Growned

  “You will not be able to control them!” it shouted frantically. “They are driven by blood, and who is going to tell them when the carnage should end? You? Why would they listen to you?”

  And the Vapourer was seized with doubt. Doubt and fear. The genie was out of the bottle and he knew he could not put it back. Not when blood and chaos had been promised. And now he had arrived here, watching his dream unfolding before him, he wondered what he would do when he held all of Fairyland, with its population either slaves or dead, and only Bogbean and the assassins for company. How would he keep the assassins contented? For how long would he be able to keep their blood-lust under control and the prize of Fairyland worth the taking? And the voice whispered, “How long before they tire of you?”

  But it was too late to turn back. His powers were limited and his courage lacking. So he gagged that sensible voice, and clung desperately to Hope and the ego he had nurtured so carefully over these last few decades. This was, after all, his destiny. And Bogbean, give him his due, had fashioned him the most wonderful regalia of deepest purple. For what other reason could he wear it than the conquest of Fairyland? And he looked absolutely stunning in it. He imagined himself sweeping into the throne room, the magnificently long cloak billowing out behind him, the Royal Family and their entourage lying submissive at his feet. He imagined the awe and dread on their faces, and his nerves steadied.

  Of course he could do this. What, otherwise, was the point of those long days practising the Sneer, the Maniacal Laugh, the Look, if he was to remain, unnoticed, in this armpit of a hideout? It would all sort itself out, he decided. It was the only alternative. It was this or shame and obscurity. No, no. One couldn't wear purple if one was obscure. But...

  He took a deep breath and nodded to Charlock. The assassin raised an arm and his fellows fell silent.

  “To victory!” hissed Charlock and he dropped his arm. As one, the mob of screaming creatures surged forward—out of the compound, out of the Vapourer's hideout and into the woods. With Charlock at their head, the rush of bodies pressed forward, heading, unstoppable, to Fairyland.

  The Vapourer stood watching, transfixed. He wouldn't be able to keep up with them, and it wouldn't impress them, he knew, to have their master turn up hot and sweaty, out of breath, and most importantly, late.

  “I think, Bogbean,” he said to his minion, “we shall take a dragonfly.”

  Ahead of him ran Charlock, his army close behind. At last their time had come. At last they would be able to put those feeble, winged creatures in their place. Master had told him not to kill everyone. But that still left a lot of anyone to slaughter before they were anywhere near killing everyone. And his master hadn't been specific, he hadn't told them who they couldn't kill—just not everyone. That meant the human child was fair game, and Charlock would make a game of him. That child would suffer and be seen to suffer, and everyone would know the penalty for messing with Charlock. Tongues would be silenced. Already Charlock had heard mutterings amongst his fellows, whispers and sniggers. They knew of his failure to kill the human child. If matters weren't rectified, he would lose control of the army. The child must be his focus and the child must die.

  As they burst out of the wall of nettles and brambles and into the wooded area that skirted the lake, a new impetus seized Charlock and even his army struggled to keep up with him.

  Master had said the attack must take place in darkness, though. Charlock slowed down a little. But what need had they of darkness, he wondered. Hadn't Master said they were invincible? So what need had they of darkness? What need had they of Master?

  The thought reared up before he could stop it. Charlock was so horrified he had thought it, he stopped abruptly.

  What need, indeed?

  Charlock shook his head slowly, as if trying to dislodge the thought from his brain. How could he think such a thing? Master was master. Master had created him. Charlock's thoughts were bad, wrong!

  Weren't they?

  At this point, the rest of the army caught up with him, and Charlock, aware of the need to keep up appearances, dismissed the confused and perplexed look from his face and adopted one of impatience, so his fellows would think he had stopped to wait for them.

  Once more at the head of the army, he ran on, thinking this time, in an effort to distract himself from the wicked thoughts he had just had, of the many and varied ways he could kill Liam.

  On the other side of the lake, Cinnabar was giving orders to the volunteers who had stayed behind to defend the palace. Cinnabar was relieved and grateful so many had remained. They stood gathered in the courtyard, pale and scared, but, he hoped, resolute.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said to them, “you have your orders. You are aware of what we're up against and I'm sure you know what's at stake. We can do nothing now but wait, and I can ask nothing more of you than that you give your all. Not for me or the Queen, but for your homes and families.

  “The Vapourer and his creatures want nothing less than the destruction of Fairyland and everything we hold dear. If you do not stand firm, if we do not prevail, there will be no dawn, no tomorrow.

  “It is a great thing to ask of you and I pray none of us is found wanting.” He paused. “The assassins have no principles and they will show you no mercy. So you, in turn, must show them none. Do not hesitate. If you get the chance, take it. It'll be the only one you'll get.

  “Fortunately, they cannot fly, so you do have that advantage. Protect your wings and use your ability to fly to harry and destroy the enemy.

  “Remember, you cannot reason with these creatures and you have only one option. If we fail, those of you who do not die this day will wish you had. Remember your families, remember your homes. Decide your future. And fight for it.”

  There was silence.

  And then, starting quietly, clapping, which grew louder and louder, until it filled the courtyard like white water falling on rocks.

  “Good speech,” said a voice in Cinnabar's ear. He turned round to face Liam.

  “Ah!” he said to the boy. “I've been looking for you. I have some good news and some... not so good news.”

  *

  MYRTLE stood with her brother, high in an old oak. They had been joined by Hornbeam, who was now at a loss as to what to do with himself since the death of his master. The conversation up among the gnarled branches was somewhat stilted as Myrtle sought the right words to lift the atmosphere.

  “Have you thought over what you might do now?” she asked Hornbeam. “Are you going to carry on with your apprenticeship or maybe try your hand at something new?”

  Hornbeam looked at her in surprise. “New?” he repeated curtly. “New? Now we're waiting for the doom of Fairyland? Don't you think we might get that settled before considering our career options?”

  Myrtle blushed. “Just trying to make conversation,” she muttered.

  Hornbeam sighed. "I know," he said. "Sorry. If you must know, I have absolutely no idea what I'll be doing if we get through this. Truth be told, Mezereon wasn't much of a magician. As far as I could tell, he only really knew three spells, and I've only known him succeed in doing one—that was the growing spell when we fetched Liam—so I haven't much to build a career on.” He looked studiously down between his feet, into the green leaves below.

  “What about the books? Could you teach yourself?” asked Myrtle.

  Hornbeam shrugged. “Oh, there are books and scrolls and parchments. Master did read some of them when he was researching the succession. But is there a Beginners Guide to Wizarding among them?” He shrugged again. “Besides,” he continued, “I suspect the King, or whoever ends up in charge, will appoint someone with a lot more years and wisdom than me.”

  Hornbeam fell silent. His conversation with Myrtle had reminded him of Mezereon's last words—Hornbeam knows. He had thought and thought about those words. Yes, he had heard the old man muttering something, but he had no idea what. Perhaps there was something in Mezereon's books that woul
d help. And now he thought about it, wasn't there still a specific set of scrolls Mezereon had been looking at in his rooms?

  “What's that?” hissed Hooktip, startling Hornbeam out of his thoughts. Myrtle fluttered up to join her brother. Hornbeam stood up and looked in the direction Hooktip was pointing.

  In the not too far distance, he could see the ground cover shaking violently. As he stood staring, he became aware of a noise, an unearthly screaming. Myrtle and Hooktip had heard it too.

  “It's them,” said Hooktip flatly. Hornbeam glanced at his companions. They both looked pale and tense.

  “We'll wait for them to pass and then we'll take the news back to the palace,” said Hooktip.

  They stood in silence and watched the evil horde pass below.

  “How many, do you think?” asked Hooktip as the cacophony of noise faded into the trees.

  Myrtle bit her lip. “At least a hundred,” she suggested.

  “But less than two hundred,” said Hornbeam confidently. “It doesn't sound much, but I'm afraid it will be quite enough if our courage fails us. I've met Charlock,” he added, rubbing his throat. “I don't much fancy meeting his friends.”

  “So, back then!” said Myrtle. Suddenly, her arm shot out, stopping her companions. “Don't you think,” she said staring upwards, “that dragonfly is unusually high? For a dragonfly?”

  Hornbeam and Hooktip followed her stare.

  “Well, I'll be...” said Hooktip slowly. “It's the Vapourer, surely? We could—”

  “No we couldn't!” said Myrtle sharply. “He's on a dragonfly, for goodness sake! Our job is to take our news back and prepare for the battle.”

  “But—”

  “No, she's right,” said Hornbeam. “And really, taking the Vapourer out of the equation isn't going to make any difference. You saw them. Not even he could stop them now.” He paused. “I wonder if he realises that yet?”

  They flew cautiously, keeping to the trees. They flew over the Vapourer's army, and so were fairly confident of the intended point of attack. When they reached the palace, they found Cinnabar with Liam at the top of a tower.

  “So, we have—how long?”

  “Well, Charlock told them they were attacking tonight,” said Hornbeam. “But—” He glanced at Hooktip and Myrtle. “Do you think he's going to be able to hold them that long?”

  “No way,” said Myrtle firmly. “That's hours away. How is he going to calm them at all, let alone for that length of time?”

  “So we'll assume they'll come straight here then,” said Cinnabar. “How long?”

  “An hour, I should think,” said Hooktip confidently. “Maybe a little bit longer if they meet anything unexpected on the way.”

  “Unexpected?” mused Cinnabar. He gazed out over the assassins' likely approach. “Is there anything unexpected we could help them meet?”

  Hooktip joined Cinnabar in looking out over the woods. “Well,” he said pointing to a stricken beech, “there are—”

  “The ants!” exclaimed Cinnabar.

  “Ants?” echoed Liam.

  “One of the biggest nests you've ever seen. Or not seen, as it's mostly underground,” said Cinnabar. “How far are they from the main burrows?”

  “About half an hour, I'd say,” said Myrtle. Hooktip nodded in agreement.

  “Right,” said Cinnabar, rubbing his hands together. “Myrtle—you and Hornbeam, take a couple of volunteers and some long poles or something, and get out there and annoy the ants. Timing, of course, will be essential. And make sure you're not seen. I don't want Charlock thinking we're waiting for him.”

  With a nod and a grin, Hornbeam and Myrtle launched themselves from the tower walls.

  “If it all goes well, that might delay them for a bit,” said Cinnabar, turning to Hooktip. “If it goes really well, Charlock might even lose a few. If it goes really, really well, Charlock isn't going to be happy.” He gave a wry smile. “Maybe, if we can get Charlock to lose it, we might be in with a chance. I wonder what other little surprises we can leave for them? Hooktip, my friend, can you start organising our volunteers? Some of them, I hope, are competent soldiers. Can you find out who they are?” Hooktip nodded and bowed, and then flew off.

  Cinnabar clapped a worried looking Liam on the shoulder. “Come on, Nephew,” he said to the boy, “let's see if we can persuade the populace they're in safe hands.”

  Liam followed him down the steep spiral staircase, his brain beginning to fizz and his stomach sporadically lurching. Of all the occupants of the palace, he probably had the best idea of what they were up against—the unstoppable, unyielding, supremely focussed will of the assassins.

  Unstoppable.

  Well, not entirely. He had stopped Charlock, hadn't he? Albeit temporarily, but he had stopped him. And the fairies had weapons, and some of them knew how to use them. So, maybe they did have a chance. Together. Collectively.

  But what about himself, Liam wondered. He'd been lucky up to now. Would his luck finally run out?

  His stomach lurched again and tears welled in his eyes. He remembered that deathly white face and those terrible eyes, the yellow, serrated teeth, and he shuddered.

  He didn't want to be here. He wanted to be home and safe, with all those strange noises in the shambles that was his new home. He wanted to be with his mum and dad, not here with these weird strangers and Death waving at him from an uncertain future. He was scared and, despite the company, very alone. And now he had just realised the one person who might be able to help him get home—Hornbeam—had been sent off to stir up a colony of ants, in front of a mob of designer killers.

  “Are you all right?” came a voice. Cinnabar was looking at him. “You look as though you're about to be sick.”

  “Quite possibly.”

  Cinnabar looked at him sympathetically. “I wish I could send you home,” he said. “I wish Hornbeam knew what Mezereon meant, or we had time to find out—”

  “Or you hadn't sent him on a dangerous mission before he could find out!” interrupted Liam.

  Cinnabar clapped his hand to his forehead. “Oh, no!” he exclaimed. “Liam! I'm so sorry! It didn't occur―”

  “I know. You've got other things to worry about at the moment.”

  “But—”

  Liam shook his head. “It's responsibility,” he said. “It does that to a guy.” He pushed his way past his uncle. “Actually, it's given me an idea and it might take my mind off my impending death. If it's okay with you, I'll have a look through Mezereon's stuff and see if I can find anything useful. It'll be better than just waiting around.”

  Cinnabar nodded and let the boy go.

  *

  “SO, just how deep do you think these ants are?” asked Hornbeam as he looked in the twiggy bracken for some suitable sticks.

  “Well, that's the question, isn't it?” answered Myrtle unhelpfully. “The trouble is, it's such a large and ancient ant community, it's going to take some time and quite a bit of luck to find an active burrow. How long do you think we've got, Argus?”

  Argus was high above them in a tree. “I reckon,” he said, peering into the dropping sun and shading his eyes as he did so, “about twenty minutes at the most. More likely quarter of an hour.”

  Hornbeam pulled a face. “We'd better go to it then. See you back at the palace if we get separated?”

  Myrtle nodded and flew off, keeping low over the ground as she looked for signs of current occupation. Hornbeam set off in the opposite direction, his sharp eyes scouring the terrain in front of him.

  He got lucky almost immediately. A dark wood ant was scurrying back to its hill, carrying a large section of leaf. Hornbeam followed it at a distance, taking careful note of his surroundings so he could find his way back to Myrtle and Argus if he had to.

  The ant stopped suddenly and, manoeuvring itself round, dropped into the burrow, dragging the leaf after it.

  Hornbeam waited a short while before alighting at the hole. It looked big enough for him to sque
eze his head and shoulders through, though he wasn't sure if it would take his wings. He pushed his head in and was surprised and relieved not to meet anything at the entrance. The hole widened almost immediately and looked like it should accommodate him comfortably.

  He crouched down on all fours and began crawling into the hole. Once inside, he found it was even bigger than he'd thought—he should be able to turn around easily and without damaging anything.

  It was very dark and there was a distinctive smell, along with a gentle hum—the sound of ants living out their lives. He had an idea forming in his head and it all depended on...

  He saw the white of the ant eggs unexpectedly, to his left. He thought they would be much further into the burrow. Then he felt the heat from the nursery. It was nearer the sun here, he guessed, to hatch them more efficiently.

  He listened hard, but heard nothing to suggest the eggs were being watched. He carefully manoeuvred himself around so he was facing the exit and, stretching to reach, pulled one of the eggs towards him. As cautiously and quietly as he could, he pushed the egg ahead of him and out of the tunnel. He leapt up quickly and flew back to their lookout with the cumbersome object.

  “Hi! Argus!” he called. “Take this! Put it somewhere safe,” he said handing the egg to their volunteer. “I've got an idea.”

  They were joined by Myrtle. “Any luck?” she asked. Hornbeam nodded. “And I have an idea,” he said excitedly. “If Argus takes that up the tree for a minute, you can come and help me. I'll explain on the way!”

  Between them, they managed to extract a dozen eggs from the nest without being discovered. Argus took six of them into the tree and stayed up there with them. Then Hornbeam laid the remainder in a long line that extended across the assassins' path. Working backwards, he cut the eggs open and spilled their contents onto the ground. As he reached the one he'd put at the mouth of the burrow, he could hear the screams and yelps of the approaching assassins. Argus signalled to him and Hornbeam cut the last egg open. It had a potent smell and should attract the ants in force. His work done, Hornbeam joined Myrtle and Argus in the tree.