of the King's court to embark upon a personal quest – to seek out an apothecary who could cure his brother Dominic of an affliction he contracted almost a year to the very day Edgar entered Mag Mel.  It was the twenty-first day of spring – Dominic’s birthday.  

        When questioned about the details of the leave of absence, Edgar humbly begged his liege’s indulgence.  The King, respectful of his great knight’s wishes, asked no more questions and gave him a considerably weighty bag of gold to assist him in his quest.  Having chartered a boat bound for Findias, Edgar departed the great city of Pelinore telling no-one of his destination, not even his own brigade of soldiers who – though they did not know it at the time – would never see their captain again.

        It was said that many apothecaries dwelt in the village of Marshmead.  The swamp was believed to be a haven for the enigmatic potion makers who were apparently drawn to the bog for its unique chemical properties.  It was rumoured that these properties were more pure and potent in the centre of the swamp which by no coincidence was the location of Marshmead.  Edgar had heard tales of how the inhabitants of Marshmead traversed the Mag Mel's surface astride bogcrabs, huge crustaceans that were able to move across the quagmire without sinking into it. 

        The stories were true and unknown to most of the outside world, Marshmead had become a thriving metropolis, home to thousands of scientists.  The pharmacology industry kept all of the inhabitants of Marshmead employed, either as apothecaries, or in support areas, such as transport, research and trade.

        The apothecaries of Mag Mel were no mere chemists.  From the glutinous depths of the swamp, the apothecaries had extracted an astounding range of cures for all manner of ills.  They had remedied carbuncles and stopped plagues.   It was said that they even had developed drugs possessing properties that slowed the onset of age.  

        But it was also said that they had created countless potions that brought about contagion, sickness and death.  Whilst the apothecaries were revered in parts of Tuatha and Tuirren, there were many countries across the Myr that feared the existence of these mysterious makers of strange potables and powders.  Over the centuries there were many kings, emperors, and lords who had been assassinated via means provided by apothecaries; there were lands where crops had withered and livestock killed by diseases manufactured by some of the profession’s less honourable individuals.

        When Tiberius Llyr assumed the position of Chamberlain after his predecessor Marcus Regis was poisoned, he pushed through the Assembly of Nations an international law that not only prohibited the act of creating, selling, or distributing unnatural potions but also stipulated that all such offences were punishable by death.  The Myr's apothecaries either fled to Mag Mel or gave up their livelihoods for less risky employment.

        Not long after the bans were placed upon medica materia – the science of drugs and medicine – the abductions began.  Even apothecaries who had publicly renounced their activities and packed up shop went missing.  It was no mystery; the cause of these disappearances was common knowledge – Sessymir.  These cruel people of the north realized the opportunities created by the laws that banned the practice of potion-making and they quickly sought out to monopolise the black market that would inevitably follow as a result.  In Oshalla and Skirnir, the Sessymrians had clandestinely built chemical factories to capitalize on the demand that swiftly followed the prohibition.  Although the Sessymrians were primarily motivated by greed – and certainly not by an altruistic notion to ensure there was a cure for all the maladies of the world – there was another motive for their interest in the apothecaries.  Never a race to forget their warlike ways, the Sessymirians wanted to take full advantage of the edge the apothecaries could give them on the battlefield.

        The Sessymirians had displayed their preparedness to engage in biological warfare in the past.  Laying siege to the city of Hel in neighbouring Arnaksak, Sessymirians catapulted the diseased carcasses of grizzums over the walls of the city from assault ships floating offshore.  Fortunately for the Arnakki inhabitants of Hel, the temperature was so cold that the disease did not spread and the worst damage the frozen corpses did was a few broken roof tiles and chimney stacks.  The siege ended terribly for the Sessymirians whose ships became trapped in ice as a gripping six month cold spell froze the very water under their hulls.  A high number of the Sessymirians died of hunger.  A few desperate individuals decided to cook the remaining grizzums.  Ironically, this was enough to release the disease across the ice-locked ships and within a week, the remaining Sessymirians all died of the very malady they were trying to use against the Arnakki.

        Although the world outside described the Sessymirians’ acquisition of some renowned apothecaries to be a criminal act, the word abduction was not entirely accurate.  Quite a few amoral apothecaries sought out the Sessymirians and were paid most handsomely for their work.

        The majority of the apothecaries, good men and women who had spent their lives devoted to the betterment of Myrran society, fled to Tuirren where under the white veil of the swamp they felt secure.  The apothecaries placed sentinels on the entrances to the massive swamp.  These watchmen would keep vigil upon Mag Mel’s borders, and at the first sign of trouble, sections of the boardwalk would be dropped into the bog, preventing access to the villages where the apothecaries lived.  The few bounty hunters that came into the region quickly realised the futility of their quest to find the apothecaries.  

        Over time, the community of Marshmead grew as did the skills the apothecaries possessed.  They regulated their own behaviour and the vast majority of potions they created were born out of altruism.  The production of malicious potions that induced plague, disease and other ill effects soon became an historical blemish, relegated to another time, and the people of Mag Mel quietly dedicated themselves to the betterment of all societies.  Over time, even Chamberlain Llyr softened his approach to the apothecaries, and although it was still regarded an illegal practice in the cities of the Myr, he turned a blind eye to the communities living deep within Mag Mel.

 

 

Juliet hurtled down the boardwalk but the colourless lands through which they raced made Edgar wonder whether they were actually moving at all.  The foggy shrouds surrounding them parted like an endless succession of thin, white curtains.  Lantern after lantern drifted by, floating in the misty air like ghostly, severed heads.  Suddenly, the white drapes before the pair were broken by a black shape standing in the middle of the boardwalk.  Juliet yelped with fright and skidded to a halt.

        Before them stood a man taller than any Edgar had ever seen before.  He was at least eight foot tall, even taller if one counted the massive horn that grew from the man’s forehead.  The distinctive keratin projection rising two feet from the man’s skull marked him as a Kheperan, a race that lived in the deserts to the south of Lake Erras.  Edgar had never met a Kheperan before, but he knew of them – their reputation for having short tempers and an endless supply of stubbornness preceded them.

        ‘You are not welcome here, Sir Knight.’

        The Kheperan’s deep, resonant voice rolled across the boardwalks.  He held one hand aloft.  Edgar could see his thick brown fingers gripping a glass phial.  Without warning, the man pitched the small bottle across the space between them.  As the sound of shattering glass splintered in the still air, a dense wall of fire erupted from the boardwalk.  Juliet whinnied in terror and jumped backwards, almost dismounting Edgar in the process.

        The knight calmed his steed down and dismounted.  He pulled off his glove and stepping forward, put out a hand towards the flames.  Intense heat radiated from the wall of fire.  Edgar knew at once that he could not leap through it without searing the flesh from his bones.  ‘Citizen of the swamp,’ he shouted through the burning wall that separated him from the Kheperan, ‘I come peaceably.  You have naught to fear from me.’  

        From across the fire, Edgar could hear the approach of footsteps, heavy and dull on the damp timbers that made up the boardwalk.  They stopped and Edgar could make out the hulking shape of the Kheperan through the shifting palisade of flame before him.  ‘My name is Adzoba Aethelflaed,’ a heavy voice boomed through the wall.  ‘I am the mayor of this village and we have much to fear from you, Edgar, son of Christian.’

        ‘You know my name?’

        A long pause preceded Adzoba’s reply.  ‘I have known it for many years.’

        ‘How can this be?  We have never met.’

        ‘Long ago, a Morgai seer by the name of Lilith Cortese foretold of your coming.  Your arrival here heralds the destruction of Marshmead.’

        Edgar was stunned.  It had been many years since he had heard any mention of the Morgai.  As far as he knew, the seers were but a fiction from his childhood.  ‘Mayor Aethelflaed,’ he said, flawlessly repeating the Kheperan’s surname, ‘I am a soldier in the service of King Pius of Pelinore, here on personal business.  I pose no threat to you.  I ask that you do not turn me away based on the vague predictions of someone claiming to be –’

        ‘There was nothing vague about the prediction,’ Adzoba snapped with surprising intensity.  ‘It has been revealed in frightening detail what awaits us on the day of your arrival – you are the harbinger of our doom,’ the Mayor said plainly.  ‘Whether you intend it or not, your appearance here this day marks the beginning of our end.  You will respect our wishes and turn around.’

        Edgar could hear the inflexibility of the man’s position in his voice.  But there had to be some kind of misunderstanding.  ‘I realize that you have concerns,’ the knight said respectfully, ‘but I seek someone well-versed in the art of medica materia.  I represent someone who desperately needs your help.  And I have come so far.  It has taken me weeks to find you.’

        ‘Then the sooner you turn around, the sooner you will be back home,’ Adzoba responded unequivocally.

Edgar stared through the flames, unsure of what to do.  Juliet gave a quizzical grunt but the knight was too deep in thought to hear it.  He strutted from one side of the boardwalk to the other, contemplating his position, trying to work out the best course of action.  The Kheperan stood his ground watching the knight’s silhouette pacing back and forth across the timbers.   ’I have many more phials of angelfire,’ Adzoba added, his voice cool but menacing.

        Respectful of the Mayor’s position but unwilling to compromise his own, Edgar stopped his pacing and proudly conveyed his stance upon the situation.  ‘Mayor Aethelflaed, I do not wish to defy you but I will not be turned around so easily.  You could pour your angelfire upon my skin, and though my flesh be seared from my bones, yet I would stand my ground and request admittance to your village.’

        ‘I would dismiss these words as arrogant banter, Sir Knight, had not your reputation preceded you.  I know you are true to your word.’

        ‘If you know anything of me you would not hesitate to welcome me to Marshmead.  Think on it Mayor!  Perhaps the destruction of which you were warned was not brought about by me.  Perhaps, just perhaps, the ruin foretold was brought about by others and it is only coincidence that connects my arrival to this day you have feared for so long.  I am willing to walk through this wall of fire to complete my mission here.’

        On the other side of flames dividing them, Adzoba Aethelflaed was considering Edgar’s words.  ‘You would defy fate, Sir Knight?’  His voice was softer; it has lost its combative aspect.

        Edgar realized that the Kheperan’s tone had altered slightly.  Encouraged by the subtle change, the knight chose his words carefully.  ‘What is fate?’ he said rhetorically.  ‘If you are so resolved to accept a preordained outcome, then it does not matter whether I enter Marshmead or not.  Its destruction will come to pass irrespective of what I do and where I go.  But if you are such souls willing to challenge destiny, prepared to write your own tomorrows, then not only will you admit me, but you will fall upon bended knee to beg me to lead the fight against whatever stands to destroy you.’

        There was silence.  Edgar had spoken from the heart and hoped that it would be enough.  But changing a Kheperan’s mind was not something that happened every day, and he prepared for the rejection that surely awaited his insolence.

        Suddenly a horn sounded far across the swamp.  Seconds later a much closer horn belched the same note into the still air.  Through the flames, Edgar heard the Kheperan grunt three ominous words: ‘It has begun.’

        Edgar assumed correctly that some part of the area was under attack.  ‘Mayor, you are besieged.  I am not your nemesis.  Whatever has set off your sirens, it was not me.  Will you not give me leave to enter your village?’

        ‘You will aid us in our defence?’

‘As a knight of Scoriath I could not withhold my assistance even if I wanted to.’

         shattering sound followed as a second phial was smashed upon the boardwalk.  A cold, blue smoke arose and enveloped the flames, consuming them within seconds, revealing the stony-faced Mayor of Marshmead.  Although he had lowered the firewall to admit Edgar Worseley, his face extended no hospitality.  He scrutinized the Scorian, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the knight’s pristine golden armour and helm.  The bright red plume that ran down the centre of Sir Edgar’s helm received a particularly scornful look.  ‘You look too pretty to be much good to us,’ he said gruffly as Edgar made his way towards him, leading his timorous snorse gently by the reins as he came.  ‘Are they all so clean and shiny back in Pelinore?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Edgar exclaimed, quite surprised by the mayor’s overly personal observations.  He opened his mouth to rebuke the Kheperan but a third horn sounded, thickening the air with its dense sound.  Adzoba motioned to Edgar to follow him.  ‘This way,’ he said.

 

 

On both sides of the boardwalk smaller paths branched off.  One led to a landing where Edgar was introduced to his first bogcrab.  He was stunned by the size of it.  The body of the intimidating-looking crustacean was as large as a small ship, and resembled one tethered to a bollard at the end of the landing, waiting to be boarded and piloted out across the white sea of fog that lay beyond.  The creature’s dark red and purple shell was speckled with mud and grime.  Its legs and claws rested in the ooze hidden under the layer of mist.  Upon its flat back Edgar could see a small man sitting cross-legged on a mat.  At the sign of the knight and the Mayor, the small man lifted a thin cane and rapped it on the bogcrab’s shell.  Two stalks suddenly protruded from large round holes in the shell on either side of the man.

        Adzoba glanced up at the man and muttered, ‘That’s Joshuu, my personal rider, the most sarcastic man alive.  He’s a bit on in years and, to be brutally honest, extremely annoying.’  

        Edgar did not respond.  He was staring up at the two gigantic orbs at the end of the stalks that had risen out of the bogcrab’s shell.  The eyes were larger than his snorse, a fact not lost on Juliet who had dug her feet into the boardwalk, refusing to go any closer to the daunting crustacean.  Noticing the snorse’s reaction, Adzoba said, ‘Leave your steed here.  She cannot follow where we are going.’

        ‘Thank-you.  I think that would be best.’  

        Edgar walked Juliet back down the boardwalk until he came to a wide area outside an empty house.  He tethered her to the boardwalk rail and ran a gloved hand through the tousled mane atop her long, thin head.  ‘You will be safe here, Juliet,’ he said softly.  The snorse nuzzled its head affectionately into Edgar’s chest.  As she did so she retracted and closed her eyes.

The knight gave her an affectionate scratch under the chin and whispered.  ‘I will be back ere long.’ 

A long, low purring sound reverberated from Juliet’s thick mouth.

 

 

When Edgar returned to the landing where the bogcrab was moored, he found Adzoba waiting unhappily, demonstrably tapping his foot in a crude show of impatience.  ‘Have you ridden one of these before?’ he asked as the knight approached.

        ‘Not that I can remember.’

        ‘Oh, you would remember, Sir Edgar,’ he said with a slightly roguish grin.

        ‘Mayor, will we be going or would you like me to set up camp for the night?’ called the man perched on the bogcrab’s shell.

        ‘Sir Edgar, we haven’t much time,’ grumbled the Mayor, unwilling to respond directly to his rider’s impertinent question.

        ‘Of course,’ responded Edgar apologetically.  ‘Let us depart.  Is there a technique for mounting this behemoth?’

        ‘Yes.  Try to be still when it picks you up in its claws.  I have seen a man lose his head when he moved at the wrong time.’

        Edgar looked up to see a claw ten times his own size bearing down upon him.  He gasped as it snapped around his midriff but it was not fear that motivated his exhalation – it was disgust.  The claw was dripping with the thick, syrupy gloop of the swamp.  Edgar grimaced as he watched the mud stain the red cape that hung down from his shoulders to his calves.  When he felt the muck seep between the links in his chain mail, he felt like vomiting.

        From the other claw, Adzoba noticed Edgar’s discontent and once both men were placed in atop the bogcrab he asked, ‘Is there something wrong, Sir Knight?’

        ‘I am a tad perturbed by the mess this beast has made,’ he said sadly as he looked forlornly at his stained robes.  ‘This crimson mantle is no mere travelling cloak,’ he said, holding up a muddied section of his cape.  ‘This is part of the uniform of the Pelinese Royal Guard!’

        Hearing this from his cockpit slightly forward of the two passengers, Joshuu raised his eyebrows and an overly dramatic show of incredulity spread across his face.  ‘Perhaps,’ he said, turning to face the knight, ‘I could arrange a hot bath for you,’ he said revelling in the opportunity to ridicule the objectionably clean visitor to his realm.  ‘I know a few apothecaries who have some really nice bath salts you could use – aromatic stuff that’ll relax you good and proper.  And I’m sure the Mayor could arrange for a team of our best washerwomen to wash your tunic as soon as we return to town.’

        Edgar’s face brightened with the prospect of a hot bath.  ‘That is very generous of you,’ he said appreciatively, totally oblivious to Joshuu’s sarcasm.  ‘However, I wash my own clothes.  I don’t really like the thought of other people touching my garments.’

        The Mayor wasn’t sure what to respond to first – Joshuu’s caustic remarks or Edgar’s concerns over who would wash his clothes.  Deciding to ignore both, the Kheperan spoke to his rider about more pressing matters.  ‘The sirens, Joshuu.  Do you know their origin?’  

        ‘Mr Mayor, I thought you would never ask.  A rider arrived only minutes ago with a message for you.  We’re under attack.’

        ‘That much I guessed Joshuu.  Under attack by whom?  And where specifically?’

        Joshuu rolled his eyes and Adzoba wanted to hit him.  ‘Well sir, about the messenger, I wanted to have a chat with ‘im, perhaps a slice of cake and a beverage, but he seemed in a bit of a hurry.  Muttered something about spreading the word to others.  Had I known you would want a dissertation on the subject, I would have asked the fellow to stay.’  

        Adzoba stared coldly back at Joshuu.  ‘So you don’t know anything.’

        ‘But that’s still more than you, isn’t it sir?’ Joshuu quipped back smugly.  

Edgar stood up from his position on the bogcrab’s back.  ‘Mayor,’ he said quietly.  ‘This varlet upbraids you in a most unwarranted and disrespectful fashion.  I request your permission to beat him accordingly.’

        Adzoba couldn’t help but be pleased by Edgar’s show of support.  Although the Mayor was amused by the thought of the knight giving Joshuu his just desserts, now was not the time.  ‘Thank-you Sir Edgar.  I appreciate the offer,’ he responded calmly.  He looked across to his rider who had turned noticeably pale.  ‘Maybe later.’ 

 

        In a show of contrition the like of which Adzoba had never seen before, Joshuu cleared his throat and said, ‘The messenger did not say who or what attacks us.’

        ‘Thank-you Joshuu,’ the Mayor said congenially.  ‘Now did he say where we are attacked?  Do you have a destination?’

        ‘That I do,’ he replied.  

        Edgar quickly sat back down as Joshuu rapped his stick upon the shell.  The bogcrab rose 200 feet into the air.  A long squelching noise draped itself over Edgar’s ears.  He winced as he thought of all the mire running down the creature’s back and limbs as it lifted itself high above the swamp.

 

 

Although he had ridden many beasts in many strange circumstances, Edgar never imagined he would ever be roosting on the back of the Myr’s largest crustacean as it made its way across a caliginous quagmire en route to battle a mysterious enemy.  

        The bogcrab lurched crazily as it walked through the mists.  It was remarkable that the three people it bore on its back did not topple from it and fall headlong to the unseen surface below.  The bogcrab’s ungainly gait was enough to unsettle the staunchest constitutions.  The last foreigner to ride with Joshuu vomited continuously until placed back down on the relatively firm footing of Marshmead’s boardwalks.  Joshuu turned slightly on his mat, hoping to catch sight of a look of terror upon Edgar’s face, but the vertiginous movement of the bogcrab did not seem to bother the knight.  In fact, he seemed far more concerned about the muddy stains upon his garments.

        ‘It will wash out, sir,’ Adzoba said tersely, clearly annoyed with Edgar’s preoccupation with cleanliness, wondering how such a man could possibly hope to triumph over whatever vile creature had risen out of the swamp.  He turned to his rider and said, ‘Where do you take me now, Joshuu?  Perhaps you could share our destination with our guest.’

        ‘We go to Simeon’s Reef,’ he answered quickly, keen to please Edgar despite secretly hating him.  ‘It isn’t far – just two leagues north of Marshmead.  It is where we have found some of the richest deposits of certain minerals essential –’

        ‘We can save the history lesson for another day, Joshuu,’ the Mayor sighed and sat back to stare out at the wall of mist before them.

 

 

‘Dr Shaw, give me a report.’

        The Mayor strode across the platform like a sergeant-at-arms.  Despite the absolute chaos around him, he maintained his composure.  The man to whom he spoke, Dr Garnett Shaw, was an older man with long, grey hair falling down upon drab, grey robes.  His skin was cracked and broken and if it wasn’t for Adzoba’s seeming lack of concern about the man’s close proximity, Edgar would have concluded that the doctor was a leper.

        ‘Over the past twenty minutes, we have lost almost fifty people, mainly apothecaries,’ Shaw replied in a similarly controlled fashion.  ‘Mayor, we are ill-equipped for warfare.’

        Upon hearing the man speak, Edgar stepped forward and grasped him firmly by the shoulders.  ‘It is so wonderful to hear your voice!’ he exclaimed.  The knight then brought Shaw into his chest in an embrace that knocked the wind out of the man’s lungs.  He could see that Adzoba was not fearful of catching Shaw’s affliction, and he wanted to demonstrate that it was not a problem for him either.

        When Edgar finally released him, Shaw wiped a long strand of matted hair from his face and stared into the knight’s eyes.  ‘Do I know you, sir?’ he said with considerable trepidation.

        Edgar smiled warmly.  ‘Dr Shaw, you’re Pelinese!  I can tell by your accent,’ he remarked as if bestowing the greatest honour upon the man.  

        The doctor nodded meekly.  Shaw had recognised the distinctive uniform of the Pelinese Royal Guard that Edgar wore so proudly, but showed no indication that he thought meeting a fellow countryman was a felicitous event.  ‘It has been many years since I stood in Pelinore,’ Shaw said sombrely.

        Fortunately Adzoba Aethelflaed was in no mood to allow the conversation to proceed further. He could see spread out across the platform before him numerous villagers who were either dead or dying.  Long white shafts of arrows littered the platform, some embedded in wooden beams, other standing upright in the bloodied flesh of unfortunate apothecaries whose eyes lay open wide in the shock of their own passing.  

        There was no sign of the enemy.  Simeon’s Reef was little more than a series of wide wooden platforms spread out across a bug-infested bog.  The swamp here was almost impossible to traverse; the thick mud sucked viciously at the feet of anyone foolish enough to walk through it.  Adzoba could see a wall of fire had spread across the moor and realised immediately why more of his people had not been killed – the villagers had laid down a defensive line of angelfire across the bog.  He bent down so that his face was level with Shaw’s.  ‘Garnett, give me the details about the enemy,’ he said urgently.  ‘What are we facing here?’

        Shaw nodded towards all the arrows shafts around them.  ‘Their ranks are mainly made up of archers as far as I can tell.  We incurred most of our casualties in the first volley.  At least, twenty men and women fell before we even knew we were under attack.  I’d guess at least ten more fell upon the second volley.’

        ‘Have they engaged you directly?’ Adzoba asked.

        ‘No sir.  The swamp out there is extremely difficult to cross.  Fortunately, we managed to set up a defensive perimeter before they got too close.  I have ordered our people back to the storehouses where they are out of the range of the archers.  I have a bogcrab about to be loaded up with more angelfire to extend the lines before the invaders find a way around them.’

For an apothecary, Shaw seemed to be quite adept in responding to the surprise assault.  He had clearly saved many apothecaries from an early demise that day.  Edgar attributed this to Garnett Shaw’s Pelinese heritage.

        ‘It was your idea to lay down the angelfire?’ he asked.

        ‘Yes sir,’ Shaw responded quickly, not showing any sign of curiosity regarding Edgar’s arrival at Simeon’s Reef.          ‘We were lucky to have a bogcrab laden with some barrels bound for Marshmead when the enemy revealed itself.’

        The Mayor looked down upon the fallen apothecaries.  He knew each and every one of them.  He turned to the red glow out on the reef.  ‘Who are these attackers, Shaw?  Inhabitants of the swamp?’

        ‘No, Mayor.  There is one by the name of Drabella who speaks for them.  They call themselves the Ghul and they come from a realm beneath the swamp, a place they call the Endless.’

        ‘And what do they want with us?’

        Edgar expected Shaw to answer straight away in the responsive, dispassionate fashion that had characterized his speech to that point.  But the doctor was silent.  Underneath the flakes of dead skin, his face had gone white when the question was put to him.  Edgar could see that he was biting his lip nervously, as if the answer were too dreadful to utter.

        The Mayor also noticed Shaw’s silence but was too busy staring out across the reef to see the strange expression that had accompanied it.  He repeated his question: ‘Garnett, what do the Ghul want with us?’  

        ‘Revenge,’ he said with dramatic solemnity, then added, ‘apparently.’

        ‘Revenge?’  Adzoba was incredulous.  ‘Revenge for what?’

        ‘We… do not know.’  Edgar knew there was more going on in Shaw’s mind than his answers were revealing, but Adzoba seemed to be taking the doctor’s words at face value.  

        ‘Is that it?’ Adzoba asked, disappointment evident in his voice.

        ‘No sir,’ Shaw replied.  ‘Drabella said that Caliban wants us to redress the past.’

        Adzoba swung around so quickly that had Edgar been three feet taller, the horn atop the Mayor’s head would have skewered his eye.  ‘Who in the gods’ names is Caliban?’ Adzoba barked.

        ‘We do not know,’ Shaw replied quickly.  ‘It sounds as if he is their leader, but we have not seen any sign of him.’

        Again, Edgar caught a glimmer of something other than truth in Shaw’s response.  He was hiding something.  ‘And you do not know why he bears such ill-will towards the people of Mag Mel?’ he asked with such force that Shaw took a step back. ‘He must have been wronged terribly to want to hurt your people so grievously.’

        Shaw peered up at Adzoba.  ‘Sir, there is something else,’ he said apprehensively.  ‘The attackers have brought something with them, something unlike any creature I have ever seen before.  Unlike the Ghul, it is impervious to the angelfire.’

        ‘Where is it?’ the Mayor pressed.   ‘What does it look like?’

        ‘It’s kind of hard to explain.  We saw it when we were laying down the perimeter.  The creature… it’s the biggest thing you could imagine.’  Shaw had lost a little of his composure.  His voice had risen and he could not maintain eye contact with the Mayor.  ‘It panicked the bogcrab and… sir, we lost Helobius.  He fell as he was throwing a phial of angelfire at the creature.  He plummeted into the swamp and the creature, it just rolled over him and… it consumed him.’

        The Mayor frowned.  ‘Garnett, you’re not making any sense to me.  I want you to explain to me what it is we’re up against here.’

        Edgar’s head cocked to one side, and he suddenly threw himself at the two men standing before him.  He hit Adzoba first, and managed to snag Shaw on the way down.  The knight did what he could to keep the bodies of the two men beneath him.  In the same second the three of them hit the timbers of the landing, a torrent of arrows sliced through the air around them.  One pierced Shaw’s left hand, nailing it to the deck.  Another embedded itself in Adzoba’s left arm.  Fortunately all the other arrows hit either the landing or bounced off Edgar’s thick armour, the bone shafts failing to penetrate the golden steel, forged in the smithies of Camulos.

        A large shape fell through the air above them and slammed into the platform only feet away.  It was the Mayor’s sarcastic rider, Joshuu, who had been sitting atop the bogcrab that had brought Edgar and Adzoba to the reef.  Joshuu was dead before he even hit the platform – his body resembled a pin-cushion made of meat and bone.

        Adzoba was winded and stunned by the sudden attack.  He just lay under Edgar, staring at the blood-soaked beams beneath him.  Shaw grunted in pain but had enough presence of mind to twist his head around to face Edgar.  ‘Thank-you,’ he gasped, acutely aware of the fact that the knight had just saved his life.

        Edgar whispered a cold reply.  ‘Don’t thank me yet, Shaw.  I smell skulduggery.  I think you know a bit more about this predicament than you have articulated thus far.  Understand this, once I sugillate the great beast that comes hither, you and I will be having serious words.’

        Shaw’s eyes widened but he said nothing.

‘Get to the storehouses and shelter with the others,’ Edgar instructed Adzoba and Shaw as they clambered to his feet.

        By the time the pair had removed the arrows from their limbs and dragged themselves up on their feet, Edgar was gone.  He had somehow managed to board the bogcrab from which Joshuu had fallen and was moving out across the muddy reef to meet the foe.

 

 

The creature’s name was Abaddon and it was one of the most unusual-looking members of the Cabal.  It had no limbs, no head and no tail.  It was simply a large gelatinous sphere with one distinctive feature – in the centre of the transparent blubber, a solitary eye twisted and turned frenetically, scanning the mire beneath it and the fog-filled sky above.  It had been given simple instructions – kill all except one.  Caliban Grayson had shown his face to Abaddon and made it clear that if it stumbled across someone with similar features it would leave that man to the Ghul to apprehend.  Although Caliban now believed his twin to be hiding in Garlot Abbey, he was yet to have his suspicions confirmed.  He would not risk the Cabal accidentally killing his twin, robbing him of his rightful claim to revenge.    

 

 

Edgar could feel the bogcrab’s anxiety rising up through its shell as they walked over the flaming perimeter the apothecaries had set up earlier.  Despite its anxiousness, the beast seemed willing to respond to his directions.  It was not a difficult task to steer the bogcrab; Edgar softly tapped his sword in the direction he wanted to go and the crab responded.

As soon as they had cleared the wall of angelfire, swarms of arrows crashed ineffectually against the crab’s chitin shell.  The fog was thick out on the reef and for a moment Edgar thought he would not be able to find the creature Shaw had mentioned.  His jaw dropped when he did.  

        Breaking through a bank of heavy mist, the crab almost collided with the monster’s amorphous body of mesoglea as it rolled slowly on the viscous surface of the swamp.  Although Abaddon was massive, it was half the height of the bogcrab which became skittish when it laid eyes on the creature.  Edgar instructed the crab to retreat slightly, partly to calm his mount, but also so he could observe Abaddon’s behaviour before he attacked it.

        On the top of the bogcrab Edgar was out of the range of the Ghul archers.  Peering over the crab’s head, he could see the eye at the centre of the jelly as it darted this way and that.  The eye was scanning the crab and after a few seconds the entire sphere starting rolling slowly towards them.  As it moved, Edgar could make out a relatively small object within the bulk of the monster.  It was a man and he was still moving.  

        ‘…sir, we lost Helobius.’

        Shaw’s companion had survived.  He was clearly in pain but somehow, though enveloped in the jelly of the invertebrate monster’s body, he was still alive.  Edgar cringed at the thought of the man being covered in the slimy ectoplasm but this revulsion was not enough to perturb him.  He would save this poor unfortunate and slay the beast.  

        Edgar stood perched on the lip of the bogcrab’s shell trying to think of a way to get down to the surface other than falling.  Suddenly the eye that had been focused upon the crab noticed him for the first time.  Edgar could see its iris narrow and the brave knight felt a sharp splinter of fear prick his resolve.  

        As if to intimidate the knight Abaddon swivelled its eye around to face the man writhing within its globular body.  Helobius twisted his head about to avoid the creature’s gaze but he could feel the gelatinous matter surrounding him push his head forward so that he was peering directly into the ten foot wide eye at the centre of the monster.   Suddenly, he felt absolute terror sweep over him, fear so pure his heart sped up, faster and faster until it exploded.  Within the body of the beast, Helobius screamed a silent scream and died.

        ‘Oh dear,’ Edgar said to himself as he observed the horrific death, ‘this is going to get messy.’

        He thrust down the face plate of his helmet, raised his sword before him and dived off the edge of the bogcrab’s shell.

        As Edgar fell towards Abaddon, he could feel the creature trying to make eye contact with him.  But the knight’s faceplate was down and he fell at such a speed, Abaddon had no hope of averting the vengeance Edgar was about to mete out.  The sword pierced the creature’s transparent epidermis and sliced through the gelatinous bubble of its body with little resistance.  By the time the Edgar’s downward descent had stopped, his sword was buried up to the hilt in Abaddon’s eyeball.  The creature wobbled violently for a moment and then burst apart.  Translucent ectoplasm splashed out in all directions.  All that was left was Abaddon’s pierced eyeball, bobbing on the swamp like a buoy.

        Before Edgar knew what had happened, the bogcrab had scooped him up, placed him on his back and headed back across the perimeter bound for the relative safety of the landing.

 

 

It was late afternoon when the men and women sheltering in the storehouse at Simeon’s Reef heard knocking at their door.  They turned uneasily to Adzoba who was lying on a cot, his arm bandaged and resting on a pillow.  

        ‘I don’t think the Ghul are the types to knock,’ he said dryly, gesturing to those by the door to open it quickly.  They turned the latch and there standing in the doorway was the slumped figure of a Scorian knight, coated from helmeted head to armoured foot in putrid-smelling ectoplasm.  Edgar’s golden suit no longer glistened, the plume atop his helmet was broken and limp, and his cape was little more than a muck-encrusted rag, but he clutched his sword defiantly and said, ‘The creature didn’t stand a chance.’

        Adzoba rose to his feet.  ‘You survived!’

        ‘Yes.  I did.’

        ‘And the Ghul?’

        ‘I don’t know.  There’s no sign of them out there now.  Perhaps they ran out of arrows, perhaps the perimeter of fire has deterred them.  Perhaps now their monstrous pet is killed they have no stomach for more conflict.  I just don’t know, Mayor.’

        ‘But you killed the beast!’  Adzoba did not hide his delight.  He clasped Edgar’s glove and said, ‘Brave Sir Edgar, we are indebted to you.  How can we ever repay you?’

        Edgar took off his soiled helmet.  His dark hair was coated in Abaddon’s gelatinous insides and hung in thick, moist clumps across his forehead.  ‘Well,’ he said with a smirk on his face, ‘I believe you promised me a hot bath.’

 

 

The smell of meat cooking over the hearth was intoxicating.  Edgar emerged from his bath to find his armour polished, his robes washed and a meal of roast shelp cooking in his honour.  The Mayor had provided him with every comfort Marshmead could provide, including his private guesthouse which proved to be exquisitely-appointed accommodation.  The deep round fire in the centre of his lodgings was tended to by Adzoba’s sister, Jendayi.  Like all Kheperan females, she was bald and lacked the unique horn that distinguished the males of Khepera, but she was just as tall as Adzoba, and significantly more pleasant to look upon.

        She smiled coyly as Edgar exited the bathroom, sporting nothing more than a towel wrapped around his waist.

        ‘I’m sorry, my lady,’ Edgar said clumsily.  ‘I did not know you were there.’

        Although her skin was dark, Edgar could see that she was blushing coquettishly.  Despite her coyness, Edgar felt her eyes pause on his exposed flesh longer than was necessary.

        Jendayi bowed slightly.  ‘My lord, I have placed a set of clean robes on your bed.  Your own clothes are still drying so I took the liberty of borrowing some garments from the Mayor.  I have also set a carafe of ale on the sideboard in the parlour.’  The girl turned to the meal that was dripping hot fat into the fire and pierced it with a long knife.  She peeled back the dark brown meat to reveal sweet, pink flesh inside.  ‘Your evening meal will be ready in half an hour.’

        Edgar was still extremely sensitive to the fact that he was standing before her with almost nothing on and heard little of what she had said.  He edged his way to the bedroom, holding the towel up before his body as if it were a shield.  ‘I will just go and get changed,’ he said, his voice half an octave higher than usual.

        Jendayi stepped towards him.  She wore a light challis blouse that left nothing for even the most unimaginative mind to ponder.  Her body glistened with small droplets of sweat brought out by the heat emanating from the centre of the room.  ‘Sir, if there is anything else you desire, you only have to ask.’

        Edgar backed up against the door to his room, relieved to find it slightly ajar.  He was not sure, but it almost seemed as if the girl was suggesting he could have more than a meal and clean clothes.  Looking at her soft, gleaming body before him, he had never felt so intimidated in his life.

        ‘Sir Edgar,’ she said, her voice sweeter than syrup, ‘if you want me, just say the word – Jendayi.  That’s my name.’

        The ambiguity of this offer was more than the knight could take and he quickly ducked into his room and shut the door.  His heart was racing and he had to take a moment to compose himself.  He had sat around campfires with soldiers who had shared their fantasies of Kheperan women, but he was not cut from that cloth.  He was a gentleman and would not abuse the gratitude of his hosts.

        Edgar made his way over to the bed.  A long, white, silk robe embroidered with fine, gold filigree lay at the foot of the mattress.  He picked up the beautiful garment.  It was so smooth and soft to touch it felt as if he were cradling a gown woven from the very mists that surrounded the village.  He quickly slipped on the robe, a little fearful that the girl would enter and find him still naked.  The silk gown felt delightful on his skin but it was a good two feet too long.  His sleeves flopped about like Mabbit ears and he did not move for fear of tripping over the folds of material that had cascaded around his feet.

        A delicate knocking at his door accelerated his heart once more and with a voice characterized by much trepidation and a little bit of excitement, Edgar replied, ‘Enter.’  Before the door opened, he quickly ran a preening hand across his mop of dark hair whilst smoothing out the robe with the other.

        It was the girl.  Jendayi.  She stood in the doorway, the fire beyond making a silhouette of her perfect body.  Edgar swallowed.  

        She smiled.  Again the coquettish blush as she gazed at his body.  ‘You know,’ she said, nodding at the silk garment he had just put on, ‘You really should take that off.’

        The provocative solicitation reverberated in Edgar’s head.  Time seemed to slow down and speed up at the same time.  It had been a long while since he had been propositioned by a woman, and never by one as ravishing as the Kheperan who stood in his doorway.  Edgar knew there were reasons why Pelinese knights did not give themselves to temptations such as the one before him, but he just couldn’t think of them there and then.  Part of his brain was screaming to seize the moment before it was lost forever.  He knew that he would never find himself in a similar situation again.  

        In a flurry, Edgar discarded his robe, flinging it far across the room to indicate his abandonment to the opportunity he saw in front of him.  He stood there completely unclothed, his body still radiating heat from the recent hot bath.  He held his arms out to the tall beauty before him.

        ‘What are you doing, Sir Knight?’ Jendayi exclaimed, deeply shocked by the sudden display of nudity.

        ‘Ah...’ Edgar replied, nausea filling up his belly, ‘you said that I should take my robe off.’

        ‘Yes, but perhaps you should wait until I have left the room.  That gown is far too long for you.  I was planning to fetch you another.’

        ‘Oh,’ said Edgar, looking desperately at the silk robe lying in a pathetic white lump on the other side of the room.  He stood there as naked as the moment he first entered the world, and waited for the wave of embarrassment to break upon his person; a moment later, just as a wry smile crept across Jendayi’s face, it hit.  He felt himself tumbling as shame, guilt and folly swirled around him.  By the time he surfaced from the churning swell of emotions, his face was glowing red and his eyes were cast down towards his feet.

        ‘I’m sorry, my lord, but I just came to tell you that you have a visitor.  Shall I let him in?’

        ‘No, no.  I’ll see him outside,’ he said quickly as his eyes urged her to exit the room and shut the door.

 

 

Out on the landing outside his accommodation, Edgar found Dr Garnett Shaw waiting for him, resting his injured hand on the railing of the boardwalk.  It was late afternoon and the lambent glow of the shatterbug lanterns was beginning to take effect.  Edgar made his way across the landing, painfully aware of the stares he was receiving from villagers passing by.  He wanted to tell himself that the curious gazes were just a manifestation of hero-worship – he had saved the town after all – but he knew that the people of Marshmead were simply gawping at the sight of the visitor wearing the ridiculously long robes.

        Shaw had lit a pipe.  The potent smell of Gorian weed floated into the air and mingled with the myriad smells that rose out of the swamp.  The doctor nodded a greeting as Edgar joined him by the railing, choosing not to comment on the knight’s gown.

        ‘You know why Caliban attacked, don’t you?’ Edgar said frankly.  Although he had moved to the heart of the matter immediately, his voice was measured.  There was nothing accusatory in his tone.

        Shaw paused before replying.  ‘I knew your father, Sir Edgar,’ he said unexpectedly.  His voice was low and sombre, almost sad.  ‘It was a long time ago, back when I was a soldier at the Royal Barracks, before I pursued the art of medica materia.  Christian would come down to the bellows once a week and repair our swords and shields.’  He paused again as the memories of those days floated through his mind.  ‘He was highly regarded among the soldiers.  How is he?’

        Edgar wasn’t sure how to answer at first.  This was not the road upon which he had planned to take the discussion.  Shaw knew something about Caliban, something important.  Otherwise he would have denied it when asked.  Edgar cleared his throat and said, ‘My father died five years ago.’

        Shaw raised his eyebrows, seemingly surprised by the news.  As he did so, his forehead cracked like dry mud being trodden upon.  In the steady glow of the shatterbug lantern, Edgar could see that the doctor’s skin condition was severe.  ‘I am truly sorry.  I am sure he is sorely missed.’

        ‘Why did you leave the service?’  It was an obvious question.  It was uncommon for a soldier to leave the corps.  Most boys in Pelinore, indeed all of Scoriath, dreamt of one day serving their king as a soldier.  Some even dared to dream of becoming a knight in the Royal Guard.

        ‘It was after a skirmish we had in the Nessan Sea.  Sessymirian pirates were attacking traders up and down the coast.  I was on a small vessel called The Speculation, en route for Gorias when a Sessymirian cruiser pulled alongside us.  At first I thought we had nothing to fear, for the Sessymirian ship had women and children on board.  The Sessymirians said they had gifts for the people of Pelinore and they sent their children to present them.  We let the children come on board.  They would have been no older than ten years of age.’

        Shaw stopped.  Edgar could see tears had welled up in his eyes.  The old man sniffed and a tear escaped, running down his face in a crooked line, the irregularities of his skin pushing the water droplet down towards the corner of his mouth where it sat until he opened his cracked lips to speak again.  ‘We had let down our guard.  Before anyone had any idea of what was happening, one of the children pulled out a dagger and rammed it under the ribs of the ship’s captain.  Another shoved a knife into my gullet.  We scrambled for our weapons but we had put ourselves into a vulnerable position, allowing the children to come on board.  The young ones were terrifying in their assault.  The Sessymrians must have trained them well for most of our crew were slain before I had a sword in my hand.  It fell to me to defend the ship.  I had no choice but to carry out my duty.  Things were done.  Dreadful things.’

        He did not have to provide greater detail.  Garnett Shaw had committed an act the specifics of which were best left unsaid.  A thousand comments sat on Edgar’s lips waiting to escape, some of them judgemental, some of them understanding.  Summoning all his self-control, he merely uttered two words in response: ‘Go on.’

        Shaw wiped his face with the back of his sleeve and continued.  ‘We barely escaped.  The ship hobbled back to port and I spent the rest of the day being sewn up by surgeons.  I decided that I would never again take up arms against anyone so I left the corps the following day and sought out a simple, quiet life.

After drifting through more jobs than I could name, I discovered I had certain skills with potions and powders.  I travelled all the way to Caquix where I secretly studied medica materia for three years, far away from the bloody deck of a Pelinese ship.  I graduated with honours and became an apothecary.  After ten years away from Scoriath, I returned to Pelinore and opened a shop on the promenade.  For a while, I carved out a happy life, preparing remedies for all manner of afflictions.  It was therapeutic to find the means to maintain life rather than take it away.  Amongst my potions and procurements, I found redemption for all the wrongs I had committed as a soldier.’

        Under the scabs and flakes of skin covering Shaw’s face, Edgar could see pain – recounting the tragic tale of The Speculation had been difficult for him.  It seemed to Edgar that Shaw had kept this event to himself for many years.  In a strange way, the knight felt touched that the apothecary had chosen to share the story with him, but struggled to see the relevance of it to what had transpired out on the swamp earlier that day.  ‘I’m sorry Doctor,’ he said genuinely, ‘but I don’t understand how your change in career relates to the attack of the Ghul at Simeon’s Reef.’

        Shaw drew back on his pipe before answering.  The last of the tobacco filling the briar bowl of the pipe burned away.  The pungent smell of the weed hung in the air, unwilling to depart though the pipe was empty.  ‘My involvement in medica materia is what brought about the attack upon the town.  I am responsible for everything that happened today.’

        ‘How?’  It was a simple enough question to ask, but considerably more difficult for the doctor to answer.  Having finished his pipe, Shaw reached down into the folds of his robes, produced a hip flask and opened it.  Even with the mordacious odour of the Gorian weed competing with the multitudinous scents rising from the bog before them, Edgar’s nostrils were assaulted with a smell of alcohol so potent, he was amazed Shaw could drink the contents of the flask without wincing.  

        ‘I left Pelinore not long after Chamberlain Llyr came to power,’ the doctor answered, wiping from his cracked lips a few drops of the home-made brew he had just poured into his mouth.  ‘I escaped before the purge that drove so many other apothecaries into hiding.  Eventually I found my way here.’  He swivelled around so that the small of his back was supported by the railing.  Slowly casting his eyes around the ochre-coloured collection of domed buildings and wooden landings surrounding them, Shaw reminisced.  ‘Most of this did not exist back then.  Just a few huts strung together with a rickety walkway.’

        ‘Why did you leave Pelinore when you did, especially if you were doing so much good?’

        This was the heart of the matter and Shaw took another swig of his flask before committing himself to the explanation.  ‘I… I made a mistake,’ he said as he hid the flask back amongst the folds of his robes.  ‘A rather serious error of judgement.  I remember it more clearly than time should permit.  It had been raining heavily and I had not seen a customer all day.  Sometime after lunch, the sun had broken through the dense clouds and I was standing outside my shop, smoking my pipe, enjoying the respite from the rain.  The cobblestones glistened in the warm light whilst children drove their mothers mad by playing in the puddles that had formed by the roadside.’

        Shaw turned back to face the limited panorama of the swamp, leaning forward on the railing so he did not have to look at Edgar.  His eyes were glazed as the images of that day long ago floated through his head.  ‘The rain did not stay away long and as the first few drops began to fall, I went back inside and sat down by my fireplace to enjoy an afternoon nap.  My eyes had not been shut for more than a few seconds when a tall, young man came into my shop.  I knew who he was as soon as he entered.  It was Gideon Grayson’s son.’

        Grayson.  It was a name Edgar recalled from his childhood.  ‘I remember him.  He was a politician, wasn’t he?’

        ‘Yes,’ Shaw replied.  ‘A politician, a diplomat, a healer, a soldier and an explorer.  Gideon Grayson was all these things and more.  Grayson was one of the Morgai, perhaps the greatest Morgai of all.’

        ‘Morgai?  But –’

        ‘I am well aware that most people have discounted the Morgai as mere fancy.  But I can tell you Sir Edgar, they exist.  Or rather, they existed.  I don’t know what has become of them.  Here in the mire, we are far away from the news of the world.’

        ‘I must admit, I have doubted the existence of the Morgai.  I have never met one.’

        Shaw scratched nervously at his face, then turned to face the knight.  It was the first time he had looked at Edgar since beginning the conversation.  His eyes, watery and red as if he had just been slapped in the face, were tightly focused upon the knight.  ‘I have, Sir Edgar.  Her name was Lilith Cortese and she lived on the promenade back in Pelinore.  She told me three decades ago of your coming.’

        ‘Me?’  Edgar was stunned.  He was not expecting to be a part of the doctor’s story.

        ‘It was I who was foretold of the destruction that would accompany your arrival in Marshmead,’ Shaw said emphatically as he pointed a gnarled finger at his own chest to highlight his role in the prediction Adzoba had cited earlier that day.  ‘We have been waiting for this day for nigh on thirty years.’

        Edgar pulled a hand out of his excessively long sleeve and stroked his chin, a gesture he often returned to when trying to comprehend perplexing statements such as this one.  ‘But I am only twenty-nine years old.  I probably wasn’t even born when you were told!’

        ‘Such is the power of the Morgai,’ responded Shaw enigmatically.

        Edgar did not like the reply and craved a better explanation.  ‘Doctor Shaw, you must elucidate further,’ he said, his voice coloured slightly by his inability to comprehend.  ‘Am I the reason you left Pelinore?  Did you come here decades ago to await my arrival because of what this fortune-teller told you?’

        ‘Lilith Cortese played a role in my coming to Mag Mel, but not in the way you are suggesting.  I understand, these are confusing matters, but indulge me and all will be made clear.’

        Edgar nodded, encouraging the old man to continue.

        Shaw returned his gaze to the swamp.  ‘I left Pelinore out of shame.  I could not stay.  A week after she had spoken to me, the same Morgai, Lilith Cortese, talked with Remiel Grayson, the man who came into my shop that rainy day a lifetime ago.  Cortese had unfolded a future to him that was as bleak and terrifying a tomorrow as could be told and laid the blame for this future at the feet of a single man his brother – Caliban.’

        Shaw let the dust settle on his comment, awaiting Edgar’s inevitable reaction as the knight put the pieces of the puzzle together.  ‘Caliban?  You mean the one behind the attack today?’  Edgar’s voice had risen in volume and a few passers-by looked his way.

        ‘Yes.’

        ‘And he is the brother of the man who entered your shop that day?’

        ‘Yes.  His twin, actually.  At first, I refused to believe the predictions.  It was difficult to imagine the sort of world Remiel described but it was consistent with the visions Cortese had conveyed to me days before.  I was well aware of her abilities.  She had never been proven wrong.  The stakes were high and I acquiesced to a solution for which I am deeply ashamed.’

        ‘What did you do?’

        ‘I made a potion to incapacitate Caliban.  Remiel did not want to kill his brother.  He just wanted to stop him becoming the thing in Cortese’s visions.  We decided that he could not be allowed to influence society in any way, so we made him an outcast.  I prepared a potion that would give Caliban all the symptoms of leprosy, the scaling and peeling of the skin, the appearance of lesions upon the body and the loss of specific physical sensations.  And I did not stop there.  We had to ensure against the unlikely event of Caliban escaping from the leprosarium in the middle of Lake Erras to which he would be sent.  So I added to the potion a property that would make Caliban’s skin burn in the sunlight.  Daylight would be unendurable, so he would be confined to the dark.’

        ‘That is unconscionable!’ Edgar snapped.  Despite all the remorse that Shaw had shown leading up to this point, the knight found he was appalled by the truth.  He felt sickened by the thought that the apothecary would create such a dreadful affliction and administer it to someone based on a seer’s visions.  ‘Caliban had done no wrong!  You punished him for crimes he had not yet committed!  And to base this punishment on the invention of someone’s mind...’

        ‘I am not proud of what I have done,’ Shaw said meekly, his voice reflecting the ignominy of his heart.  ‘I have dwelt upon my sin for thirty long years.’

        A cold peal of laughter broke from Edgar’s mouth.  ‘And so you should!  It would seem that Cortese was wrong!  Your village still stands despite what the seer asserted would accompany my visit to Marshmead.’

        Shaw ran his knobbed fingers through his greasy hair.  ‘Perhaps Cortese was wrong about other things.  Perhaps Caliban would have done nothing had we… had I not –’

        Edgar reluctantly placed his hands on Shaw’s shoulders and turned the doctor so that their faces were only inches apart.  ‘Perhaps?  I tell you now Dr Shaw, there is no question about it – Caliban was innocent!  Whilst I do not believe in revenge such as we have seen attempted here today, Caliban Grayson has every right to be aggrieved, and your soul stands sorely charged for the heinous act you have committed against his person.  It is ironic to see that you have contracted the very disease that you dispensed so carelessly thirty years ago.’

        Shaw tried to avert his eyes from the knight’s steely gaze.  ‘Sir Edgar, it is not irony that has brought about my own afflictions.  Disgusted by my part in the treatment of Caliban, I drank what little remained of the potion we administered to him and left Pelinore never to return again.  My skin burns as his does.  In the diffuse light of the swamp I can survive in the day, but I cannot leave.  Just as the leper colony was meant to be Caliban’s prison, Mag Mel is mine.  Everyday I look in the mirror, my face reminds me of the corrosion of my soul.’

 

 

It was pointless for Edgar to pursue it further.  Shaw couldn’t be more penitent or more aware of the consequences of his actions.  The mistake had been made, acknowledged and paid for.  Egar had to let it go.  He had not come to Mag Mel to berate a countryman for sins of the past.

They said nothing for a while, each man brooding on his private thoughts.  The mists beyond had darkened and the lights of the lanterns painted white circles on the air above the boardwalk.

        At long last, Edgar spoke.  ‘How can it be that Caliban has assumed command over these creatures called the Ghul.  Are they from Sanctuary?’

        ‘I doubt it,’ replied Shaw distantly.  ‘Apparently Caliban never made it to the leper colony.’

        ‘Never made it?’

        Shaw shook his head.  ‘There is a vortex of water at the centre of the great lake to the south.  You may know it as the Worldpool.  It is rumoured that the ship carrying Caliban to the colony, The Melody, perished in the crossing and the Worldpool has been known as Caliban’s End ever since.’

        ‘But it was poorly named,’ said Edgar wryly.  ‘As evidenced by today’s events, Caliban did not die.’

        Shaw looked around, made sure no other villagers were within earshot and placed a hand upon Edgar’s sleeve.  The knight felt uneasy about the doctor’s touch but – with considerable effort – stopped himself from looking down at the grisly hand upon his forearm and focused upon the man’s face.   His eyes were so watery Edgar imagined he could see ripples in them.  ‘Sir Edgar, there is more.  Today was not the first time I had heard of the Ghul, nor is the creature you killed the only monster Caliban has in his menagerie.  I have heard rumours from visitors to our realm – tales of terrible things in distant lands.  They could not explain them, but these things seem not so inexplicable to me.  I fear my mistake thirty years ago has set in motion a series of events for which all Myrrans will pay a price.  Caliban has unleashed the Ghul upon the world.’

        Edgar’s brain was ablaze with all he had learned since stepping outside.  What he had discovered in Marshmead was something that had to be shared with other nations.  ‘This cannot be kept secret Doctor.  We must head for Cessair and pass on this information to the Chamberlain.  If what you say is true, then decisions must be made to secure the safety of all nations.’

        Garnett Shaw was dumbstruck at the suggestion.  ‘We?’ he said after great pause.

        ‘It would be best if you accompanied me to the capital.’

        Shaw shook his head.  ‘Sir Edgar, even if I could somehow survive the journey to Cessair travelling under the burning sun beyond Mag Mel, the Magistrates would hang me before I even saw the Chamberlain.  I am the catalyst of the great chaos descending upon the Myr.’

        ‘But you must.  You know things that may help us in our defence against this new enemy.’

        ‘I can’t,’ Shaw remonstrated.  ‘I simply can’t.’

        ‘You can,’ Edgar hammered back.   ‘I know you are scared but you were once a soldier –’

        ‘And ashamed of it,’ Shaw interrupted.  ‘You cannot bully me into leaving.’  

        Shaw was not going to budge and Edgar knew it.  The knight decided not to pursue the topic further.  He would see the Chamberlain himself and relay what he had been told.  There was another matter that remained unresolved.  One a lot closer to his heart.  ‘Garnett, I have a request.  It’s about my brother.’

        The doctor was taken off-guard, as much by the use of his first name as the change in focus, but was pleased that the conversation had taken a different tack.  ‘What is it?  He is afflicted by some malady?’

        ‘Yes, you could say that,’ Edgar replied.

        ‘The night air grows clammy and you must be hungry, Sir Edgar!’ Shaw said with a muted show of joviality.  He slapped a greasy hand on the knight’s shoulder and Edgar instinctively inspected the patch of cloth for any marks.  Oblivious to this reaction, Shaw proclaimed, ‘We will retreat to your parlour and you can tell me all about it.’

 

 

‘There is only one who can help you,’ Shaw said sombrely as he stuffed his pipe with a dry, dark-green weed he extracted from a pouch on his belt.  ‘No remedy currently exists that will end your brother’s suffering, but there is someone in Marshmead who possesses the skill to find a way.’

        Edgar dabbed at his mouth to wipe away any trace of the shelp meat he had just consumed, then neatly folded the napkin and placed it beside his empty plate.  ‘Then you must take me to him immediately.’

        ‘You won’t have to travel far,’ Shaw responded, placing his pipe in his mouth.  ‘I am the only one who can help you, but we do not have much time.’

        Edgar sipped from a goblet that the beautiful Jendayi had placed before him when she laid out the meal.  He was growing tired and – happy that the doctor had acquiesced to his request – was looking forward to his first sleep in a clean bed for many weeks.  ‘It can wait until morning Doctor.  I have taken up enough of your time tonight.’

        ‘No – it can’t I’m afraid,’ Garnett Shaw replied earnestly.  ‘We have less than twelve hours.’  A shadow crossed his face.  His brow was furrowed and his eyes flickered nervously as if hiding a terrible secret.

        ‘I don’t understand.’

        ‘Sir Edgar, forty-five people died at Simeon’s Reef today.  There are many families grieving the loss of loved ones, whilst I survived to smoke a pipe and see another day. That is a weight upon my shoulders that I cannot bear.’  Despite the fact that they were alone in the room, he dropped his voice to a whisper.  ‘I am dying.’

        ‘What?’

        ‘As you lay in your bath washing away the day’s events, I administered a poison to my inglorious self.  I will be dead by morning.  And before you waste your words on talking me out of this course I have taken, know this – there is no antidote for the medica materia that courses through my veins.  Before the distant sun rises on this swamp, I shall be gone and a small part of my debt repaid.  I do not have long to save your brother.’

        ‘Oh Gods!’ Edgar sighed, despair and amazement evident in his exhalation.

        The doctor placed his unlit pipe down on the table and strode across to the door.  ‘Fear not, Sir Knight, I have books and I have compounds gathered from the deepest parts of Mag Mel.  If there is a way to alter you brother’s condition, I will find it.  Your altruism will not go unrewarded.  My house is the last one on the eastern edge of town.  Come to me before dawn and I will have a cure for your brother.’

 

 

Edgar could not sleep and shortly after midnight made his way to Garnett Shaw’s abode.  He felt lost and alone.  There were no stars above to remind him of where he was.  The mist lay heavily upon the town and he found he yearned for clear skies and shadows.  He could see a golden band of light under Shaw’s front door.  The occasional sound of glass phials being poured into beakers indicated that the doctor was good to his word and would not give himself to sleep until a curative potion was produced for Dominic Worseley.

        Edgar did not want to intrude.  Any distraction could have dire consequences, so he sat upon the landing outside Shaw’s residence and waited.  

 

---

 

‘No Edgar.  I don’t think we should!’

        ‘Oh come on Dominic.  I’ve heard he’s something to see.’

        ‘But it seems… wrong.’

        ‘He’s a leper.  There’s no right or wrong about it.  Let’s get a look at him before he’s shipped off to Sanctuary.’

        They lifted their heads over the window sill.  The curtains were open.  The full moons hung in the sky like giant’s lanterns.  The moonlight fell upon a writhing figure in the bed before them.  Although he was only a few feet away, he was totally oblivious to the presence of the boys.  His entire body was wracked with pain as his young skin rusted away.  Occasionally his back would arch and a scream would escape from his exhausted lungs.  Strange names exploded from his mouth as desperation consumed him: ‘Remiel…Annika…Maeldune… Help me!’

        ‘I didn’t think lepers felt pain,’ Dominic said faintly, turning away from the unsettling scene.  

        Suddenly two figures emerged from a nearby doorway.  The brothers ducked down behind a small hedge by the window.  A man and a woman had exited the leper’s house and were standing whispering on the porch nearby.  The woman was young and beautiful but her voice was anything but soft.

‘Remiel, it would have been better to kill him.’  

 

---

 

Edgar was ripped out of his reverie by a sudden noise.  It was a dull sound, like a heavy object falling onto wood.  The noise was accompanied by the thin, light sound of breaking glass.  His body shot up and for a brief second he was disoriented.  

        He was still outside Shaw’s house but the fog seemed lighter now – it was almost morning.  The sound that had brought Edgar back from the swirling memories of his childhood came from within the doctor’s home.  Edgar leapt to his feet and ripped open the front door, revealing a cluttered study filled with bottles, books and strange instruments containing coloured liquids and powders.  In the centre of the room, by a thick, blackwood desk, Garnett Shaw lay sprawled on the floor, face upwards.  His eyes were open, fixed on the ceiling in a lifeless stare. 

        Edgar knelt down by the body and grabbing the doctor by the wrist futilely fumbled around for his pulse.  Finding none, the knight tenderly placed Shaw’s arm back upon the floor and examined the room.  Amidst the broken glass and spilt liquids, Edgar’s eyes searched for some sign of the cure for his brother, but he was no scientist and did not know where to start.  He gazed once more upon the tragic figure of the doctor and noticed he held something in his hand.  It was a small parchment with thin writing scrawled across it. Some of the spilt liquids had made the ink run, but the words were still readable.  

 

Dear Edgar,

I believe I have succeeded but I feel my life fade from me as I write this.  I have placed the cure on my desk.  It is the blue liquid in the small glass phial.  It should

 

That was all he wrote.  In his dying moments, not knowing Edgar was outside his house, Shaw had hastily grabbed a quill and ink from the desk.  As death embraced him, Shaw’s only thoughts were of the knight and his brother.

        Edgar jumped up and scanned the desk.  There were papers and books upon it but no glass phial.  He swivelled around, looking over the benches that lined the walls of the room, vainly searching for anything resembling the phial Shaw had described.  A tiny crunching sound floated up from underneath his boot.  He was standing on a small piece of glass, a sliver of many such pieces at his feet.  Around the base of the desk lay the shattered remains of a number of fallen beakers and phials.  With stomach-wrenching horror, Edgar realised that the doctor must have knocked them over as he fell to the floor.  And then he noticed the blue liquid that lay in a dirty puddle that was slowly being eaten up by the grooves in the floorboards.

 

 

Edgar tightened the last saddlebag and led Juliet down the boardwalk.  Although his golden armour shone brightly in the light of the shatterbug lantern he held before him, everything about his aspect suggested defeat.  It was only as he prepared to leave the town of Marshmead that he fully comprehended the enormity of the occasion – he had failed his brother absolutely.  There would be no remedy delivered and Dominic would have no choice but to endure the illness that riddled his body and made him half the man he once was.

        ‘You are too harsh on yourself, Sir Edgar,’ Adzoba said softly, placing a huge hand on the armoured shoulder of the knight.

        ‘I return to Scoriath empty-handed,’ Edgar said blankly.

        Adzoba said nothing.  There wasn’t much he could say to ease the pain Edgar felt.  The knight had come across the sea to find a cure for his brother, journeyed into the heart of the swamp to find the means to end his sibling’s suffering and now he was returning home with little more than the crushing reality that Dominic would stay as he was until the day he died.

        They walked silently along the boardwalk.  Before long, they reached the place where they had met the day before.  Adzoba’s manner had changed considerably since that meeting.  Upon the very spot where the Mayor had thrown a phial of angelfire at Edgar, they bade each other farewell.

        ‘I would not hang my head so low if I were you, Edgar, son of Christian.  You defied fate yesterday and saved my town from ruin.  Do not dwell upon your inability to find a cure for your kinsman.  All is not lost.  My apothecaries will work towards developing the medica materia you seek, but it will take time.’

        Edgar did not lift his head and for a few long seconds Adzoba was not sure he had even heard him.  But the Mayor's assurances were heard.  An ember of hope was kindled in Edgar’s chest. ‘Thank-you,’ he said demurely.

        ‘It is I who must thank you, Sir Edgar.  Thanks to you, there are now 3,000 souls in Marshmead who tonight sleep in a bed and not in a grave.  That should be some consolation, even for you.’

        He lifted his head to face Adzoba.  There was some truth to what the tall Kheperan said.  

        ‘Here,’ Adzoba said fondly.  ‘I can’t repay you for what you’ve done.  This is just a token of my gratitude.  A reminder of our first meeting.’  Into Edgar’s hands he placed a small phial of angelfire.  ‘Let’s hope you never have to use it!’ he added with a laugh.

        Edgar smiled and bowed before the Mayor who returned the gesture.  The knight cast a last look at Marshmead.  It was cloaked in a creamy fog.  He could just make out the faint glow of the ring of angelfire that had become the town’s outer wall.  It was reassuring to see the angelfire’s nitid, red light in the mist – he was comforted by the knowledge that the people of Marshmead were safe from the strange new threat that had arisen from the swamp.

        Not long after he had departed Marshmead – and much to Juliet's consternation – Edgar stopped to enjoy a singular scent that arose from the mist.  

 

---

 

It was summer, one of those oppressively hot days when even the air seemed lethargic.  Edgar had slept in and found that no-one else was home.  He knew his father had gone to work at the barracks but was surprised not to find Dominic playing outside in the yard.  He called out for his brother, but received no answer.  After wandering around the house for a time, Edgar decided to search the neighbourhood for his sibling.  

        When he was passing Taxman Tomkins’ house, Edgar heard something for which he was totally unprepared.  It was the sound of the cantankerous, old man laughing.  It was not the cackling laugh he associated with Taxman, the kind of laugh Edgar had heard before when he tripped on a tree root outside Taxman’s house.  There was genuine happiness expressed in this laugh.  Edgar swung his head around to locate the source of the mirth and saw the last thing he expected to see – his brother sitting on the steps of Taxman’s porch, sharing a joke with the old man.  

        Later that day, when Edgar questioned his Dominic about it – ‘fraternising with the enemy’ Edgar had called it – his sibling was completely unapologetic about it.

        ‘I often chat to him,’ he responded.  ‘I figure he isn't long for this world and it doesn’t hurt me none to be nice.  I didn’t want to tell you ‘cause I knew you wouldn’t approve.’  

        Taxman Tomkins died the following day, leaving Edgar with a strange empty feeling, but a greater appreciation of the generosity of his brother’s spirit.

 

---

 

His happy recollection was interrupted by the sound of yaffle-birds.  They were louder than the last time he heard their cry and they were more persistent.  It was not a promising sign of things to come.  The heavens were about to open and Edgar would be caught out in the downpour.  He mounted Juliet and sped off down the boardwalk hoping to reach the village of Shysie before nightfall.

 

 

Edgar was not the only one to hear the yaffle’s cry.  When the rains began to fall, Drabella took shelter in the cavity of an ancient mire-tree.  On either side of the tree, hundreds of obedient Ghul soldiers stood to attention, trying to make sense of the cold water that fell from the sky.  The very concept of rain was alien to the Ghul; Drabella was beguiled by it, entranced by the way it created thousands of small explosions across the muddy surface of the swamp.

        The downpour grew in intensity, making it difficult to be aware of anything else.  It thundered in the Ghul sergeant’s ears and filled her mind.  Although the rain induced feelings akin to claustrophobia in her, Drabella felt strangely comforted by the deluge.  She could feel her heartbeat racing, matching the syncopation of the raindrops upon the moor.  So absorbed was she in her first experience of rain that it was half an hour before she noticed something so significant, she fell to her knees with cold-hearted joy.

        It was something that the people of Marshmead failed to notice as they retreated to their windowless houses on the boardwalk.  It was something that Edgar Worseley did not consider as he rode away from Marshmead, head bowed down to avoid the sheets of rain slapping against his face.  And it was something that Adzoba Aethelflaed only realised when it was too late.  

 

 

 

The Mayor jumped up from his favourite armchair, spilling the hot brew he made upon his arrival back home.  ‘The angelfire!’ he exclaimed in terror as he opened the door and peered out into the mists.  

        There was no comforting red glow to grant him solace.  The deluge had drowned the fire and razed the protective perimeter to the sodden ground.  He peered up the wide wooden avenue that ran through the centre of the town and froze – his worst fears were realised.  Through the torrent of rain he could make out innumerable grey silhouettes moving slowly towards him.  The Ghul had entered the town.