CHAPTER ONE.
THE WARLOCKS.

Click here for Chapters TWO, THREE, FOUR, FIVE, SIX, SEVEN. or SYNOPSIS.

The Baxters, lived in a small town not far North of London. Mr. Baxter worked in the city, though none of his children, not Tom Baxter, nor his younger sister Judy, and not even their elder brother Edward, who was just beginning a course at university, really knew what he did there. If their mother, Mrs. Muriel Baxter, knew the answer, and Tom was sure that she must do, she was not prepared to tell them.

When Tom brought up the matter she would simply say, “You must ask your father Tom, and he’ll give you the answers when he thinks you’re ready to hear them.”

On one occasion she added, “and able to understand them.”

Mr. Baxter himself would only say, “I’m a visualiser, and a visualiser is concerned with pictures, finding pictures and showing them to other people.”

However, there was one area where Mr. Baxter was not in the least reluctant to talk, and that was when it came to telling stories. He was a marvellous story-teller, because when he told a story he did not just provide a flow of words. He could also conjure up pictures whenever he was asked for them. He simply waved his hand, sparks flew between his fingers – he needed no wand for this – and the picture would appear in the air above his head.

Tom, who was eleven, and his sister Judy, who was not quite ten, had been amused, excited and sometimes even a bit scared by their father’s stories ever since they could remember.

Their brother Edward, who was eighteen, had been as intrigued as they were, though for the last year or so he had taken to standing behind them and listening with a slight smile on his face, as if to suggest that he had nothing more important to do. From time to time he would wander off, but he usually came back. Sometimes he would make comments on the stories, very deep, intelligent comments on what he said was their symbolism or their inner meaning.

Their father never responded to this. “You must take the story as you find it,” he
said, “and different people find different things.

One evening at the start of their school holidays Tom and Judy were sitting at home during a spell of rather dull, rainy weather, wondering what to do.

“I know.” said Tom, “Let’s ask Dad if he’ll give us another story.

So later that evening, after their father had got home, had time to relax, and they had all had supper, Tom said, “Dad, what about an illustrated yarn.”

‘Illustrated’, of course, did not mean pictures on paper or in a book. It meant pictures in the air whenever they wanted them, conjured from their father’s mind. He seemed rather tired that evening, but after a slight pause he said, “Well, yes, I think perhaps I could do that. What would you like it to be about?”

In the past they had had stories on all kinds of subjects, bears and Bigfoot in America,
Neanderthal men in the distant past, rockets and flying saucers and beings from them who had built a sort of temple that they called Plastic Henge, and many other things. Mr. Baxter’s imagination was full of fascinating thoughts and ideas.

“What kind of story would you like?” he asked again.

“Well,” said Tom, “the last one was all about the moon, wasn’t it? So how about something that happens here, on Earth?”

“Alright,” said their father. He thought for a moment, as if he was looking around in his imagination. “I’ll give you two choices. One is about unicorns and the Warlocks, and the other is about the Broguers and the Warlocks.”

“So they both have Warlocks in them,” said Tom. “Do they happen in the same world?”

“Yes,” said his father, “they do.”

“Then let’s have the one that comes first.”

“That would be the unicorn story. It’s called ‘Silverhorn, and it all began when Knobby had a strange dream.”

“Pictures,” said Judy. “Dad, show us some pictures first.”

“Alright,” said Mr. Baxter, waving one hand with his fingers stretched wide apart. “This is a Cantibri unicorn.”

Sparks flew from his hand, the air above his head went white, and on this background they saw a picture of a light-brown, rather elderly looking unicorn. He was not slim or graceful, more like a pony with a horn, except that he did not have a proper horn, but just a stump about six inches long, as if his horn had been cut off short. Attached to this stump was a broad garden fork of the kind that is used for digging potatoes Tom and Judy were slightly taken aback. They had expected something more impressive, something elegant and graceful and rather special.

“I thought unicorns were magic,” said Judy.

“So they are,” said Mr. Baxter, “but that’s a Cantibri unicorn, and the Cantibri unicorns had become the slaves of the Warlocks, who cut their horns off short so that they could attach useful implements like forks or spades or hammers to the stumps. The unicorns lost their magic when their horns were cut off, and they had to spend their time doing work for the Warlocks.”

The picture began to fade. Keeping it there for more than a few moments needed concentration, and Mr. Baxter let it go.

“Show us a Warlock,” said Judy.

Once again Mr. Baxter spread his fingers wide and waved his hand. A different picture appeared. It showed a hideous-looking creature something like a man, but shorter and broader, with a dark-blue face, a flat, shapeless nose and spiky black hair. He had a wide mouth, which was open, showing sharp, jagged teeth and a long, thin bright-red tongue, which was hanging out. He seemed to be licking his lips. He was wearing what looked like a rough, grey boiler suit, and heavy black boots. In one of his hands, which were the same dark-blue as his face, with long, knobbly fingers and nails that were more like claws, he was holding a short whip.

“Here’s another one,” said Mr. Baxter, changing the picture.

The second Warlock looked much the same except that his hands and face and hair were all dark-red, and he was holding a heavy club.

“And this,” said Mr. Baxter, “is the Grand Warlock.”

The picture that appeared next made both the children shrink back in alarm, and Judy even gave a slight cry and grabbed hold of Tom, who shook her off rather roughly. “It’s only a picture, you fool.”

But what a picture! The Grand Warlock was immensely tall, even for a man, and so much taller than the other Warlocks they had seen that he was almost a giant bycomparison. He had a dark-green face, thin lips, a cruel, hooked nose, a thatch of unruly black hair and slightly pointed ears. There was a gold chain round his neck, and he was wearing a red and white tunic that reached to his knees. Below that he had on blue trousers and glittering golden shoes. He looked as if he was dressed for some kind of feast or special occasion. On his right shoulder was a thick, blue cloth, which clearly served as padding, for perched on this shoulder was an enormous, bald-headed
vulture. All this was unpleasant enough, but the most horrible part of the picture was his face. The wide, thin-lipped mouth looked mean and calculating. He had small, black, piercing eyes, and his expression was vicious and cruel.

It was only a picture, and not even a permanent one, but after it had faded away no one spoke for several moments.

Finally Tom said, “I pity anyone who was ruled by a creature like that.”

“You’re right,” said his father. “The Cantibri unicorns didn’t like it either.”

After a pause he asked, “Would you like to hear the story?”

“Yes, please,” said Tom and Judy together.

“Well,” said their father. “Nowadays a warlock, as you know, is simply a wizard or sorcerer, usually a bad one, but at the time of this story the word Warlock, spelt with a capital W, was the name given to a race of people, or rather a race of creatures. As you saw in the pictures, they were something like human beings, but about 20 times nastier, and the Grand Warlock was about 20 times more horrible than any of the others. He wanted power. He wasn’t content just to be the ruler of the Warlocks. He wanted to conquer and subdue and rule in every way that he could. He already had the unicorns working for him – they had been the slaves of the Warlocks for many years – but he wanted to extend his power over as many creatures as possible, including human beings.”

Mr. Baxter paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts.

“Unlike the forest unicorns,” he continued, “which were small, shy graceful creatures that were seldom seen, the Cantibri unicorns, before becoming the slaves of the Warlocks, had lived on the open plains, and were more like horses, racehorses, splendid, spirited creatures that were not at all hard to see. They galloped over the plains in a cloud of dust, with a noise like living thunder.”

“Dad,” said Judy impatiently, “get on with the story.”

“Yes, I will,” said her father, “in just a moment. But I need to tell you about Silverhorn. After all, that’s the title of the story, Silverhorn. He was the leader of the unicorns, and while he was alive the Warlocks’ attempts to conquer them got nowhere. But then, when Silverhorn died and the unicorns had no leader,they were rounded up and captured by the Warlocks. Instead of galloping freely over the plains, they were confined in a sort of labour camp. Their horns were cut off short, so that tools could be attached to them, and they spent their lives sawing, chopping, shovelling, raking and so on, working for the Warlocks.

Not only were they enslaved, but they also lost their memory of what their lives had been. They still told stories from time to time about Silverhorn, the great leader, but they no longer believed them to be true. They were just legends, they thought, and young unicorns were not encouraged to waste their time on such unimportant matters. And so,” said their father, “ that was how things were when a young unicorn called Knobby had a remarkable dream.”

At this point the words of a poem appeared in the air above Mr. Baxter’s head.

Clatter of hooves on a mountain path,
Proud heads and tossing manes,
Leaving behind the chilly peaks
For the rolling, grassy plains,

And now the herd has opened out
In thunder spreading wide,
To fill the caverns of the Earth
With echoes of their pride.

This quite often happened when their father was telling stories. Tom had asked him about it once, and he had simply said, “Well, that’s the way it is with poems. They just come.”

He gave them some time to read the poem, and then continued.

“In the dream,” he said, “Knobby found himself on a vast, rolling plain, a great expanse of waving, whispering grassland, with occasional clumps of trees. On the right there was a jagged line of mountains. It was the moment just before dawn, a kind of glimmering half-light. Two giant eagles were soaring overhead, and as they circled they caught the first rays of the sun on their enormous, gold-brown wings.

The silence was broken by a clattering noise, the sound of hooves. He realised that a herd of some kind was descending on to the plain. As they came nearer he saw that they were unicorns. There were two or three hundred, it seemed, of all ages, sizes and colours, strong young males, older ones, stately and proud, and a number of tired-
looking, gangly-legged youngsters. Their colours, so far as he could see them, ranged from black through various shades of brown to a creamy white. They were much like the Cantibri unicorns that he knew, and yet there seemed to be some difference. Suddenly Knobby realised what it was. They all had full-length horns. Not one of them was docked, and not one had anything attached.

The herd came closer and assembled round a grassy knoll or rise in the plain. They were looking back towards the mountains, and seemed to be waiting for something. Then a pure-white unicorn cantered slowly up to the herd. They moved aside for him as he arrived, and he made his way straight to the top of the rise. There he looked carefully round at the assembled group, and Knobby heard or felt him say, “Yes, all are here. No one is left behind.” Then, all of a sudden, as though having reached a decision, he raised his horn to the sky. As he did so, a ray from the rising sun broke through the jagged mountain peaks and caught him in its glow. Knobby saw that his magnificent, perfect horn was not white or ivory –coloured. It was a gleaming, shining silver. As Knobby watched, the great, white unicorn lowered his head and moved forward. The others made way for him and then followed, and a moment later the herd was galloping over the plain.

Knobby was roused from the dream when his father Garromant rapped him smartly on the side with the wooden hammer that was attached to his horn-stump, and told him to hurry up and join the others outside, or he would be late for the docking.

“What’s docking?” asked Judy.

“It was cutting young unicorns’ horns off short, when they had grown strong enough to have tools attached,” said her father.

“So, together with a number of other young unicorns from his compound and their parents, Knobby set off along the road that led to the docking field at the other side of the Cantibri camp, where their horns would be cut off short – docked.”

“What was a compound?” asked Tom.

“The compounds,” said Mr. Baxter, “were the houses or buildings where the unicorns lived. There were eight of them in the Cantibri camp, each containing about eight or nine unicorns. The one where Knobby lived was called the Treeband compound.

Well, as I was saying, they made their way along the road that led to the docking field, and as they went they were joined by young unicorns from the other compounds that they passed. But when they came to the Surrabend compound, where Knobby’s friend Gracinda lived, neither Gracinda nor her parents Dennister and Pelisse were there. Knobby asked some of the other young unicorns if they knew where Gracinda was,but they had no idea. They thought that she must have gone on ahead, or else that she had been delayed for some reason and would be coming later. But when Knobby asked his mother Mellinore, she gave quite a different answer.

“You know, Knobby,” she said, “I was a palace filly once.”

Palace fillies were young female unicorns who had to spend a year, or sometimes more, in the Grand Warlock’s palace. The Grand Warlock had many palaces, and one of them overlooked the Cantibri camp. It was built on the top of a steep hill that stood on one side of the docking field. When the Grand Warlock was in the palace he liked it to contain a number of palace fillies. Their duties were simply to stand around looking attractive, living decorations, so to speak, and sometimes they had to perform simple tasks like carrying lanterns or working a fan on hot days.

Knobby said nothing, and after a moment his mother went on.

“The first time I knew I’d been picked as a palace filly was when two guardians came very early in the morning and took me away.”

Knobby still said nothing.

Then Mellinore said, “You know, Knobby, it was docking day when that happened. It was a day like today.”

Knobby realised that his mother was saying that Gracinda might have been chosen as a palace filly. This meant that for the next year she would be living in the Grand Warlock’s palace, which he could see in the distance on the flat top of the hill that towered over the docking field. Looking up at it now, he was glad to see that there was no banner flying on the mast at one end of the building, which meant that the Grand Warlock was not in residence. Still, that was not much comfort.

“Cheer up, Knobby,” said his mother. “Even if Gracinda has become a palace filly, it’s only for a year.”

However, Knobby knew that the palace fillies sometimes stayed in the palace a great deal longer than that. In any case, it was a banishment. He would not see Gracinda today, nor for many days in the future. There was no way of knowing when they would meet again.

Then, as he walked gloomily along the road, a happier thought occurred to him. At least Gracinda would not be picked by Banseth. Picked by Banseth, it was a horrible expression. Banseth was head of the guardians. The guardians were unicorns who had authority over the others, like warders in a prison. They led completely separate lives, living in their own compounds, and wearing hoods over their heads, with holes for the eyes and ears, and capes over their bodies, so that, while it could instantly be seen that they were guardians, they could not be recognised by name. Their only contact with the other unicorns was to give them orders, and if these were not obeyed, to lash them with the heavy black whips that were attached to their horn-stumps.

The Grand Warlock visited the palace about every two or three years, and if he was pleased by what he found, he would sometimes reward Banseth by inviting him to choose one of the fillies who were leaving the palace that year. When a filly was chosen in this way, instead of going home she went to live with Banseth in his private compound in a far corner of the Cantibri camp. This had happened three or four times since Banseth had become Head Guardian. The fillies had a good time at first, being offered the best of everything. But when Banseth got bored with them he had them docked. After that they spent their lives doing hard, boring work, shovelling, scraping, cleaning and so on, and led a miserable existence. Banseth was fond of using his whip.

Well, at least, thought Knobby, this would not happen to Gracinda, because the Grand Warlock had visited the palace the year before, and he practically never came there two years running.

They had now crossed the river Tan, a small river which ran through the middle of the camp, and were getting close to the docking field. The chattering of the other young unicorns grew louder. Unlike Knobby, who hated the idea of being docked, they were looking forward to it. It was their entry to the adult world, and an end to the daily lessons on the docking field, standing with weights attached to their horns, walking on treadmills, and doing endless exercises designed to prepare them for adult life. At last, after one final visit to the docking field, they could have proper tools attached to their horn-stumps and do some real work.

The unicorns’ work was slavery, done purely for the Warlocks, but the young Cantibri did not see it like that. For them it was a chance to make progress, become responsibles – leaders in charge of a working group – and gain some status and respect.

Knobby heard remarks like, “There it is. I can see the flags.”

“We stand on the right, don’t we?

And, in a tone of some awe, ‘Look, it’s Banseth himself. However, as they came to the entrance, and turned off the road into the docking field, the chattering died down. It was a solemn occasion, and the young unicorns felt a little overawed.

Apart from routine training, the docking field was used for three things. Every month the unicorns whose spell of duty with a particular tool was finished, came there to have these tools removed from their horns and others fitted. It was also sometimes used as a kind of court or judgement area, when unicorns who had broken the rules of
the camp were brought to receive their punishment. Finally, as its name suggested, it was used once a year for the docking ceremony.

It was a fairly large, square field, that sloped down slightly to the road. There was a line of trees along the far end, and also along one side. The other side was bordered by the steep slope of the hill. The grand Warlock’s palace, which they had seen from the road, was no longer visible now that they were standing directly below it. The only thing to be seen at the top of the hill was a high brick wall.

The field was already crowded with Cantibri, who were there for different reasons. About half of them were young unicorns about to be docked, together with their parents or relatives. Most of the others were there to have the tools or implements on their horn-stumps changed. For them it was more of a routine affair. They waited patiently, talking to friends, or looked about them with interest, comparing the dockees with those of previous years. Unlike the dockees, whose horns were still long and had nothing attached, they all carried the tools they had been using that month. Those with wide garden rakes had to move through the crowd with some care. Finally, standing silent and watchful in various parts of the field, there were the guardians. In their dark-grey capes and hoods, they were grim and menacing. From time to time one of them would arch his neck and send his long black whip snaking and cracking over the heads of the Cantibri, who mainly paid little attention. The guardians with their whips had always been part of their lives.

Besides being policed by guardians, the gathering was surveyed by four Warlocks, who were perched in high wooden towers at each corner of the field. These Warlocks were seldom seen. They used flags to communicate with each other, and sometimes to signal to the guardian in charge.

The training equipment that normally covered the field, ramps, pulleys, treadmills and other devices, had all been cleared away. In their place, fairly close to the entrance, was a single, large wooden platform, which was known as the docking frame. It was fairly high, and was reached by two broad sets of steps that were placed at each end. On this platform was a kind of wooden trough like a sawhorse. Two unicorns stood on either side of this trough, holding between them, attached to their stumps, a long, thin, fine-toothed saw. There were two other unicorns on the platform. One of them, pacing slowly up and down, was Banseth.

“Oh, Dad,” said Judy, “give us a picture please.”“Yes, alright,” said Mr. Baxter. He thought for a moment, and then raised his right hand. The usual sparks flew between his fingers and then up into the air above. As Tom and Judy watched, a most impressive picture formed. It was a gigantic unicorn with a rough, slightly curly, dark-grey coat, that was speckled with little flecks and patches of white. The stump of his horn, enormously thick and strong, was also dark-grey. On his forehead, just below the stump, he wore a small medallion in the shape of a dark-red star. Though clearly a guardian, he was different from the other guardians. He wore no cape, and his head was not covered. Like the others he had a whip, but it was distinctly longer, thicker and heavier than theirs, and instead of being black, it was the same dark-red as the medallion. He looked enormously strong, and for any unicorn who got on the wrong side of him, very dangerous.

“Well,” said Mr. Baxter, as the picture faded, “that was Banseth.”

The other unicorn with him by the docking frame was a great deal smaller. Like all the guardians apart from Banseth himself, he was hooded, but Knobby knew his name. No one could fail to recognize Skimmeril. He was the smallest of the guardians and also one of the nastiest. In spite of his skinny body, he was skilled with his whip and used it at every opportunity. Whenever possible, the unicorns kept well clear of Skimmeril.

A sudden silence fell over the gathering, and Knobby realised that Banseth was coming down the steps from the platform. He walked some way into the field and stood, looking slowly around him at the assembled unicorns, with his huge red whip swinging slowly from side to side. Suddenly he jerked his head, and the whip shot out with a crack that sang in the ears.

“Time for the docking,” he said.

The other guardians, standing around the field, repeated the words. “Time for the docking. Dockees come forward. Others stand back.” Some of them flexed their whips and snapped them lightly in the air, though this was hardly necessary. The Cantibri knew what they had to do, and they knew what would happen if they didn’t do it, or even did it slowly.

The dockees began to move down towards the docking frame, while the older unicorns moved up the slope to the side of the field that was next to the hill.

“Well, Knobby,” said Garromant as they separated, “tomorrow you’ll be using your first real tools, and using them well, I hope.”

Mellinore looked at Knobby, “Bear up, Knobby,” she said. “I know you hate the thought of docking, but the work isn’t all that bad if you stick to the rules.”
Then as they moved off she added, “Don’t forget to speak up if Banseth asks you a question.”

As his parents moved away, Knobby, without thinking, started to follow them. A moment later he heard the crack of a whip and felt a sharp pain on his back, as the cold, officious voice of a guardian said, “Dockees down to the frame.”

Confused and wretched, he went rapidly down the slope to join the other dockees.

Knobby, you ass,” said Bumpus, a cheerful young unicorn from the Treeband compound. “When are you going to learn not to tangle with guardians?”

Knobby, burning with a mixture of pain and shame, said nothing.

Docking was quite a formal process. One of the guardians, in this case Banseth himself, stood by the docking frame and spoke to the dockees one by one as they came before him. He would normally ask the dockee his name and what kind of work he wanted to do, and a few more questions of that sort. He always finished with the words, ‘Welcome to the Cantibri work-force.’ The dockee then went and placed his horn in the trough, where it was docked by the two unicorns with the saw. The sawn-off piece fell into a box below. The dockee then showed his new-cut stump to the assembled unicorns, who applauded by stamping the ground with their hooves. The dockee then left the platform, another stepped up, and the process was repeated. They did not come in any particular order. As each one was leaving, the guardian in charge simply called out ‘Next’.

Knobby kept well at the back. He was dreading the moment when he had to face Banseth. Most of the other dockees, though nervous, were looking forward to it. Bumpus, who was one of the first, announced cheerfully that he wanted to do construction work, and was rewarded by a nod of approval from Banseth. Others chose gardening or wood-cutting or leatherwork. Finally Knobby was the only one left.

He had been thinking about Gracinda, beautiful, ivory-coloured Gracinda, with her gentle brown eyes and her delicate, slender horn. He wondered where she was now. What would happen to her in the Grand Warlock’s palace? She would be away for at least a year, but it could be a great deal longer than that. As long as she stayed in the palace she would not be docked, and he hated to think of her horn cut short and fitted with brushes, pans and other devices, but that was small comfort. Over and over again his mind came back to that single horrible thought. Gracinda a palace filly. It filled him with utter despair. Apart from Bumpus, who was cheerful and friendly to all the world, she was the only one of his year who had not made fun of his undersized horn. At an age when the horns of the other young unicorns had been two or three inches long, his had been just a little knob. This had given rise to the nickname of Knobby, which had become his accepted name to all in the camp, including his parents. Only Gracinda sometimes called him by his real name, which was Argent.

Realising that he could not put it off any longer, he slowly mounted the steps and stood on the platform in a sort of daze. He was aware of the red whip slowly swinging as Banseth looked him over.

“Well, well,” said Banseth, “The very last dockee. And what is your name?”

“Oh, er, Knobby,” said Knobby. “Well, no, no, I mean Argent.”

“I see,” said Banseth. “Well, you’ve had a few years to learn your name.” Then he added in a menacing voice, “I hope you can learn your work a little faster.

And now, Master Argent,” he said after a pause. “What kind of work were you thinking of doing?”

“Er, wood-shaping,” said Knobby, and when Banseth said nothing, Knobby said again, “Wood-shaping, with a small blade.”

Banseth listened, looked at Knobby’s horn and thought for a while.

“Very well,” he said at length. “Wood-shaping it is, and I hope you’ll learn your work more quickly than you did your name.”

He was about to mark Knobby’s acceptance in the usual formal style, ‘Welcome to the Cantibri work-force’, but at that moment Skimmeril sidled across and said something quietly in his ear.

“Aha!” said Banseth. “My assistant tells me that we already have plenty of wood-shapers, and in any case precision wood-shapers are very seldom needed. On the other hand,” he paused to emphasise the point, “we could always do with more leatherworkers.”

He paused again, and looked thoughtfully at Knobby.

“So,” he said finally. “Welcome to the Cantibri work-force – and I hope you won’t find the leatherwork too exhausting.”

These words were like a thunderclap. Leatherwork, piercing holes in leather and cutting it in various ways, was the type of work that demanded least strength in the horn. It was usually done by young female unicorns, and Knobby hated the idea of being given work of this kind. He stood silent and unmoving, while a torrent of thoughts raced through his mind. He already had to put up with some ridicule from the other unicorns, and if he had to become a leatherworker it would get worse, and all thanks to Skimmeril. He remembered the stories he had heard about Skimmeril, how vicious and nasty he was, how he used his whip for sheer pleasure, how he lied and broke promises, and enjoyed getting workers punished. Knobby had been assured he would have no problems in getting accepted for wood-shaping. It was not true that this work was seldom needed. Skimmeril was lying.

It was unheard of for a dockee to question the decision of a guardian, especially when it was Banseth, but Knobby was on the point of arguing the matter, of asking for wood-shaping rather than leatherwork. Then he found himself thinking about his dream. He remembered the soaring birds, the sun behind the mountains, the herd of undocked unicorns and the splendid silver horn of their leader. Above all he remembered the feel of it, the joyfulness, the unlimited space, the marvelous sense of being alive and free, and suddenly he felt revolted at the very thought of being docked. It seemed a horrible thing, the opposite of everything that was right and true.

“Come on,” said Banseth in a patient tone, as if speaking to an idiot. “The docking frame is over there.”

There was a pause until Banseth, more sharply this time, said, “Come on, Master Argent. You are not the only unicorn here today.”

As if it was someone else speaking, Knobby heard himself saying, “I do not want to be docked.”

Banseth seemed more amused than anything. “Unless you become a palace filly, you have no choice. Stop burbling nonsense and put your horn in that trough.”

Knobby said again, “I do not want to be docked.”

He realised that Banseth was moving towards him in anger, but the whip that slashed across his back was Skimmeril’s. In a moment of time Knobby whirled, felt his horn go into Skimmeril’s side, and was away. He leapt from the docking platform, jumped clean over the boundary hedge, and was off like a streak across the field beyond. He heard the growing commotion behind him, roars of rage from Banseth, and mingled rage and pain from Skimmeril. Then there were whistles and blowing horns from the Warlocks, and the sounds of organised pursuit. He was aware of all this, but had no time to think about it. His thoughts were occupied with one thing only – speed. The field was strips of earth and cultivated soil, and he leapt and bounded over this, running beside the Centre Road. He was heading straight for Inch Wood. Then he veered to the left, crossed the Centre Road, and found himself in an area planted with beans. He dashed down between two rows, crossed the road a second time, and went on over a field of cabbages. Then he came to the river. The bank at this point was about six feet high, with a low, thin hedge of bushes along the top. Knobby jumped over this and came down with a tremendous splash in the water. He swam the river at a speed that made a small bow-wave, and then was faced with the bank on the opposite side. He tried to climb up this, but the earth was too soft for his weight, and he fell back twice. In desperation he turned to the left and made his way along, half wading half treading on the side, until he came to a sort of gulley, where the slope was less steep and he was able to scramble out.

He was on a strip of hard, dry land, which he crossed at a gallop until, for the third time, he came to the road. He crossed this and found himself in a wide field of fresh, springy grass. His own compound, Treeband compound, was on the right, and ahead of him, not far away now, was Treeband wood. He was also near a Warlock tower. He could see the Warlock shouting and waving his flag. He had not passed any unicorns during his flight, guardians or others, but the sounds of pursuit now seemed all around. With a tremendous effort Knobby galloped flat out for the shelter of the wood. As he went he heard shouts and whistles on either side and the sound of pounding hooves on the road behind. He felt sure they were almost on him. At any moment he would be surrounded. Then, at last, he was under the trees. Without a pause he continued deep into the wood, now following open pathways, now pushing through undergrowth, now leaping tangled thickets, and always swerving from side to side. Suddenly, without warning, he found himself in a clearing, face to face with three unicorns. He turned to the right and dashed across and into the trees beyond, but they did not follow. Then he realised that as one was hitched to a cart and the other two had heavy saws attached to their stumps they could not do so. However, they knew where he was, and the guardians were close behind. Desperately Knobby continued moving forward. Finally he reached the boundary fence and could go no further. Turning left he followed the fence till his way was blocked by a fallen tree. It had fallen outwards on to the fence, and in its fall had broken some of the planks. He could see sunlight streaming into the darkness of the wood, and moving up close, he peered through and saw grasslands, rolling plains and distant hills. They were there, he could almost touch them, yet they were totally out of reach. There were sounds in the wood now, from several directions. They were searching the place. Then he heard a voice, which could only be that of a guardian, shouting in triumph.

“There he is, by that tree. We’ve got him.”

The wood was full of the noise of cracking twigs and swishing leaves. Then, among the trees, he saw two guardians moving towards him. He could hear others on every
side. There was no hurry. They had him now. In desperation rather than with any hope of escape, Knobby reared up and smashed his hooves against the wooden fence. They went right through it. A large section of planking came away, and he found himself in a leaning position, with his head and forelegs protruding through the great hole he had made, and his hooves scraping the outside of the fence. He tried to leap right through, but it was no use. He could go no further forward, and decided to pull himself back. He was just in time. The tree had been halted in its fall by the fence, and for some time had been held there at a dangerous angle. Now, with this weakening of its support, it began to fall further. There was creaking and groaning at first, then a sudden crash as more of the fence gave way, and with a snapping of branches, a splintering of wood and a tremendous swishing of leaves, the tree dropped down to a new position, much lower than it had been.

When they saw the tree falling, the advancing guardians halted, then began to come forward again. There were five of them now, slowly closing in on him. After Knobby’s attack on Skimmeril they were somewhat cautious. “Stand still,” said one of them. “Stand still, don’t move, and you will not be hurt.”

Knobby did not stand still. The top of the tree trunk in its new position was about four feet from the ground, and summoning all his strength, he jumped up on to it, and balancing on the broad, rough trunk, as two whips slashed across his back, ran quickly along through the gap in the fence and down on to the ground outside. He was free! Without a pause he kept on running till he reached the shelter of some trees, where he stopped to rest. Then, tired as he was, he set off across the plain towards the hills. Some of the guardians wanted to follow, but the leader called them back.

“Let him go. We’ll form a proper pursuit group with bats and ravens. The ravens will find him by day and the bats by night. There’s not the slightest chance he can escape. And when we’ve caught him I rather think Banseth will want a word with him, not to mention Skimmeril, but it won’t be just talking, I can tell you.”

So the group of guardians made their way out of the wood and up to the Warlock building near the main gate.

“Well,” said Mr. Baxter, “I think we’ll have to leave it there for tonight. You’re both looking tired, and I feel quite tired myself, but I’ll carry on tomorrow.”

Tom and Judy got up, yawning. “Is that a promise?” asked Tom. “I like this story.’

“Yes,” said Mr. Baxter. “That’s a promise.”

“I like it too,” said a voice behind them. “As far as it’s got, that is.”

Tom realised that his brother Edward had been standing there listening, perhaps from the very beginning. “Hallo, Ted,” he said. “I didn’t see you there. You got any theories about the story yet, what its deeper meaning is and everything?”

“Not yet,” said his brother with dignity. “And don’t call me Ted. My name is Edward.”

“You never used to mind,” said Tom.

This did not turn into an argument because their father, looking at Tom and Judy, said, “Come on you two. It’s time you were upstairs.”

Click here for next chapter.




















































































































Chapter 2. Escape

The next day, when their father came home in the evening, he seemed to have forgotten about the story, but Tom and Judy reminded him and demanded a second installment.“Alright,” said Mr. Baxter, “I promised, didn’t I? How far had we got?”

“Gracinda has gone to work in the Grand Warlock’s palace. She’s a palace filly,” said Tom, “and Knobby has escaped from the camp.”

“And whatever else happens, at least Gracinda won’t be picked by Banseth,” added Judy.

“Well,” said their father, “if you’d like to sit down, I’ll tell you what happened next.

When Knobby had gone some distance from the Cantibri camp, he found himself in an area of rolling grassland, with a few trees and bushes and patches of tangled undergrowth.”

“A picture, Dad,” said Judy. “Give us a picture.”

Mr. Baxter thought. “You don’t want to look at tangled undergrowth,” he said. He spread his fingers, the sparks flew, and a picture appeared in the air. It showed a wall that seemed to be made of shiny white marble, with large numbers of black lines running through it. These lines showed some very unpleasant pictures. There were Warlock faces with narrowed eyes and spiteful expressions, and others with mouths wide open as if they were roaring with rage. There were also bats and ravens, as well as birds, lizards, beetles, and all kinds of strange-looking reptiles. Not all these creatures were in the form of pictures. Some were small statues, either standing out from the wall, or set in little alcoves in it. There were also several snakes, that seemed to be wriggling in and out of the solid marble. All the faces looked vicious and angry, as if they were hissing or spitting at the world.

“That,” said Mr. Baxter, “is the outside of the Grand Warlock’s palace. And this,” he added as the picture changed, “is the inside of it.”

They saw a large, very grand-looking room with a high ceiling and a broad, marble staircase that led up to a sort of half-way platform and then divided into two flights of stairs that swept up in a curve on either side. Two unicorns, young female unicorns, who seemed to be palace fillies, were walking down this staircase. One had a small, yellow flag attached to the end of her horn, and the other a light-blue fan. Standing on pedestals all the way up the balustrade, on shelves at the back of the platform, and on the wall of the balcony that overlooked the room, were coloured vases and statues. The statues were mainly of imps, goblins and small demons, and the vases contained either plants with brilliant flowers, long thorns and sharp-pointed leaves, or clusters of gleaming metal spikes. There were several pictures on the walls. Three were portraits of the Grand Warlock. One showed him dressed for hawking, wearing a green tunic and hat, and with the same huge vulture on his shoulder that they had seen in an earlier picture. Another showed him apparently off hunting, riding a large, black goat, with a whip in one hand and a horn in the other, which he was raising to his lips. In the third he seemed to be dressed for a party, as in the earlier picture, except that his tunic was red, and there was no vulture. Other pictures showed a row of important Warlocks with the Grand Warlock in the centre, and a group of Warlocks who seemed to be having a goat race. That is, they were riding not horses, but billy-goats, bending forward and grasping the goats by the horns.

There were two large, brilliant chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Some of the pieces in these were like daggers, clear glass with red streaks running through that looked like blood, and others were shaped and coloured to look like fruit, mouldy oranges and rotten apples. In the middle of the room there was a massive fountain. The centre was a large, marble statue of a three-headed dog. All three heads were raised. The one in the centre was leaning over backwards, and the other two were bent to either side. The fountain came out of their mouths in three separate jets, which shot up into the air, and then curved down again to disappear into the mouths of three enormous toads, made of green jade. The nasty thing about it was that the liquid was not clear water. It was greenish yellow in colour, and looked like soup – or sick.

Finally, perched in every part of the room, on vases, on statues, on the tops of pictures, and even on the dog in the fountain, there was a great variety of birds, parrots, parakeets, cockatoos, macaws, mynah birds, canaries and many others. They looked as if they were surveying the room, rather than just sitting in it, and it seemed that nothing which happened there would escape their gaze.

“Yuk,” said Judy. She was looking at the fountain.

“What a horrible place,” said Tom.

“Well,” said their father as the picture faded, “that room and others like it in the palace was where Gracinda had to go as a palace filly.”

“What happened to Gracinda?” asked Judy.

“I’ll be telling you that quite soon, but first I’m going to tell you what happened to Knobby.

Well, as I was saying, Knobby found himself in an area of grassland with a few low hills and a number of trees and bushes. Further away the hills were larger, and in the distance were some really high mountains with snow on their peaks. They seemed to be quite near, but Knobby guessed they were further away than they looked. There were no signs of pursuit, but he wanted to get as far away as possible from the Cantibri camp as quickly as he could.
For a time he went up and down small hills, or threaded his way between them, always aiming towards the high peaks, which did not seem to be getting much closer. He paused for a rest, and then decided to get a better view of where he was by climbing the hill directly ahead of him, to get a good view from the top. When he got there it was rather disappointing, just hills or mountains in every direction. As he stood there, looking around, he realised that the wind was rising and getting stronger at every moment. He felt it cool and strangely comforting against his body. Then he heard it. Starting as a faint moan, it swelled to a howl, now rising, now falling, and constantly changing in tone. Knobby turned to face the full force of it, and as he did so it seemed to be forming words.

Aaaarrrhhh ---

Aaaarrrhhh ---

Aaaarrrhhh --- gent.

He heard his name in the wind.

Aaaarrr – hhh – gent.

He felt a slight quivering in his horn. Then, suddenly, without warning, he was shaken by a power he had never felt before. It was a strange sensation, frightening and yet at the same time very comforting. There would be many trials in his life, it seemed to say, with tests to be passed and dangers to be faced, but if he succeeded, in the end there would be a great reward. Together with this there was another feeling, a feeling of something beautiful and true that he had known about once, but could no longer quite remember. It seemed to be hovering, so to speak, on the edge of his mind.

Finally the wind began to die down, and he no longer heard his name, but his mind was still full of the experience. He had not realised that such things could happen, or that such feelings existed.

Remembering the danger of pursuit from the Cantibri camp, perhaps guardian patrols, he looked around carefully, but there seemed to be nothing. There was no sound but the wind, which was now quite gentle, and no sign of a living creature, except that in the distance he could see a bird, which was just a small, black dot in the sky. It all seemed safe enough, but he knew that he was still at risk, and decided to push towards the mountains as quickly as possible. Coming down from the hill, he began to follow the bed of a stream, which at this time of year was dry. He had reached a dividing point, where a steep, winding track came down the hillside to meet his course, and was wondering which route to take, when he heard a sound behind him. It was a sudden swishing sound, made, as he realised when the bird had swooped so low down over his head that he felt the wind of its passing, by a large, black raven. It soared up again, swept round in a circle, and with a single harsh croak, flapped heavily back the way it had come. He watched as it disappeared in the distance, wondering why it had seemed so unfriendly. Then suddenly it dawned on him that it might have been sent by the guardians. There had seemed something purposeful about its movements. Yes, of course, it was a scout, and it had located him. What a fool he had been to pay no attention the first time he saw it, though there was probably nothing he could have done to avoid being spotted.

With a kind of despairing urgency he continued to follow the stream-bed. He was gaining height all the time, and the course was becoming steeper until, after scrambling up a stony gulley, he found himself at the top of a rise, with a new stretch of hillside in view.

He heard the cawing before he saw the ravens. There were three of them, wheeling in tight circles right overhead, apparently marking his position. Then he saw the guardians. They were not far away and moving steadily up the slope towards him. One carried a wooden frame attached to his horn-stump, with a raven perching on it. To judge by the size of the frame, the three birds overhead had also come from it. A second guardian carried what looked like a similar frame, though it was hard to be sure, as it was covered with a black cloth.

A distant memory came to mind, something he had heard once about search teams using ravens and bats. There were four other guardians in the group, and instead of the usual whips on their stumps, they all carried long, heavy blades like swords, which flashed and gleamed in the sunlight. There was no going forward. Wheeling, he plunged back down the gulley and along the route up which he had come. There would probably be more guardians coming up this way, and even as the thought crossed his mind, he saw them.

It was a smaller group, just visible in the distance. There were two with frames – he could not make out any perching ravens – and two others with glinting blades. They were planning to trap him, approaching from either side. In view of the ravens, circling and watching above, it seemed hopeless, but he turned and began to climb the steep slope of the hillside on his left.

Before long he came to the same winding track that he had noticed on the way up – it seemed to be the same one – and he followed this. There were no sounds of pursuit from behind, but the ravens were still overhead. He reached the top of the hill, and continued down the other side and then up a slope beyond. Each time he looked up the birds were there. He would never shake them off. In desperation he plunged on ahead, down one slope, up another, along a track. The ravens kept their positions, cawing and circling overhead. After scrambling up yet another slope, he paused for a moment, looking up at the wheeling birds. They were not as clearly visible as they had been. The day was failing, he realised. It was beginning to get dark.

With this thought came a sudden feeling of hope. If the ravens could no longer see him, or if the guardians could no longer see the ravens, they would no longer know his position. Then he thought of the frames he had seen the guardians carrying. Were those covered frames the hanging perches for bats, which would take over from the ravens in the dark? He had no way of knowing. Perhaps they were simply trays of food for the ravens. But if there were bats, which could find him by night as the ravens did by day, would they know his position before the ravens left? Or would there be a gap, a time when neither bats nor ravens knew where he was? It was just a hope, a desperate, guessed-at hope. But if there was a gap between ravens and bats, perhaps he could use this time to find somewhere to hide. The ravens found him by sight. The bats, in the dark, would find him by sound. To hide from both he would need to be invisible and silent. It was a distant chance, but the only one he had. He walked on a few more steps, doing his best to look utterly exhausted, though not much pretence was needed, and then collapsed on the ground. It was clear that he could go no further. He had reached the end.

The ravens appeared to have noticed. Their cawing increased, they circled lower down, and two of them, one after the other, swooped just above his head in the same way as the first bird he had seen. Then they flew off in different directions, while the third remained directly overhead. Knobby did nothing. He lay on the grass and waited as slowly, slowly, the day gave way to night. At last, when the daylight was almost gone, the bird above began to show signs of restlessness, flying off a short distance and then returning, until finally, after doing this a number of times, it flew right away.

It was time. Quietly, urgently, Knobby moved down the hillside and then along the track below, hoping that he would find a clump of trees. He listened carefully as he went, dreading to hear the high-pitched squeaking of bats. He was lucky. The only sound came from the wind, which was starting to rise. The path he was following took him rapidly downwards, and in quite a short time he saw a cluster of low-growing yew trees, whose spreading branches formed some sort of overhead roof. It was the best he could hope for. The leaves and branches would keep him fairly well hidden.

He moved quickly into the centre of the clump and, as the night grew steadily darker, he waited – and waited. For the first time since his escape he felt the pain in his back where first Skimmeril and then the two guardians had lashed it. He had felt nothing during the chase, but now it was hurting badly. He did not dare to move, as any movement might attract attention. There was nothing he could do. In pain and fear he simply stood and waited.

The wind was still rising, and the only sound he could hear was the swish and rustle it made as it passed through the leaves and branches on every side. It was cold, standing motionless as he was, but still he waited. Then, after the wind had dropped a little, he heard a sound. It was a high-pitched squeaking that sounded like some kind of bat. If Knobby had kept still before, he now stood like a frozen statue. The squeaking came nearer, moved off again, and finally died away. Then it came again, much nearer this time, and again it moved away. With each moment stretched into an age, there was no way to tell how long this continued. At one time there seemed to be three or four bats flying right overhead, while at others the squeaking was off to one side or in the distance. Throughout it all, despite his fear and discomfort, he kept completely motionless. Finally, unbelievably, it was over. Apparently satisfied that he was not there, the bats had moved on.

Knobby made no move. For a very long time he stood and listened and waited. But he knew he could not stay there all night. Slowly and as quietly as possible he came out from under the trees and began to climb the slope. He expected at any moment to hear the squeaking of bats, but nothing happened. For what seemed ages, several hours, he kept on moving upwards. It was pitch-dark, but he knew he must be high up because the ground was becoming icy. When he came to an obstacle he moved to one side, carefully testing his foothold. In this way he kept on steadily climbing. Then he realised that he must be on the top of a small mound or hillock. From where he was he could not go up. There was no up. He could only go down. He began to retrace his steps, going backwards down the way he had come. Then he felt himself slipping. A moment later he was sliding down the steep slope, surrounded by great quantities of stones and dirt. There was a terrible crash, as he landed on hard ground, and after that he remembered no more.

And now,” said Mr. Baxter, “we’ll have to leave Knobby there for the time being, unconscious on the mountain, and see what was happening to Gracinda.

It was dark in the Surrabend compound when Gracinda was woken by her mother Pelisse. Getting sleepily to her feet, she looked around her. Her mother was standing near the entrance. She could just see the outline of her creamy white coat.

“Mother,” she said, “what’s the matter? It’s the middle of the night.”

“It’s not night, Gracinda. It’s morning.”

Gracinda tried to peer into the blackness outside.

“Well,” said her mother, “very early morning.”

“What’s the matter?” asked Gracinda again.

After a pause, her mother answered slowly, “Gracinda, there are two guardians outside. Your father’s talking to them now.”

“What do they want?”

“They want you,” said her mother. “That is, they want you to go with them to the - ”

At that moment her father Dennister came in. “It’s alright,” he said. “We can all go together.”

Gracinda was still in something of a daze. By the time she began to collect her thoughts the five of them, herself and her parents with the two guardians, one in front leading the way, and one following behind, were all walking along Centre Road, which led to the docking field. She had forgotten that today was docking day. But something did not feel right. For the first time since they had left the compound she spoke.

“I didn’t realise docking started this early. It didn’t last year, I’m sure, when Banter and Canter were docked.”

She remembered the two rather plump brothers, who had been in her compound until the previous year, and were now working in an agricultural team. They had left in a leisurely way, apparently with plenty of time in hand.

Her father looked at her. It was growing less dark, and she could see him fairly clearly, the light-brown coat and the garden rake on his horn-stump.

“They were late for the docking,” he said, “the way they were late for everything.”

After a pause he said in a serious tone, “Forget the docking, Gracinda. You-re not going to be docked.”

Gracinda almost stopped walking. She felt cold and semi-paralysed, as the truth dawned on her. A palace filly! She was going to be a palace filly. She knew about palace fillies, of course, knew that Knobby’s mother Mellinore had been one, as well as two of the older unicorns in her compound, but this knowledge had slipped to the back of her mind, completely forgotten. She had intended to ask to do leatherwork, or failing that, something connected with plants, small plants that needed care and attention. Now that was all swept away. She had no idea what to expect instead. What was it like to live in the Grand Warlock’s palace? She could scarcely begin to imagine it. Lost in her thoughts, she said nothing more as they walked along the road. She scarcely remembered the journey, passing various points on the way or fording the river Tan, but at length she realised that they had reached the entrance to the docking field.

They did not go in, but continued on past it, and then took another turning on the left. A little way up this they came to a large stone archway spanning the road. A guardian was standing in the centre. His hood was black, not grey, and instead of the usual whip he had a long, heavy blade attached to his horn-stump.

Here they came to a halt while one of the guardians spoke to the black-hooded sentinel, who looked carefully at Gracinda before standing aside to let them pass through the arch. They were moving along the road beyond, when Gracinda suddenly realised that her parents had been left behind. Turning, she saw them standing side by side. She was about to call out to them, but Dennister spoke first.

“It’s just a year,” he said. “Do your work well, and you’ll soon be home. Good- bye Gracinda.”

“I will,” she called, as the guardians hustled her on. “I will.”

They were now on the road leading up to the Grand Warlock’s palace, which she had seen many times before, but only from a distance. Walking steadily upwards, they finally came to a second arch, much like the one below, where there was also a sword-bearing guardian. They passed through this, and then, instead of following the road, which continued in a wide curve round to the right, they went up a short, steep path which led to a broad, flat grassy area bordered by low stone walls. From here they could see up past several levels of formal terraced gardens to the front of the palace. They followed the path through the centre of these, going steeply up and climbing four separate flights of broad stone steps, until they once more came to the road. They were not on the verge of the road but looking down on it, so that it was too far below to be reached from where they were standing. Looking beyond it, Gracinda, for the first time in her life, saw the Grand Warlock’s palace close at hand.

From a distance it had always appeared plain white, but now she could see that the shiny white marble had black streaks in it that made all kinds of pictures. There were nasty-looking Warlock faces, as well as bats, ravens, lizards, beetles, snakes and other creatures. There were even some statues set into the wall.”

“Yes,” said Tom, “you showed us in the picture.”

“Do you want to see it again?” asked his father.

“No, no, carry on with the story.”

“Gracinda thought the palace was horrible, but she had little time to take it all in. Turning right, they moved along beside the road, which was some way below them, until they came to a narrow bridge. They crossed this in single file, Gracinda between the two guardians. Though it was steep at the sides and never entirely flat in the middle, the bridge did not have steps, but simply round ridges in the floor, fairly widely spaced, but close enough together to act as footholds. Between these ridges there were a number of long, thin slots in the floor

They crossed the bridge and went up a flight of broad stone steps and through a large, high-arched doorway into the palace. Then, after going down a long, wide, rather bare corridor, they finally came to an enormous hall that was filled with unicorns. They seemed to be all fillies, newly chosen palace fillies like herself, Gracinda realised. Looking around, she noticed some that she knew, Kerroty from Eastwork compound, Timbelle and Dingle from Tanford and a haughty-looking filly called Zannerette, whom she knew by sight but had never spoken to, who came from either Westwork or Norrabend. They all looked as wretchedly nervous and miserable and bewildered as she herself felt. Even Zannerette appeared less haughty than usual.

The hall was extremely large, with two low balconies running along each side and a raised platform at the further end. There were guardians standing on both the balconies, keeping a watchful eye on the fillies below, and gently flicking their whips from time to time. On the right-hand side of the hall, in the wall above the balcony, were five or six high windows. They were a strange shape, narrower in the middle than at the top or bottom, and reminded Gracinda of sunken cheeks. On the left-hand side the wall above the balcony was covered in pictures, or rather there was one large picture surrounded by several smaller ones, above and below it as well as on either side. The large, central picture showed a Warlock feast, a group of Warlocks sitting at a long table. They had blue, green or dark-red faces, and glaring eyes of various colours, and they were all laughing or shouting, showing sharp teeth and bright-red tongues. The table was piled high with plates of food and goblets containing some kind of foaming liquid. Some of the goblets had foam overflowing down the sides, and all had wisps of vapour rising from them. One of the Warlocks was picking what looked like a lizard’s tail from a plate, and another had his head tilted back, as he dropped a similar tidbit into his mouth.

The smaller pictures showed scenes of mirth and merriment. One was a Warlock singing a song, though it seemed more like shouting than singing, with two others behind providing an accompaniment on horns, (Gracinda learned later that Warlocks do not have songs. They have gloats and shouts.) Another small picture showed a palace filly with a tray of vaporous drinks. They were of various colours and contained in goblets or cups of elaborate shapes.


Gracinda thought the pictures were horrible, and hoped she would never have to serve at such a feast. She looked round the room again. The two guardians who had brought her had not come with her into the hall. She supposed they must have joined the others on the balconies. She was about to move across to speak to Kerroty, when suddenly a voice shouted very loudly,

“Stand on a picture. All of you, stand on a picture and do not move.”

At the same time the guardians on the balconies began flicking their whips in earnest. There was confusion among the fillies. They began to move aimlessly about, knowing that they had to do something, but not sure what. Gracinda looked down at the floor and saw what she had only half noticed before. The hall had a hard marble floor and was marked into squares, which were separated by low ridges. Some of the squares were plain colours, brown, yellow or green, while others had pictures of unicorns on them. Palace fillies they seemed to be, with full-length horns, and they were doing what she supposed were palace duties. Some had lanterns attached to their horns. Others had fans, and their heads were either bent low or raised up high in different positions of the fanning motion. Still others had sunshades or light dusters. Gracinda stepped on to one of these squares and then, realising that it showed a filly with a tray of drinks, she stepped off it without quite knowing why, and quickly found another, whose picture showed a filly with a lantern. Most of the other fillies in the hall were also standing on pictures. The few who were not yet doing so paid the penalty, as the guardians on the balconies were now using their whips with some force.

“Stand on a picture,” came the shout again.

Finally, when the last of them had found a square to stand on, something like silence descended on the gathering. Gracinda saw that the shout had come from a guardian, who was standing on the raised platform at the end of the hall. Like all the guardians, apart from Banseth, he was hooded, but instead of being plain black, his hood was divided into black and white squares. As Gracinda was looking at him he was joined on the platform by a Warlock with a dark-blue, face who was holding what seemed to be some kind of list, and had a bird, a brightly coloured macaw, perching on one shoulder. The Warlock stood on one side of the platform, the guardian on the other.

Then into the centre between them came a unicorn. She looked like a palace filly, but was clearly older than most and a good deal stouter. Her coat was dark-brown with a few flecks of white on legs and neck. She had a short cape over her back, and her long, brown horn had a small flag at the top. Both the cape and the flag were white with a band of brown round the edges. She walked with her head held high, and had a certain air of dignity and importance. Coming to the front of the platform, she stood and looked silently at the fillies in the hall. Finally she spoke.

“I,” she said, “am the Head Filly. You may call me just that – Head Filly. You have all been summoned here to give a year of service – at least a year. It is my duty to make sure that you give of your best.”

Here she paused and looked slowly round the whole gathering before adding pointedly, “Your very best.”

After another pause she said, “There are many things to learn at the palace. Most of them you will learn from daily experience and from your group leaders, whom you will soon be meeting. So I shall just tell you the four basic rules, rules that none of you must ever forget.

One. The palace must always be tidy.

Two. The palace must always be clean.

Three. The objects in the palace must always be intact.”

After a pause she added, “That means they must not be broken.

Four. Everything in the palace must always be in its place.

For another long period of silence the Head Filly stood at the front of the platform and watched the effect of her words. Then she continued.

“Everything in the palace does not only mean the objects in it. It also means the creatures. And that includes you. At every moment of the day you will be told exactly where your place is. You will not be anywhere else.”

She broke off once again and surveyed the assembled fillies. There was a slight stirring among them, but none of them spoke.

“These four basic rules are fairly simple, but so, I suspect, are some of you. You have been chosen for your appearance, not for your brains. If at any time some of you forget the rules – any of the rules – it will be our duty to remind you.”

Here she glanced across the platform at the guardian with the chequered hood.

“And the guardians are very good at giving reminders.”

As she spoke the guardian arched his neck and sent his whip shooting out over the heads of the fillies. It made a crack that echoed through the hall.

“And now,” said the Head Filly, “do any of you have any questions?”

None of them did.

That seemed to be the end of the matter. Gracinda wondered what would happen next. Were they free to move? Some of the other fillies apparently thought so, and one or two of them actually began to walk away from their places. Instantly whips shot out from the balconies and put them right on that point. The entire assembly stood where they were and waited. They did not speak. They stood and waited.

The Head Filly was showing signs of impatience, when four young unicorns appeared from an entrance at the back, made their way down some steps at the side of the platform and stood just in front of it, evenly spaced across the hall. They were young, just one year older in fact than the fillies in the hall, but were unmistakably their seniors. Instead of being nervous and ill-at-ease, they were confident and knew what they were about. As they took their places the Head Filly introduced them.

“These are your four group leaders, who will be teaching you your work in the palace. For the Reds we have Belzeena.”

She looked at the first of the four, who was neatly built and had a dark-coloured coat with patches of brown and glossy black. Her horn was dark-brown, and she had a small flag on the tip of it, which was similar to the Head Filly’s, except that it was not white but red.

“Then for the Greens we have Cresta.”

Cresta was a light-brown unicorn with a few white patches and a white star on her forehead. Shehad a yellowish horn, and the flag she carried was green.

The Head Filly then went on to introduce the other two unicorns in the same way. Arrabine was largely white with a few dark streaks and patches, a light-coloured horn and a dark-blue flag, while Luminette was brown all over, and her flag was yellow.

“Now,” said the Head Filly, “I am going to call out your names and then the name of one of the leaders. When you receive this information you will leave your place and you will go and stand beside that leader.”

This process took a long time, as there were three stages. First the Warlock, speaking in a quiet voice, read out a name from his list, and followed it with the name of one of the leaders, Belzeena, Cresta, Arrabine or Luminette. The macaw on his shoulder then repeated the names to the Head Filly, who proclaimed them loudly to the assembly. The filly whose name had been called then left her place and went to stand with the leader.

Gracinda noticed that the Head Filly, perhaps as some kind of test, called out the names of the leaders, but not the colours of their flags. The new palace fillies were expected to remember the names. When some of them failed to do this, and joined the wrong group, they were rewarded by whips flicking out from the balconies. One of the fillies, whom Gracinda recognised as Tempeste from Norrabend, was assigned to Belzeena, but went by mistake to Arrabine. When she felt the touch of the whips she whirled round angrily and shouted out, “Why don’t you tell us the colour instead of the name? Then we wouldn’t make mistakes.”

This brought the whips out in earnest, and Tempeste quickly stopped complaining. She stood silently in the group round Belzeena, looking miserable and angry.

About half way through the proceedings there was a lighter moment, when the Head Filly could not hear one of the names. When she twice failed to catch it, the macaw flew across, and perching briefly on the top of her head, shrieked the name into her ear.

“HALLAZINE!”

Gracinda noticed that it had a twisted beak.

The Head Filly tossed her head angrily and made stabbing motions with her horn at the macaw, as it flew back to its perch on the Warlock’s shoulder. There was clearly no love lost between them. This caused some tittering among the fillies, which was quickly stopped by the crack of whips from the balconies.

When it came to Gracinda’s turn she was also assigned to Belzeena. When all the assignments were finally complete, she saw that there were five fillies in her group. Apart from Tempeste there was the haughty Zannerette, who was beginning to recover some of her confidence, and two others, whose names she had heard when they came to the group, but had forgotten. They all stood in silence, while the Warlock with the macaw and the chequered guardian left the platform. Then the Head Filly spoke.

“You will now leave the hall in groups with your new group leaders. Follow the leaders, and do whatever they tell you.”

Belzeena’s group was the first to leave, going out through a small door under the balcony on the side of the hall with the pictures. As they left Gracinda asked a question.
“Where are we going now?”

“Be quiet,” said Belzeena, “and follow me.”

Gracinda followed.

And now,” said Mr. Baxter, “we must leave Gracinda in that horrible palace, and come back to Knobby.

When Knobby came round he realised that he was lying on level ground, but when he tried to move he was stopped by the pain. His body seemed a mass of cuts and bruises. He tried again, and then again, and finally managed to get to his feet. Very slowly he moved forward. The ground became smoother, and something about the sound of his footfalls made him think that he might be in a passage or cave of some kind. Then, just for a moment, he saw a light, which vanished again. Painfully he kept on moving. Then he saw the light again, and this time it did not disappear. As he slowly drew nearer, he realised that it was in fact two lights, two round, yellow lights set close together. When he finally reached them he could see that he had just come out of a dark passage, and was now in a roughly circular cave. On the other side of the cave, a little to the right, the passage continued, but directly facing him there was a large alcove in the wall, and the floor of this formed a raised platform. The yellow lights were hovering in the centre of this alcove. Then they seemed to turn sideways, and with a shock he saw what lay behind.

The whole floor of the alcove, which seemed to extend quite a long way back, was covered by the piled-up coils of a gigantic snake. The two yellow lights, he realised, were its eyes, enormous, round, forward-facing eyes. As he watched they turned back towards him and stared straight at him. Knobby was overawed, but for some reason not really afraid. Finally he asked a question.

“Who are you?”

The answer was a long time coming. The great coils shifted with a dry, rasping sound, the head moved slowly from side to side, and the glowing yellow of the enormous eyes seemed to grow brighter. Then he heard a voice. It was a low, soft, leathery, slightly hissing voice. Knobby had the feeling that it was very old, very wise and very gentle.

“I am the custodian of the Cave of Dreams.”

There was a long silence. Knobby was forming another question, when the voice continued.

“Unicorn, you are expected. Your life may hold great things, but first there are some lessons you must learn.”

“What lessons?”

“You will find them in your dreams.”

“In my dreams?” asked Knobby. “What dreams?”

Again there was a long silence. Once more the mass of coils shifted slightly, and the head with the two great yellow eyes swayed slowly from side to side. Knobby stood and waited.

“Unicorn,” said the voice at last. “Unicorn, you can choose. You can go back now, back to the life you know and the world where you were born, or you can go forward. If you go forward you must accept whatever rewards and whatever dangers may lie in your destiny. Choose now, while the way is open.”

Knobby looked into the tunnel, and suddenly he felt afraid. The darkness that had seemed warm and inviting now seemed to be black and menacing, a place of dreams that might be nightmares. To go into it would be like plunging into a deep pool of unknown dangers. Yet he seemed to have no choice.

“How could I possibly go back?” he asked. “I couldn’t go back to the camp, even if I wanted to. I’d be killed.”

“If your approach is right, then it is possible. You could go back now and be accepted. You could continue your life as before.”

Knobby thought about his home, his parents Garromant and Mellinore, and about Gracinda, who was now a palace filly, but who might be out in just a year, and he felt a sudden urge to return as soon as he could. He could be accepted. He could become a responsible. He could have a happy and successful life, doing useful work. He was suddenly filled with homesickness. Surely he must return. Then he remembered Banseth and Skimmeril and all the other guardians, how brutal and harsh they were. He also remembered his experience on the hill and the strange feelings it had given him, the fear, the excitement and the sense of destiny and challenge, of great things waiting to be done. Once more he looked into the blackness of the tunnel. He looked long and hard, and then he heard himself speaking.

“I will go forward,” he said.

Then he was walking. As he walked he began to feel heavy. Gently and quietly he moved onwards into the darkness, into the unknown future, and into his dream.
Well,” said Mr. Baxter, “that will have to do for tonight.”Tom was looking thoughtful. “So,” he said, “Gracinda has gone to the Grand Warlock’s palace, and Knobby is in the mountains. Goodness knows when they’ll meet again.”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” said his father. “Tomorrow, I hope.”

















Chapter 3. Earth, the First Dream

The following day Mr. Baxter came home late, and there was no time for any more of the story. Then he was away for two days, so it was quite a long time before Tom and Judy heard the next installment.

“I suppose you’d like a picture first,” said their father, with the usual spreading of his fingers. The picture that appeared showed a rather grim-looking scene. In the background there were high mountains with jagged peaks covered in snow. There were pine trees on the slopes of the mountains, and below that a dense forest of trees like oak and beech. These appeared to be extremely old. The twigs on the ends of the branches were like twisted fingers on the hands of a very old man, and there seemed to be ancient faces in the bark

The picture shifted a little, so that they were looking at it from further away, and in front of the forest they saw a strip of sea. There was a lot of mist about, and both the sea and the sky looked cold and grey and unfriendly.

“Golly,” said Judy. “What a place!”

“Look,” said Tom. “there’s a poem.”

Power of the river in raging spate,
Power of the mountain that gave it birth,
Power of the sky in the searing bolt,
Power of the living, moving Earth.

“Well,” said Judy, “it seems to be about power.”

“It. is,” said her father. “Power and courage and endurance.”
After a pause he said, “This is what happened in the dream.

Knobby found himself walking over rough grass on the edge of a thick forest. He was no longer a unicorn. He was larger and heavier. He had a shaggy, dark-brown coat and two great thick, massive horns, that swept up in a curve on either side of his head. He was an aurochs.”

“What’s an aurochs?” asked Tom.

He would have preferred to let Judy ask the question, so that he could hear the answer without having to admit that he didn’t know it already, but he asked it before he could stop himself “

An aurochs,” said his father, “is, or was, a type of large wild ox, that used to live in the forests in the North of Europe. They’re extinct now. They died out several hundred years ago.”

“I think I’d rather be a unicorn than an extinct wild ox,” said Judy.

“Well,” said Mr. Baxter, “Knobby had no choice.”

He continued with the story.

“Knobby kept on walking, and before long he saw a small group of aurochs ahead of him. They seemed to be having an argument. There were six of them altogether, counting two calves, but the argument was mainly between two of them, a young bull aurochs and an older female. As Knobby approached she turned to him.

“Can you talk some sense into this silly young creature?” she said. “He wants to get us all killed.”

She did not ask who he was or where he had come from. Knobby looked at the young bull, who was nearly adult, a sort of teenager in the aurochs world. The young bull stared back defiantly.

“Why do I have to be surrounded by a bunch of namby-pamby cowards?” he said. “They want to escape from the earthquake, but they refuse to take any risks.”

At that moment there was a tremendous rumbling, and everything around them, the trees, the rocks, even, it seemed, the mountains, began to shake. Knobby felt the ground moving under his feet. All the aurochs looked scared, and the two young calves were trembling with fright.

“We haven’t got much time,” said the female aurochs who had spoken to him first, as soon as the shaking and rumbling stopped. “We have to get to the higher, firmer ground on the other side of the river, but Bonder wants to take the shortest route, just straight through the forest, and cross the river on the other side, where it’s deep and dangerous.”

“What do you want to do?” asked Knobby.

“The rest of us want to go to where the river is easier to cross. We don’t want to struggle across at the deep point that Bonder seems to think he can manage, and anyway, we don’t want to go into the forest if we can help it. It’s full of dangers.”

“And your route doesn’t go there?”

“No, we just keep beside the forest until we get to the river.”

“That seems more sensible,” said Knobby. “Come on then. Let’s get going.”

All this time the young bull had been staring at them angrily.

Now he said, “Alright then, you go your way, and I’ll go mine.” and disappeared into the trees. A couple of the others started to follow, but the female who had been talking called them back.

“Let him be. You won’t catch him, and we haven’t got time to waste. He’ll probably join us later.”

She started walking along beside the forest, and the others followed, including Knobby. As they walked he learned that she was called Fondelle. The other adult female was called Pompery, and the much older one was Palladine. The two small calves trailing behind them were Nopper and Noriole.

“Palladine is sad,” said Fondelle quietly, “because our leader Grunder was her son.”

“He was swallowed up by the Earth, and two others, Hamble and Champer, were swept away by the river. That just leaves the six of us, and we are trying to get to the other side of the river.”

“Why there?” asked Knobby.

“Because we think that the ground may be firmer. It couldn’t be much worse than here.”

As if to mark her words, the rumbling and shaking started again. They stood completely still until it was over. Then, grimly, they continued walking. It had not been a large quake, just a tremor, and no cracks had opened in the ground.

“What happened to your herd?” asked Fondelle.

“I’ve no idea,” said Knobby.

She looked at him. “You seem a bit confused to me,” she said. “You’d better stay with us, and maybe you’ll find them later.”

At that moment there was a roaring sound from the forest on their right, and a large bear appeared from the trees. It seemed that the earthquakes had not only terrified it, but also made it wild and fierce. It came charging up to Palladine, who was the nearest, and reared up as if to attack her. Old Palladine seemed too miserable to move or try to escape. The next moment Knobby found himself facing it. Without thinking about the matter, he had instinctively run across to help Palladine. The bear was a dark, enormous shape, with long, ripping claws and white, gleaming teeth. As Knobby menaced it with a sideways sweep of his head, he felt a tremendous blow on his shoulder. Then he felt its weight. He had it on his horns. He heaved with all his strength, there was a snarling roar of rage, and the bear was gone.

It was gone, but Knobby was hurt. It had raked his shoulder with its claws. He felt he would have to lie down and rest, when he heard Fondelle or Pompery crying out.

“The calves, Nopper and Noriole, where have they gone?”

Knobby realised that while he had been fighting the bear the calves had disappeared. They must have gone into the forest, he thought. If they had gone in any other direction, they could not have vanished so quickly. Then he suddenly had an idea. Bonder! They had gone back to join Bonder.

“Come on,” he called. “They’ve gone back to Bonder. We have to find them before they get hurt.”

With Fondelle, Pompery and Palladine following, he ran back the way they had come, and then into the forest at the point where Bonder had left them. At first there was nothing, no sign of any activity, and no sound apart from a rustling in the trees, whether from forest creatures or simply the wind. Then, some way ahead and to the left, he heard a squealing noise, which might have been made by two calves, and he hurried in that direction. He was just in time.

There was a wide clearing in the forest, and as he came into it he saw a giant eagle slowly rising from the ground. It was moving slowly because it was holding something in its talons, something it could only just lift, and as Knobby came closer he saw that it was Noriole. He put on a burst of speed, and succeeded in ramming the eagle before it had risen out of his reach. With a harsh bird-scream of rage it dropped the calf and soared away into the sky.

Noriole lay where she had fallen, and for a time she did not move. Then when Fondelle and Pompery spoke to her she slowly got to her feet. The eagle’s talons had punctured her skin, but she was not seriously injured. Even so, it would be some time before she could walk to the river.

After that, things seemed to happen quickly, as they sometimes do in dreams. Nopper, who had been hiding in the forest, came back into the clearing just as Knobby was leaving it. Knobby wanted to look at the river, to see for himself just how difficult it would be to cross at this point. When he finally reached it he realised that a crossing was quite impossible. The water was foaming down between huge rocks, and it carried all kinds of things with it, splintered branches, uprooted bushes, big chunks of ice and even a full-sized tree. He was about to leave when he heard a groaning sound and realised that Bonder was trapped in the mud by the bank.
Somehow Knobby managed to lock horns with him, and pulled back with all his strength. There was no result. Bonder was too firmly held. He was also very weak, but he managed to moan a complaint.

“I’m cold,” he said. “Get me out of here, please. I could have crossed the river if it hadn’t been for this damned mud.”

“There’s no way you can cross the river,” said Knobby. “Just look at the current.”

“It wasn’t so bad when I first arrived,” said Bonder

Knobby made no reply. Once again he locked horns with Bonder and heaved. Again there was no result. He heaved again, with more strength than he knew he had. He heaved again, and there was a slight squelching sound. Then, suddenly, Bonder was free.

There was little talk after that. They returned to the clearing. Noriole was now walking fairly well, and Bonder, being young and strong, was quickly recovering. They came out of the forest. They made their way through patches of mist, and finally reached the river again at the point that Fondelle and Pompery had been planning to go to all along. It was wide but not very deep, and there were many large rocks that they could use as stepping stones. Somehow they got across. When they had to walk through deeper water the adult animals stood beside Nopper and Noriole to prevent them being swept away by the current. At one point Knobby had to free old Palladine from a floating tree, which had pinned her against a rock. It was almost beyond his strength, but he managed it, and then finally they were on the other shore. All seven of them, Bonder, Fondelle, Pompery, Palladine, Nopper and Noriole, plodded slowly up the slope to the higher, firmer ground.

Knobby did not follow. It was time to leave them all, and as he turned away, the aurochs and their hard, dangerous world of river, forest and mountain, with its floods and earthquakes, were already becoming the memory of a dream.”

“Well,” said Tom, “that dream was about power alright, fighting off bears, and pulling bulls out of the mud.”

“And what did he learn from it?” asked Judy.

“I imagine he acquired some of the qualities associated with the Earth,” said a voice behind them.

It was Edward, who once again had been standing there, listening to the story.

“What qualities?” asked Tom.

“Well, courage, strength, endurance and tenacity – not giving up easily – good, solid, earthy qualities.”

“That’s exactly right,” said their father, “and he was going to need them all, but we haven’t finished yet. It’s time to go back to Gracinda.”

He continued with the story.

“In the Grand Warlock’s palace Belzeena was strict and severe. The fillies had a lot to learn, and twice a day the group went out for training and practice. They began by learning basic techniques, how to stand for long periods, keeping still, but not completely motionless – a certain amount of graceful movement was required, but not too much, and it had to be exactly right – how to walk without making too much noise, how to carry a tray of drinks or food without spilling any, how to put down an empty tray and pick up a full one, and how to operate a fan on hot days.

They also had to learn what to do in various situations, how to react if there was an accident or an unexpected event, how to behave if they met a Warlock in the palace, and how to reply if the Head Filly spoke to them or asked them a question.

The training took place in various parts of the palace or in the surrounding garden. In the two main halls, one at the front of the building and one at the end, they waved fans of various sizes, practised standing in graceful positions, and learned how to carry trays without spilling anything. Later there would be glasses of drink on the trays, but for the practice they just used blocks of wood.

Outside in the terraced garden, which Gracinda had seen when she arrived, or in the Inner Courtyard, a large, enclosed area of ornamental pools and fountains, flower-beds, lawns and gravel paths, they practised walking, standing, serving or fetching things to order. They also had to respond to changing weather, holding sunshades or fetching umbrellas if it rained.

From time to time, at intervals of about 10 days, all four groups would meet in the Gathering Room, where they had been assigned to their leaders on the first day. Once again, as on that first day, they had to stand motionless on a picture, but this time divided into their groups, the Reds, Greens, Blues and Yellows standing in separate lines behind their leaders. Then the Head Filly would make comments on their progress – or lack of it. The comments were usually about things they had done wrong, and were followed by punishments, which were sometimes for single fillies and sometimes for a whole group.

It was a year when the Grand Warlock was not expected to visit the palace. He had been the previous year, and though his visits did not follow a definite pattern, they had never been known to happen two years running. The fillies all knew this, and it made their practice seem rather pointless. They were preparing for an event – a visit by the Grand Warlock – which they knew would almost certainly not take place.

There were other, less important events, for which they also practised. They had to know how to behave at a Warlock meeting, or during a speech, or at a normal meal that was not a special feast. It was not so important to prepare for these as for a visit by the Grand Warlock himself. But they knew that he might appear unannounced at any time, and if he was not satisfied with what he found, both Banseth and the Head Filly could expect severe penalties. Therefore the fillies were under great pressure not to be lazy or inefficient, and were instantly punished if they were.

Offences such as arriving late, misunderstanding commands, not knowing where places were or making mistakes in their work were punished by confinement, going without meals and doing extra practice. These punishments were an everyday matter, more or less a standard part of the training. However, the fillies were left in no doubt that if they committed a really grave offence, if they tried to leave the palace, refused outright to obey an order, or were openly rebellious, there was a far worse punishment in store. It was to become a palace dockee. This meant that they would never go back to their compounds. Their horns would be docked, and with brushes or other implements fixed to the stumps, they would spend the rest of their lives sweeping, scrubbing, cleaning and doing other work in the palace.

The fillies in the Reds, Belzeena’s group, did not all find the training easy. Zannerette, the haughty Zannerette, had no problems. She quickly learned the basic rules, the names of all the rooms and the layout of the palace, and easily coped with the work. She was never late and scarcely ever got into trouble. In fact she seemed to enjoy the life. Gracinda could never do that. The palace was cold, unfriendly and threatening, a place to be endured. However, she was quick and careful and, though frequently on tenterhooks, she managed to avoid any major blunders.

The two strange fillies, whose names were Valeena and Rastelle, found the life more difficult. They both missed meals and had other punishments, as they slowly learned the rules of the place.

But the least successful in the group was Tempeste. Tempeste was a disaster. She was frequently late, she misunderstood the instructions, she argued with Belzeena, she seemed unable to learn the names of the rooms and the places round the palace, and she made frequent mistakes in the work. When working with a fan she did not so much wave it as brandish it like a weapon. The first time she carried a tray it swayed from side in a crazy fashion, and when she placed it – some might have said dropped it – on a table top, a number of the wooden blocks went rolling on to the floor.

Her greatest problem was her temper. One of the skills the fillies had to practise was standing still, and this was hard for Tempeste. It was against her nature. Her first attempt was a total failure. She constantly fidgeted and moved about. When she tried again she stood completely motionless, but rigid and tense as if about to explode. When she was told to put in a little graceful movement she kicked out with her hind-legs. “Well, I thought I was doing it gracefully,” she said, and when Belzeena told her not to talk rubbish, she lost her temper and called Belzeena an idiot, who didn’t know what she was talking about.

The Head Filly was called, and Tempeste was led away between two guardians.

She returned some days later, looking miserable and hungry, and after that, although she was still clumsy, she made fewer mistakes and got into far less trouble.

Everything about the palace was grand. The floors were of shiny, coloured marble, and the walls, always in colours that matched the floor, were of various types of stone. The two main halls contained great sweeping staircases, and everywhere there were enormous, glittering chandeliers and countless statues and pictures. In these surroundings the fillies had to move very carefully. If they disobeyed instructions, damaged an object of any kind, or even moved one, they were instantly punished.

They were watched at every moment, not only by their leaders and the guardians, who stood like sentries in various key positions, but also by many birds. Mynah birds, various members of the crow and parrot families and other less well-known types, some large, some small, they perched on chandeliers, on statues, on the tops of pictures and in countless other places. In fact they were everywhere, and nothing escaped their notice. When they caught a filly breaking some rule they flapped or fluttered away, and with gleeful squawks or twitters told the macaw with the twisted beak. He in turn told the Head Filly, and a punishment followed. None of the fillies escaped it entirely. Even Zannerette missed some meals and did more than one extra practice duty.

But little by little, as they became more expert and learned to avoid mistakes, the punishments became less frequent. Gracinda began to find a certain satisfaction in the work, even taking pride in it. She also found that Belzeena was becoming more friendly. She helped Gracinda remember the names of the rooms. The largest hall was called Meeting, the slightly smaller one next to it, that had the fountain with the three-headed dog, was called Speaking, and the room where they had been taken on the first day was known as Gathering. Belzeena pointed out that entering the palace by the main door at the end, you came to them in that order, Meeting, Speaking and Gathering.

There were also the names of birds. The macaw with the twisted beak was called Ballabeck, and the large, bald vulture which was always with the Grand Warlock, and which she had often heard mentioned but not yet seen, was Skorfane. For some reason she always remembered these, but there was no harm in being reminded that the name Ballabeck went well with a twisted beak.

Belzeena also helped her in other ways. She showed her how to stand still without being too rigid, in the right position but also relaxed. She coached her in all the proper graceful movements of head and tail, and taught her how to walk quietly on any surface. Also, at various times she put Gracinda and Zannerette in charge of some group activity. She asked Gracinda to speak to Tempeste, to persuade her to make more effort to learn the work. Then a few days later in Gathering she was full of praise for what Gracinda had done, although Tempeste in fact had paid little attention. In short it seemed that in Belzeena’s eyes Gracinda could do no wrong.

Yet, even while helping and encouraging Gracinda, Belzeena herself made many mistakes. In a group leader this was astonishing, and yet as time went by she seemed to get worse. In Gathering she confused the names of the fillies in her group, saying Valeena when she meant Rastelle. More than once she led the group to the wrong room for a practice, and once she stumbled and dropped a tray when she was demonstrating how to carry it down some steps.

Gracinda found all this very puzzling. It almost seemed as if Belzeena was doing it on purpose. Yet why should she want to make mistakes?

Then one evening she discovered the answer. She and Zannerette were standing together in the Reds’ compound, and as Belzeena had been called over to speak to the Head Filly, they had a chance to talk.

“I wonder what’s wrong with her,” said Gracinda. “All these mistakes, I mean. She’s making more mistakes than we are. And she’s supposed to be the group leader.”

Zannerette looked at her. “Gracinda,” she said, “can’t you see what she’s trying to do?”

Gracinda was puzzled. “No,” she said,”I don’t think so. I can only think she must be unwell in some way.”

“Belzeena unwell? Don’t you believe it. She’s perfectly well, and she knows exactly what she’s doing.”

“I don’t see ---.”

“Listen, Gracinda. You know the Grand Warlock came to the palace last year.”

“Yes, of course, I remember his banner was on the palace mast.”

“And as you know, he’s never been known to come two years running.”

“Yes, I realise that , but I don’t see what it’s got to do with Belzeena. And why is she making all these silly mistakes?”

“She’s making silly mistakes,” said Zannerette, “because she doesn’t want to go on being group leader. She’s hoping that if she makes enough mistakes the Head Filly will choose another member of the group to be the leader, and then she, Belzeena, will be able to go home this year.”

“Yes, of course,” said Gracinda, seeing it all. “Fillies only get picked by Banseth in years when the Grand Warlock comes to the camp. Last year he came, and this year he isn’t coming, so that’s what it’s all about, getting picked by Banseth.” Just saying the words made her shudder. “Belzeena wants to go home in a year when there’s no danger that it will happen to her.”

“That’s right,” said Zannerette.

At that moment Belzeena returned, which put an end to the conversation.

In the following days Gracinda thought a lot about what Zannerette had told her. She did not blame Belzeena for wanting to make sure that she would not be picked by Banseth. It was said to be worse than being a palace dockee, and that was bad enough. At the same time she now saw Belzeena – and her helpful advice – through very different eyes. Then something happened that completely changed the situation.

One evening a guardian came to the compound and announced gruffly that Belzeena was wanted by the Head Filly. He delivered the same message to the leaders of the other three groups. They were not away long, but when they returned Belzeena looked totally different. As she passed Gracinda she gave her a look of pure hatred. Gracinda was taken aback and very puzzled. She soon discovered the reason.

Belzeena called all the Reds together and said she had an important announcement. She and the other group leaders, she said, had just been informed by the Head Filly that the Grand Warlock had changed his plans. Although it was not his usual custom to visit a palace two years running, he had decided to come again this year. There was to be a big Warlock feast, and he also wished to inspect the Cantibri camp and to see all the unicorns who worked in it.

The fillies listened in silence. They all felt stunned by the news. Belzeena went on to say that she expected total concentration and the very highest possible standards in their work.

“We are no longer practising for something that probably won’t happen. We are now preparing for a definite event, and it’s going to happen quite soon. From now on all the groups will be working hard, but I want the Reds to be the finest group in the palace. Our performance must be perfect. And – ,” she paused and stared hard at Gracinda, “and – I will tolerate no mistakes.”

Gracinda realised that though the situation had changed for all of them, it had changed most of all for Belzeena. Her plan to encourage Gracinda and praise her work in the hope that Gracinda would be promoted into her place as group leader, and she, Belzeena, would be sent home, was now precisely what she wanted to avoid.

Gracinda was not sure what to expect, but she had a strong feeling that the vicious look Belzeena had given her would be the first of many.

We’ll have to finish there,” said Mr. Baxter. “Gracinda still in the palace and Knobby in the Cave of Dreams.”

“And the Grand Warlock coming to the camp after all,” added Edward. “So one of the fillies might be picked by Banseth.”

“It could be Gracinda,” said Tom.

“It won’t be, not if Knobby gets back in time,” said Judy. “But the snake said there were lessons he had to learn in his dreams. How many dreams is he going to have?”

“Well,” said her father with a smile. “You’ll have to wait and see.”



































When Mr. Baxter continued the story the following evening, he said, “This part is called The C






Chapter 5. Fire, the Third Dream

Knobby was once more standing in the cave,looking at the piled-up mass of coils, the slowly swaying head and the glowing, yellow eyes of the ancient serpent. He was feeling very confident. Not only was he filled with strength, a strength that surged in every part of him, but his thoughts seemed quicker and sharper, his understanding greater and deeper.

“I’m really ready now,” he said. “The first dream gave me strength, and with that strength I thought I could face the world. Now I realise it was not enough. It was useless without understanding. Now I have both. I feel strong in my body, as I did before, but now I also have strength in my mind. I can see things I couldn’t see before. I feel I could solve any problem. I feel I’m ready to leave the cave.”

“Unicorn,” said the serpent in his softly hissing voice that seemed very ancient and very wise, “you have now gained much that will be of value in your task, but your preparation is not complete. You have not yet entered the Dream of Fire.”

Once again the light in the enormous, yellow eyes began to fade, and the darkness became the start of another dream.”

At this point another poem appeared in the air.

The Fire of Truth is above all fire
That springs from the mountain or burns in the sky.
The Fire of Truth that is in us all
Is the one great fire that can never die.

“A picture, Dad,” said Judy, as the letters faded away.

Mr. Baxter smiled and spread his fingers in the usual way. What appeared in the air above his head was a very large dragon. He had a glistening, blue-green body, a heavy head, a long, spiky tail and broad, scaly wings. He was sitting in an upright position, with his front feet raised, one higher than the other, and he seemed to be looking straight up into the air. Then there was a change in the picture, or rather an extra detail was added to it. Suddenly a great burst of flame was coming from the dragon’s open mouth. It was not all one colour. There were three separate strands of red, yellow and green. As the picture began to fade Mr. Baxter said, “That was Tremander, the leader of the Banneree dragons.”

“What did he do?” asked Tom.

“You’ll have to find that out bit by bit.” Said his father, “as Knobby did in the dream.

He found himself flying high in the air, though not as high as the mountain that towered above him on one side. He saw that it was a volcano, rising up not to a peak but to an open crater. There was a curling wisp of smoke in the air above it. On the other side of him was the sea. Straight ahead, beyond a group of low hills, were the roofs of a little town, and behind him, as he realised when he circled round, was a dense pine forest that stretched as far as the eye could see.

Flying as a dragon, which he now was, felt rather heavy and ungainly, and the thought came into his mind, as he soared to and fro, that landing might be a problem. There were other dragons in the air around him. Groups of four or five were climbing up high, and then gliding down again in great sweeping circles.

Knobby could feel the glow of the sun on the backs of his wings, and its warmth and power penetrating his body.

Then, as if at a signal, though he did not see one, all the wheeling and circling came to an end. All the dragons came down on a wide, flat space about half way up the slope that led to the crater. Knobby came down with them, and managed to land without too much of a crash. The dragons on either side of him paid him no attention. They were looking towards a large platform on the side of the mountain, raised up a little higher than the ground they were on. It appeared to be part of the mountain, rather than something that had been built. Behind this platform the side of the mountain was very steep, almost like a wall. The whole area, in fact, seemed to have been carved out of, or cut away from, the side of the mountain. The floor was of smooth, level rock, though all round the edge it was marked by the claws of countless dragon feet. Behind the platform in the wall of rock he could see the openings of several caves.

Not quite all the dragons were on the ground. A few were still airborne, but circling, picking a place to land, which they did rather clumsily, thumping down with a final flourish of their gigantic wings. At length there was just one still in the air, an enormous shape against the sky, who made a slow, deliberate circuit, as if checking that all had taken their places, and everything was in order. When he too came down, he did it rather more neatly than the others on the raised platform of rock. He was an old and very large dragon who, apart from the natural dignity that went with his age and size, had a definite look of authority and importance about him.

There was total silence as he folded his wings and slowly turned towards the assembled circle in a thoughtful and rather formal way. For a time he waited, completely still. Then he looked up towards the sun, which was high in the sky, as if judging from its position whether the moment was right. Then, after another pause, he rose up to his full height, balanced on the base of his tail with his front feet raised, one higher than the other, in the position known as rampant, and broke the silence.

“We give thanks for the fire in the sky.”

The other dragons all replied together.

“We give thanks.”

“We give thanks for the fire in the Earth.”

“We give thanks.”

“We give thanks for fire, eternal fire, that burns through all the ways of the world.”

He paused, as if giving them time to think about the words, before continuing the ritual.

“The way of the mountains, the wind and the cold.”

Here he turned to face the wall of rock behind him, looking, so to speak, straight into the mountain, beyond which there were miles of forest and other mountains, giving way at last to an area of snow and ice and the frozen lands of the pole.

“The way of the ocean, the desert, the sand.”

Here the dragons all turned to face across the sea and the lands beyond, where the sun burned fierce and strong and high in the sky, where secret mysteries were hidden in the dry, open wastes and where, in a pair of huge volcanoes that few of them had ever seen, the Mallavant dragons had their home.

“The way of the new-born sun and the day.”

Here they all turned towards the low-lying hills and the gleaming roofs of the town, whose inhabitants had once been their prey – and their deadly enemies.

“The way of the dying sun and the night.”

They all turned right about to face the great pine forest, which stretched away unbroken for as far as any dragon had ever flown.

“The way of all fire.”

The dragons now faced the centre of the circle and, like their leader, rose to their full height, with their heads turned up to the sky. In this position they began to breathe

very deeply – and all together. In – and in – and in – Knobby felt inflated to an impossible size. The sensation was painful, but also triumphant. Then out – and out – and out – to a similar rhythm. This was repeated four or five times, and ended with a great intake of breath, which they held for a pause so long it seemed unending.

Then suddenly the leader brought both his front feet down by his sides, and every dragon present breathed out – not just a breath but a glorious burst of fire. Two hundred tongues of flame went roaring up to the sky. Some were larger than others. Knobby’s was fairly small, but he noticed the shape and colour of it. There was a hot, white centre surrounded by surface layers of red and yellow flame. It finished in a bright yellow tip which flickered about like a whiplash, surrounded by a cloud of sparks that were mainly yellow, green and blue. He felt a tremendous pride as he watched it, both in the sight and the feeling of it.

The other dragons’ flames were all different, some mainly blue, some green and some with many colours twisting and turning round the centre. The finest flame of all came from the leader. It was not only larger and more impressive than the others. It also had more variety. The hot centre was almost invisible, not so much a colour as a shimmering of the air. Then, at some distance from his open mouth, it could be seen as three separate, twisting tongues of fire. Each was a different colour, but the colours did not remain the same. At one moment they might be red, blue and yellow. Then the yellow would change to green, the blue to orange in an endlessly changing, never repeated pattern. From time to time they produced an exploding umbrella of sparks, which shot up and out before gently floating back to earth. The sparks in each explosion were all the same colour, but the colour was different on each occasion, so a shower of crimson sparks might be followed a little later by a shower of bright green ones, and the following display might be blue. Once again there was no repetition.

In quite a short time the flames began to fade, both Knobby’s and those of the other dragons around him. Finally only the leader’s flame remained, until it too died away. The leader then came down to a normal sitting position, and the other dragons did the same. There was a general feeling of relaxation. Some of the dragons began to talk, but they were hushed by others.

“Quiet, quiet, Tremander is going to speak.”

Tremander – Knobby realised that this must be the leader’s name.”

“Yes,” said Judy, “we saw him in the picture.”

“Shut up,” said Tom.

“As I was saying,” said their father, “Tremander advanced to the edge of his platform, looked at the circle of dragons, and began a formal but friendly speech.

“Fellow Bannerees,” he said, “comrades and colleagues all, I have now completed my seventh year as Fire Leader, and to me at least, looking back, they are years that seem to have passed in a flash, or if not exactly in a flash, in very little more, perhaps a number of flashes and several showers of sparks.”

The dragons laughed at this. Tremander was known and admired not only for his tremendous fire, but also for his impressive showers of sparks, which could not be matched by any other dragon in the mountain.

“The number seven,” continued Tremander, “has always been thought of as a special number, so I have planned for this, my seventh year in office, to be a special year. I will return to that point later. First I would like to deal with a number of other matters. With the help of the fire in the sky, and always sustained by the fire in the Earth, the fire of our race is burning brightly. It has been a good year. Our numbers have steadily increased, Mount Banneree behind me now contains several new caves, and there is room for many more.

My friends, fire will never fail us. The fire in the sky is everlasting. Though each day ends in cold and darkness, it is always followed by a rebirth at the other side of the sky. Likewise the cold season is always followed by the heat of Summer. These are promises that have never been broken. They have never been broken, and they never will be broken. So we Bannerees, we dwellers in Mount Banneree, can look to the future with happiness and hope.”

Tremander paused and spent some moments looking round at the circle of dragons, who were hanging on his words. They were waiting for his important announcement.

“And now,” he said at last, “I come to the matter that I mentioned earlier. As I reminded you then, I have now completed seven years as Fire Leader. They have been seven very busy years, they have also been, in spite of some disappointments, happy years, and I think I can say that they have been successful years. And now I think it is time to bring them to a close. I have decided to step down from my position.”

There was a gasp from some of the dragons. The announcement had obviously come as a shock.

“Following the usual custom on these occasions,” went on Tremander, “I am going to name the dragon who will take my place. Hoping that you will agree with my choice, I would like to present to you now the new Fire Leader – my son , Revander.”

This caused a greater stir than his first announcement. There was quite a lot of talking, and the name Revander was repeated several times. Some of the dragons seemed pleased, others surprised, and a few even bewildered.

“Revander,” said Tremander again, “Revander, would you like to join me on the platform.”

There was a commotion among a group of young dragons at one side of the circle. Finally one of them moved into the centre and approached the platform. Then, with an agile leap and some help from half-spread wings, he was standing beside his father. Somewhat reluctantly it seemed, he turned to face the circle. He was very like Tremander in appearance, both in colour, the particular shade of bluey green, and in the shape of his head and the way he held it. However, he did not have Tremander’s confidence. It seemed that Revander had been taken completely by surprise, and had had no warning of the announcement. He looked bewildered and totally at a loss. His father paid no attention to this. “Revander,” he said, “would you like to say a few words.”

The young dragon came to the edge of the platform and stood there, looking at the waiting circle of Bannerees. They waited – and waited. It was clear that Revander had nothing to say. Then, as if any action were better than doing nothing at all, he rose up to his full height, which was not the normal position for speaking, and began to breathe. He breathed deeply, in – and in – and in, then a pause, and then out – and out – and out. He repeated this several times, as they had all done earlier, until he took one final, enormous breath and held it, and held it, for what seemed an impossible length of time. What happened next was truly amazing. They all knew that no dragon could give a full display of his fire, and then repeat it on the same day a short time later. But suddenly Revander’s breath exploded in a glorious spurt of flame. It flared, it twisted, it roared, it wreathed about in a flashing mixture of colours, it burst into brilliant showers of sparks, and it seemed to go on and on and on. Finally it died away. Revander slowly descended to his normal position, and now, at last, he spoke.

“My friends,” he said, “as long as there is fire in my body I will use it in the service of the Bannerees.”

There was total silence for a moment, and then a great burst of applause. It was a real gale of applause, made by the flapping of dragons’ wings against their bodies, which besides producing a deafening sound, also raised a wind. By the time the applause was over the air above the circle was filled with dust, and a number of dragons were coughing. However, there was a general feeling of contentment and things well done. Revander had been completely accepted. Tremander came forward again.

“Well,” he said, “I think that must be the shortest speech I’ve ever heard, and one of the best. After all, one flame is worth a thousand words.”

There was more applause at this, but Tremander continued speaking. “In order to escape from this dust,” he said, “I will waste no time in performing my last official act. I declare this meeting finished.”

It was indeed finished. Another Midsummer ritual was over, and the Banneree dragons had a new Fire Leader. However, they did not leave at once. They waited, as the custom was, for Tremander and Revander to take to the air. Tremander was spreading his wings to do this, when suddenly he stiffened, staring in the direction of the sea.

“Wait,” he called, “Wait. I think we have visitors – from Mallavant.”

All the dragons turned to look out over the sea, but without any great pleasure. They did not care for the Mallavants, and were not too happy to see them arriving now. However, they would not leave the circle while the Fire Leader was still among them, so they waited patiently.

The group of flying dragons approaching from the horizon was only visible at first as a distant blur, but as it came closer it separated into five distinct shapes, and before long they were circling overhead. Then they all came down rather heavily in the centre of the circle, sending up more clouds of dust. Tremander and Revander came down to join them, as there was not room for the entire group on the platform.

These dragons from the Mallavant mountains were a little larger than the Bannerees, and reddish in colour. The largest and most important looking of them came up to Tremander.

“Tremander,” he said, “my friend, please accept my apologies. We seem to have missed your Midsummer ritual. In our part of the world, as you know, the occasion is not very important, and we have no special ceremony, but if the wind had not been against us we would have arrived in time for yours.”

“Well,” replied Tremander politely, “although you have missed the ceremony, you are in time for something else. After seven years as Fire Leader I have just stepped down from my position. Allow me to present our new Fire Leader, my son Revander.”

Revander, who looked exhausted, now came forward, faced the Mallavant dragon, and said in a dignified tone, though rather awkwardly, “Revander, Fire Leader of the Bannerees.”

The other dragon replied gravely, “Mallabictus, Fire Leader of the Farradanes.”

This process was repeated as the other four Mallavants introduced themselves. They were in two groups, the Farradanes, who came from Mount Farradane, and the Dermils, who came from Mount Dermil. As well as Mallabictus, the Farradanes were Fallamaze, Memory to Mallabictus, and Broobeen, who was Mallabictus’ son, while the Dermils consisted of the Fire Leader, Dissimitter, and his memory, Tellamine.”

“What does that mean?” asked Tom. “Memory to Mallabictus and so on.”

“Well, among the Mallavant dragons,” said Mr. Baxter, “the head dragon, who was called the Fire Leader, usually had an assistant, who was called a Memory Dragon, because he helped the leader remember things, and reminded him if he forgot. You know, a bit like an efficient secretary, except that he didn’t do any writing

Well, when all the introductions were finished there was an uncertain pause, as Tremander looked at Revander, who then said with some hesitation, speaking mainly to Mallabictus, but including all the others, “I – er – you – that is – you must all be very tired after such a long flight. I’m sure you would all like to rest and relax. We have a newly completed hall in the mountain.”

“I thank you for that,” replied Mallabictus, “but in fact we have no need of rest,”

“No need of rest? I thought you’d just flown here from the Mallavant mountains.”

“We have indeed, but to tell the truth we did not really come here as visitors. We came here as messengers.”

“Messengers?”

“Yes, we have good news for you and for all the Bannerees, in fact for dragons everywhere.”

There was a short pause after this until Revander, as was obviously expected, said, “What is your news, Mallabictus? We would all be glad to hear it.”
“I will not answer you in words,” replied Mallabictus. “I will give you a demonstration.”

He turned to face the sea and rose up to his full height, in the position used by the Bannerees in their rituals. Then, after taking only one or perhaps two breaths, he suddenly produced a stupendous burst of fire. It was a strong, steady column of roaring, orange flame, without sparks and without variation in colour, but just as large

and powerful as Tremander’s flame. After a time it stopped. It did not die away. It simply stopped as if cut off, and Mallabictus returned to a normal standing position. As he did so, Dissimitter, Fire Leader of the Dermils, rose to an upright position, and he too produced a column of orange flame only slightly less impressive than the one Mallabictus had given. After that the other three Mallavant dragons gave similar displays. When they had finished there was total silence. The Bannerees were impressed, but not enormously so. The fires they had seen were splendid certainly, but not really so very much better than their own, and these five dragons were no doubt the Mallavant champions. What would happen next?

What happened next was that Mallabictus rose up to his full height once again and produced a second burst of fire exactly like his first. Then Dissimitter rose and did the same. Mallabictus’ Memory, Fallamaze, was about to follow, but Mallabictus stopped him.

“Enough,” he said. He looked about him at the circle of Bannerees.
“My friends, without using words we have given you the news. You have already seen two displays of fire from Dissimitter and myself. If you like I will give you a third.”

Without rising he opened his mouth and with no apparent effort produced a short burst of orange flame exactly like the ones that had gone before.
“Any one of the Mallavants here could do the same. My friends, the news we have come to give you is simply this. We have solved the problem of fire. We no longer need to gather our strength and concentrate our thoughts to produce a flame, and when we have done it we need no time for rest or recovery. We Mallavants now have the power to make fire whenever we please.” He paused before adding slowly and deliberately, “We have come to make you an offer. We are offering to share with you the secret of instant fire. The Mallavants and the Bannerees together could do great things. What do you say?”

There was another short silence, and then Tremander said slowly, “Your fire is truly amazing. Tell us how you achieve it.”

Revander, feeling that as the new Fire Leader he should have asked the question, added, “Yes, tell us how.”

“Before I give you the details,” replied Mallabictus, “you will have to agree to certain conditions, but I can tell you here and now that we can produce as much fire as we like whenever we need it because we have a method of obtaining liquid fire from our mountains.”

“What’s liquid fire?” asked Judy.

“I thought you might ask that,” said her father. “It was the dragons’ name for the lava that comes out of volcanoes. It’s liquid, though it hardens later into rock, and when it comes out it’s usually glowing red-hot, so the dragons called it liquid fire.

When the Bannerees heard this there were a number of comments and questions.

“Liquid fire from the mountain, that’s once in a lifetime.”

“How often can you get it?”

“Does it give you strength as well as instant fire?”

“What are your conditions?”

“What do we have to do?”

“What’s the price of this fire?”

“So many questions,” said Mallabictus, “but I think I can answer them all in two replies, or at least in two stages. First I will talk in more detail about our discovery, the benefits it has brought us, and could also bring to you. Then I will tell you the price. We Mallavants – Farradanes and Dermils – have learnt to control our two mountains. By adding certain substances, in the right place, at the right time and in the right way, we can obtain a flow of liquid fire. At first the results were somewhat uneven, but we now have the situation under control. Both mountains produce an eruption, a flow of liquid fire, every ten days. This rate could be increased, but at present it is more than enough for our needs.

As dragons you know the benefits of liquid fire. In the past, when your mountain, Mount Banneree, provided it, it gave you strength, it gave you endurance, it allowed you to make fire at any time and it made you independent. While its benefits lasted you had no need to gather food from the forest or the sea or anywhere else. That was an advantage indeed, my friends, but for us Mallavants it is not just something we get about once every hundred years. We have it all the time. We no longer have to range far and wide in search of food. We can work or fly long distances without getting tired. In short, we are now the masters of our lives because we have mastered our mountains.”

“You mean the dragons ate the lava, the liquid fire, and that was all the food they needed?” asked Tom.

“That’s right,” said Mr. Baxter. “They ate, or perhaps I should say they drank, the liquid fire, and it gave them a kind of fiery strength and energy.

Well, the Banerees showed some interest in what Mallabictus had said, but there was no immediate response. Mallabictus continued, “So once again I come to our offer. We are offering you, the Bannerees, a chance to share in our good fortune. There will be a price to pay of course. There is nothing of any value that does not have a price, but considering the benefits you will receive, it is not so very great.”

“What is the price you are asking?” The question came from Revander.

“The price is simply this. You, Revander, will give up your position as Fire Leader, which as you only began today should not be too difficult, either for you or for the Bannerees as a whole. The running of Mount Banneree will be in the hands of the Farradanes, some of whom will come to live among you, and your new Fire Leader will be my son, Broobeen.”

Here Mallabictus paused. Then in the silence which followed he added, “Think about it carefully. I’m sure you will come to the right decision.”

There was a very long silence after this, which lasted until Tremander said slowly, “Some Farradanes will come to live among us, you say. I think you mean that they will come to rule us.”

“I would not have put it like that,” replied Mallabictus. “They will come to bring you a benefit. You would be most unwise to refuse it.”

“I have a question,” said Revander. “You say you have a technique for obtaining liquid fire from mountains. Could it be used on Mount Banneree here as easily as it has been used on your two mountains?”

“There is no doubt whatever that it could be used. In a short time I hope we shall be giving a demonstration.”

“What exactly is the technique. What substance or substances will you need, and how will you go about doing it?”

“Among the Mallavants,” replied Mallabictus, “the precise details of the technique are known only to the two Fire Leaders and a small group of experts. The situation here will of course be the same.”

“You mean that you propose to extract liquid fire from our mountain, but the technique for doing this will remain your secret?”

“I solemnly guarantee,” said Mallabictus, not really answering the question, “that we will produce a flow of liquid fire from Mount Banneree. There will be an eruption every ten days without fail, more frequently if need be. I also guarantee that all dragons, Mallavants and Bannerees alike, will share in the benefits.”

“I also have a question,” said Tremander, who for some time had taken no part in the discussion. “About the liquid fire. There will be a plentiful supply of it, you say.”

“As I said, a guaranteed eruption every ten days, more than enough for your needs.”

“And what is not needed will flow down the side of the mountain?”

“Yes, of course.”

Tremander looked over the group of low hills towards the streets and roofs of the little town beyond. “So all the surrounding countryside will be covered by liquid fire.”

Mallabictus followed his gaze, but without much interest.

“Yes,” he said calmly, “that will all be covered in due course, quite soon I should think, but that’s no matter. Once you have the liquid fire you will no longer need to gather food from the surrounding country. So it will make no difference to you where the liquid fire goes. You can forget about it.”

“Mallabictus!” It was Revander this time. “Mallabictus, this is out of the question. We cannot possibly accept your offer.”

“I realise of course,” said Mallabictus, “that you do not want to lose your position as Fire Leader, but there will be many compensations. You will have ---.”

“My position is nothing to do with it,” shouted Revander, so angry that he lost his dignity. “My position is ---.”

He paused, collecting his thoughts.

“A long time ago,” he said in a more normal voice, his anger more or less under control. “A long time ago we used to prey on the people of the settlement. We robbed them and killed them and burnt their houses. But for many years now they have been our friends. They have helped us in many ways, and we have helped them in return.

The last time Mount Banneree erupted we realised that the liquid fire, such a blessing to us, would be death to the settlement, and with our assistance they built a barrier to hold it back. They were very grateful to us, and more than once they have given us food when it was badly needed. We cannot possibly accept an offer, or any state of affairs, that leads to their destruction.”

Mallabictus said nothing. He was staring at Revander in scornful disbelief.

“I am not completely stupid,” he said finally. “The reason for your objection is obvious. You do not wish to lose your position. That I can understand. But sentimental nonsense about settlements or sediments or whatever you call them ---.”

“We call them friends,” said Revander. He was angry but not shouting, more in control of himself than before. “We call them friends, and whatever the Mallavant custom may be, we Bannerees do not repay friendship with death and destruction.”

Exasperated and baffled, Mallabictus appealed to the watching circle of dragons.

“You have heard the discussion,” he said. “Do you want to have a share in our good fortune? Do you want to receive the gift of instant fire?

The reply was immediate, a chorus of roaring dragon voices united in a single response.

“No-o-o-o! No-o-o-o! No-o-o-o!”

There were some variations.

“Get back where you came from.”

“Go back to Mallavant.”

“Keep away from our mountain.”

Looking astonished and taken aback, he had apparently expected support, Mallabictus was motionless and speechless. Then he rose up to his full height and produced a great long burst of orange flame. It came to an end. Then he produced another flame of equal power and following that a third great burst. His voice, when it came, seemed one with the sound of the fire.

“DRAGONS!” he roared. “DRAGONS! We are DRAGONS! Mallavants and Bannerees alike, we are all DRAGONS, creatures of fire and flame! The burning

volcano! The towering mountain peaks! We are not miserable humans, crawling over the face of the Earth. We are creatures of pride and glory, creatures of fire. Our natural element is fire.”

At this point he looked around him. He had descended to all four feet in the course of this outburst. “I offer you all,” he continued, “I offer you all the gift of instant fire, of permanent fire. I offer you a gift which is your natural right as dragons. I offer you this gift, and because of some stupid objection over an infestation of creeping surface life, you reject it. My friends,” he said, looking round at the circle of Bannerees, “I cannot really believe that this is true. I ask you once again. Do you wish to receive the gift of instant fire?”

The response this time was louder than before, and also more varied.

“Get out of our mountain.”

“Take your dirty tricks back to Mallavant.”

“We don’t want your gifts.”

“You’re the one that’s going to get fire, good Banneree fire, and you won’t like it.”

“Clear out!”

“Get out!

“Get out of our mountain.”

Whether the reason was concern for the people of the settlement or just plain dislike of the Mallavants, there was no denying the strength of the Bannerees’ feelings.

When the noise had died away, Mallabictus spoke again. His voice was neither sad nor angry. It was stiffly formal.

“We came in friendship,” he said. “We came to bring you benefits, and to offer you a share in our good fortune. You have rejected us. We have tried the way of peace. We have tried the way of reason. If we now have to turn to another method, a much less pleasant method, I ask you to remember that you have forced it on us. You have brought it on yourselves”

With these words he turned towards the sea, and his companions did the same, looking back the way they had come to the faint line that marked the horizon, where the water met the sky. Then all five Mallavants took wing in a choking cloud of dust, and were soon no more than a cluster of dwindling shapes above the ocean.

It was later, a few days later. The Mallavant invasion was coming. They saw it first as a long, dark line that covered a large part of the horizon. It could almost have been a dense, black bank of unusually long, low cloud.

It soon became clear that this consisted of several sections, five or six troops of flying dragons. By the time the alarm had been given, and the Bannerees had retreated into their mountain, closing all entrances apart from narrow slits, they could see the movement of wings, and in no time the Mallavants were circling overhead.

There were six groups in all, three of Farradanes and three of Dermils, who could be recognised, in flight at least, by their slighter bodies and longer, narrower wings. Keeping their formations, about 40 dragons to each group, they all flew slowly round
above Mount Banneree. From time to time one or other of the groups would let out a burst of orange flame, which they did all together, with perfect timing. Then, still circling, they rose to a greater height until they were scarcely visible as dots in the upper sky, partly hidden by cloud. Only Mallabictus remained below. In a series of sweeping passes he flew to and fro in front of Mount Banneree, and as he flew he called.

“Bannerees. Bannerees. Surrender now and you may yet be spared,”

In a few seconds he was out of earshot, but on the return sweep he continued the message.

“Bannerees, we come in friendship. Come out now and share in our good fortune.”

He made several more passes in front of the mountain, calling each time. There was no response. He made one final fly-past, and this time he called out a different message.

“Bannerees,” he called, “Bannerees, you have brought it on yourselves.”

Then he let out a jet of flame, which must have been a signal, for it was followed by a rushing sound high up in the air, as three hundred Mallavant dragons came hurtling down with half-closed wings to launch an attack on Mount Banneree.

It was a fierce battle, a turmoil of smoke and flame. There was crash after shuddering crash as heavy bodies collided with the barriers. Powerful claws ripped away half-burnt wood and scattered debris and stones.

They broke through in several places – the barriers were nothing. In a desperate counter-attack the Bannerees came out of the mountain, diving, slashing, striking, descending in roaring fury on Mallavants as they approached the entrances. Others inside were defending the passages, retreating and counter-attacking, leading the Mallavants into blind alleys, surprising them from side-turnings, helped by their knowledge of the place. It was their mountain.

The Mallavants retreated, and the Bannerees collected in the enormous, newly made assembly hall. Then, as they had expected, the Mallavants attacked again. As they came bursting into the hall they were met by a deluge of freezing water, released from tanks at the side and in the ceiling. Then, in a hall now filled with choking clouds of smoke and hissing steam, the Bannerees launched their first attack with fire. They had held it in reserve. In the days before the attack, while working hard on the defensive barriers, they had also done everything they could, by focusing their energies and by avoiding any wasteful displays, to build up their fire to the highest possible level. Now they released it. Their flames were far more effective than the standard orange flares of the Mallavants. They were adaptable. They could be spread out wide to form a defensive shield or condensed into a searing lance of fire that could pierce the skin of a dragon. The Mallavants could not do much against the attack, and many of them died.

But although the Banneree fire was a powerful weapon, it did not last very long. It began to die away. More and more Mallavants poured into the hall, a solid mass of orange flames. The Bannerees began to retreat into the honeycomb of passages, back and back through countless twists and turns, and finally out into the open. Followed by Mallavants all the way, they made for the shelter of the forest. Weary and outnumbered, with their reserves of fire exhausted, they had lost the mountain.

Knobby was in the forest with a small group of Bannerees, Revander and a number of others, about nine dragons in all. They had been in hiding for three days, or was it four? He was losing track of time. They were wretched and defeated. All of them had wounds from the battle, and where their scaly protection had broken many had burns. They had to lie low, under cover of the trees. They could look for food at night, but even that was dangerous. There were Mallavants flying overhead. They could hear the swishing of their wings as they passed, and they saw the orange flares as they searched the forest.

On the second day they had seen a commotion on a distant slope. A group of Mallavants was clustered over the trees, and some appeared to be landing. Then there were flames licking up and a plume of smoke. The searchers must have found some Bannerees. Their group was not the only one in hiding.

Revander was sunk in despair. His father, Tremander, had died in the battle. “It was in the main hall,” he said. My father was killing Mallavants. I’ve never seen such a flame, like a spear of fire.” Revander’s own flame had been hardly less impressive. “Then he saw Mallabictus and went straight for him. But Mallabictus was surrounded by his dragons, and my father’s flame was starting to fail. He killed a few, but he couldn’t fight them all. He was overwhelmed.”

They could do nothing to cheer Revander. In fact there was nothing of any kind they could do. They could only wait.

The Mallavant activity was growing less. They heard far fewer flights, and they never saw flares at night. They began to get bolder, venturing out in the day, and altogether feeling more hopeful. In particular there was a sudden change in Revander’s attitude. He went from deep depression to a burning thirst for action.

“They’re working on the mountain,” he said, “Mount Banneree, our mountain. That’s why they’ve stopped their flights. They need every dragon for the work. If they want to keep their fire, their power to make instant fire, they need a constant supply of liquid fire from the mountain. We have to stop them. We have to save the mountain, Mount Banneree, our mountain. And it’s not just the mountain, it’s the people of the settlement too. We don’t want the settlement destroyed. They’re our friends.”

They all caught the mood. There was no discussion of the matter, no weighing of pros. and cons., but there was a strong sense of agreement.

They spent the night awake, all of them filled with a feeling of power and hope. Only Revander spoke from time to time, and always in the same words.

“Banneree,” he said. “Mount Banneree, our mountain.”

They took flight early in the morning, and flew like arrows to the upper air. From a great height they looked down on the mountain, with Mallavants swarming round it like Summer midges. They seemed to be taking things into the crater, stones or lumps of earth or other material, and what might have been bundles of plants or piles of branches. Others were working inside the crater, where they seemed to be scraping or digging or making excavations. They had already changed the mountain. The usual wisp of smoke that hung over it was now thicker, and becoming a steady flow.

Then they dived down on the Mallavants. The air streamed past them as, far below, the mountain grew steadily larger. Nine Bannerees against the whole assembled force of the Mallavants, they were diving down like avenging furies, dragon falcons, stooping to the attack.

They were banking, looping, twisting and striking with a fierceness and agility that seemed to be inspired. Their fire was like no fire that had ever been seen. It shot out with the force and speed of lightning, in terrible, searing shafts of flame. It split and divided into deadly forks and tridents. It burst and spread into shimmering, dancing shields of light. It flashed and roared in a fury of blinding power. Its colours were amazing, like no colours ever seen, and it seemed to go on and on.

Pierced and scattered by the Banneree fire, the Mallavants were falling like flies. The orange flares they had brought from their mountains, even those that had not yet started to die away, were not much help. Their attempts to overwhelm the attackers by sheer weight of numbers were equally hopeless. The nine Bannerees were everywhere, climbing and diving, twisting and weaving, dividing and recombining, always with their deadly swords of flame

It was over. Incredibly, impossibly, the Mallavants began to break. They were streaming out over the ocean in a ragged, defeated, straggling line. Others, not airborne, were crawling down to the shore.

The Bannerees were arriving. From far and near, from damp sea-caverns, from the shelter of distant peaks, from caves and cover of every kind, and from every part of the forest, they were coming out of hiding. Singly at first, or in small groups, but in constantly increasing numbers, they came to reclaim their mountain. Mount Banneree, scarred but not destroyed, was once again the home and base and support of the Bannerees.

Knobby was in the main hall where the battle had been, or in a small room near it. There were several dragons there, including Revander and Broobeen, the son of Mallabictus. He was a very young dragon, quite a lot younger than Revander. He was speaking now.

“As the new Fire Leader of the Farradanes, I would like to present my Memory, Arramandel.”

Revander made some polite, formal reply.

Broobeen continued. “As you see, the Farradanes have not only a new Fire Leader, but a new Memory as well. My father was killed in the battle, and so was his Memory, Fallamaze. So now,” he added to Revander, “we have both lost fathers. Dissimitter, the Dermils’ Fire Leader, and his Memory, Tellamine, also died, and so did all the others who knew The Technique.”

He looked around at the listening group.

“That is what I have come to tell you,” he said. “It was not only dragons who died in the battle. It was also knowledge. We no longer have The Technique, the secret of producing liquid fire. All the dragons who knew it have been killed.”

“But you are not dead,” said Revander. “Are you telling us that you never learned The Technique?”

“No,” said Broobeen, “I never learned it. I was considered too young. I was going to be taught it when I became Fire Leader of Mount Banneree, but that event, as you know, did not take place.”

“I see,” said Revander thoughtfully. “So what you have come to tell us is that now The Technique has been lost, we Bannerees are no longer in danger from the Mallavants.There will be no more attempts to use The Technique on our mountain.”

“Yes,” said Broobeen, “that is precisely the point I want to make.”

“I hope we can be sure of that,” said Revander. “A technique discovered once could be discovered again. After all, you must have a general idea of how it works, and if it were ever re-discovered, there could be another Mallavant invasion.”

“As long as I am Fire Leader,” replied Broobeen, “that will certainly never happen. I always felt uneasy about The Technique, depending entirely on liquid fire. It was making us fat and bloated. Apart from that, I agree with you Bannerees that we have no right to destroy other forms of life, wiping them out as if they were not important. All life is important. So have no fears on that account. During my lifetime at least, The Technique will never be re-discovered. I shall strictly forbid all efforts in that direction.”

“I hope,” said Revander slowly, “for the sake of the Mallavants as well as the Bannerees, that your life will be long and prosperous.”

“A hope that I share,” replied Broobeen, “for your life as for mine, and I repeat that the Bannerees have nothing to fear from the Mallavants. If there is any fear between us, it should surely be on our side. The Banneree fire in that final battle was stupendous, amazing, unbelievable. It was like no other fire that was ever seen. None of the Mallavant dragons could even approach it, with or without The Technique.”

Revander’s reply was slow and thoughtful. “I do not think,” he said, “that the Mallavants have any cause for fear. The Banneree fire on that day was not the normal Banneree fire. It was, as you say, astounding, amazing, like no other fire ever seen. No Banneree had ever produced such fire before. We have not produced it since. I have thought about it many times. We have all thought about it, but for us, as for you, it remains a mystery. I cannot explain it.”

“I can explain it.”

They all looked at the speaker. He was a very old dragon who had been listening in silence, but carefully following what was said. Revander knew him as Valladeemer, who had once been a counselor to his father, though he had long since given up that position.

Broobeen was the first to speak. “Are you Revander’s Memory?” he asked.

“If I held a position of that kind,” replied the old counselor, “I would already have introduced myself – my name is Valladeemer – but the custom of having a Memory dragon is purely a Mallavant one.”

There was a pause, during which they waited in silence.“In the past,” continued Valladeemer, “there were times when I was able to help Tremander, sometimes with advice and sometimes with information. Perhaps I could do the same for his son.”

“Yes, go on,” said Revander and Broobeen together.

“Dragons,” said Valladeemer, “are creatures of fire, and as every dragon knows, there are several kinds of fire. There is the fire in the sky. There is the liquid fire of the Earth. There is dragon fire, produced by will-power and concentration of the mind. All these we know. However, there is another kind of fire. It is also dragon fire, yet many dragons do not know it. It is the Fire of Truth.”

“The Fire of Truth,” repeated Revander.

“The Fire of Truth. It is the rarest of fires and the highest, and – it is in all dragons. It can be beautiful. It can be terrible. It can be many things. It is in us all, but we cannot summon it at will, we cannot control it, we can never really know it.”

Valladeemer paused.

“Perhaps I cannot explain it after all,” he said. “It is the Fire of Truth. It is a mystery. It will always be a mystery. Yet I can say this. It is the Fire of Truth, and it will burn for those of us who are on the path of truth. If we dragons are on that path, if we can faithfully follow that path, then we know that in the times of our greatest need, in times of defeat or utter disaster, this fire that is in us all will never fail.”

The rocky walls of the cave began to grow dim, and so did the circle of dragons and everything in their world. Knobby found himself back in the serpent’s cave at the end of another dream.

“Well,” said Mr. Baxter, “that’s it for tonight, but I’ll carry on tomorrow.”

As good as his word, he continued the story the following evening.

“Billichip,” he said, “was a very young parakeet, who was starting his first spell of duty in the palace. Now, after just a few days, he had been told to report to a certain room above Meeting. He had no idea of the reason, and he did not know if he was going to be praised or find himself in trouble.”

Judy was making complaining noises.

“What’s the matter?” asked her father.

“This isn’t the same story,” she said. “The story’s supposed to be about Gracinda and
Knobby and all the unicorns. And the dreams of course,” she added.

“Well, if you have a tiny bit of patience, and wait for about one minute, you’ll see that the story is about Gracinda. Why not try just listening?”

Judy said nothing, and her father continued.

“The room was empty when Billichip arrived, so he waited, wishing very much that he was somewhere else. This feeling increased when a bird came in, and he recognised Ballabeck, the macaw with the twisted beak. Billichip was so nervous that he nearly fell off his perch. Ballabeck did nothing to reassure him. He looked at him coldly, first with one eye and then with the other.

“You are Billichip,” he said.

“Y’yes sir,” stammered Billichip.

“Your flight leader, Rinnagale, tells me that you failed to recognise the filly Gracinda.”

“Er, yes sir – I mean - er – no sir.”

“You did not recognise her?”

“No sir, I didn’t.”

“I understand that when Rinnagale told you to go and watch Gracinda, you returned and told him that Gracinda was not in the punishment block.”

“Er, yes sir. That’s right.”

“But Gracinda was in the punishment block. Can you explain to me why you failed to recognise her?”

“Sir, I thought that Gracinda was the filly I saw in Speaking.”

“You saw a filly in Speaking?”

“Yes sir.”

“When did you see this filly?”

“Sir, it was a short time after the practice preparation for the feast.”

“Were there any other fillies in Speaking at the time?”

“No sir, just this one.”

“And what was she doing?”

“Sir, she was moving things about. When I saw her she was putting a box of punishment fruit into an alcove in the wall.”

“I see,” said Ballabeck. “And you say that this filly you saw in Speaking, whom you thought was Gracinda, was not in the punishment block when Rinnagale sent you there.”

“No sir, she was not.”

“How can you be so sure of that?”

“Sir, the filly I saw in Speaking was black and brown, and none of the ones in the punishment block was that colour. Besides, she had a flag on her horn.”

“What colour was this flag?”

“Sir, it was red.”

“I see,” said Ballabeck. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful. Of course you realise you were not supposed to be in Speaking at that time.”

“Yes sir. I’m sorry sir. I went to the wrong room by mistake.”

“We’ll say no more about it this time. But learn your rooms. You may go now.”

“Thank you sir.”

It was over. Billichip was almost light-headed with relief, as he flew back to his duties.

So, thanks to Billichip’s information, Gracinda and Belzeena changed places. Gracinda was brought out of the punishment block, and Belzeena was sent into it. At first Belzeena said that she had never moved any boxes or interfered with anything. However, it was most unlikely that Billichip had made up his story. It was only by chance that he had told it at all, and Belzeena could not explain a small tear in her flag, nor the fact that there was a slight smear of fruit on it – rotten fruit. In the end, after a few days in the punishment block, she admitted what she had done.

Gracinda was brought back into the group, whose leader was now Zannerette. Subdued and scared by what had happened, they worked hard at preparing for the feast. Large quantities of food were brought in, boxes of jellied frogs’ spawn, lizards’ tongues and other Warlock favourites.
“Yuk,” said Judy

There were also barrels of various types of strong wine. The Head Filly was very busy arranging storage and keeping things organised, so that everything was available and could be provided at a moment’s notice.

Then an advance party of Warlocks arrived. They inspected everything, the palace, the gardens, the food, the furniture, the kitchen utensils, the efficiency of the various services, and the accommodation, especially the rooms being prepared for the Grand Warlock. They were not always pleased by what they found, and made suggestions. Their suggestions were really the same as orders, and that made more work.

Headed by Zannerette, the group of Reds, now only five unicorns, worked very hard, helping in various ways. Finally they prepared the table for the last time. The trays in the alcoves held real drinks and real food, the boxes by the chairs contained real rotten fruit, and everything was real, including the nervousness they felt as they waited for the feast to begin.

Not just the table, but the whole of the room had been carefully prepared for the event. A thousand candles had been lit in holders all round the walls, and four magnificent chandeliers flashed and sparkled in the glow of their flames. As well as the serving fillies there were others standing around, some in the corners of the room, some on the sweeping staircase, and a few looking down from the balcony above, to provide a sort of living decoration. The Head Filly hovered importantly in the background, surrounded by guardians, whom she sometimes sent out to give instructions to this or that group leader. Banseth came and went, giving orders from time to time.

Brilliant birds, macaws, parrots and parakeets, were perched in all sorts of places, no longer acting as spies, but adding even more colour, and several groups of junior Warlocks were standing around, ready to provide whatever services might be needed.”

“I wondered about that,” said Tom. “If the trays and boxes had the right kind of curving handles over the top, the unicorns could lift them on their horns, but some things have to be done by hand.”

“That’s right,” said Mr. Baxter. “Some of the work was done by junior Warlocks.”

He continued after a pause. “The table was long. There were ten places along each side, and each place had a plate in front of it, but nothing more. At one end of the table, the end furthest from the door by which the guests would enter, there was a very large chair with a high back, where the Grand Warlock would sit and preside. The other end of the table was for servers, and had no seat. In the centre of the table and running the full length of it was a shallow trough, like the trough in a carpenter’s bench, though not as wide.

The feast began quietly enough. Two important-looking Warlocks came in. One had a green face, while the other was greenish brown, and both were wearing expensive chains round their necks. They walked the length of the table, one on each side, and took the two places next to the Grand Warlock’s chair, where they sat and waited. Then another pair of Warlocks, slightly less important-looking, appeared and sat down in the places next to the first pair. Then a third pair came in and took the next two seats, and this continued until all the seats were taken. The twenty Warlocks sat and waited in total silence until the Grand Warlock made his entry.

The Grand Warlock was over a head taller than the other Warlocks. Gracinda was not able to look at him in detail, but she noticed the dark-green face, the untidy, black hair and the slightly pointed ears. She also saw that he was wearing a red and white tunic and had a gold chain round his neck. Sitting on his right shoulder was Skorfane, the huge, bald-headed vulture, whose name and nasty nature were as widely known as those of his master.

The other Warlocks rose and stood rigidly to attention, as the Grand Warlock strode down the hall to take his place in the enormous chair. As he did so, Skorfane half spread his wings and jumped from his master’s shoulder to the back of the chair. The Grand Warlock settled himself, looked down the table and nodded sternly. This was a signal for all twenty Warlocks to sit down. He then spoke a single word to the server at the end of the table.

“Begin,” he said.

The server passed on this instruction to other Warlocks behind him, and a large metal pot was brought on and put in front of the Grand Warlock. It was a starter, to whet the appetite, a mixture of frogs’ spawn and lizards’ tongues. The Grand Warlock took a large helping, heaping up his plate. Then he nodded to the server, and the pot began to move along the table

Gracinda, who was standing four or five places down from the head of the table, her back to the disgusting fountain with the three-headed dog, which she tried not to think about, wondered at first what was making the pot move, until she realised that it was resting on a flat wooden tray, and the server was pulling a string attached to this. The string ran along the central trough, and on the underside of the tray was a wooden bar which also fitted into the trough, so keeping the tray in the centre of the table.

As the pot passed them the Warlocks helped themselves, dipping their hands in as quickly as possible, as the pot was moving quite fast, and once it had passed them they did not get a second chance. When the pot reached the end of the table it was removed. Then, at a signal from the Grand Warlock, the eating began.

They ate rapidly, shoveling the food in with their hands. There was no conversation and no show of good manners, just a continuous munching sound. From time to time the Grand Warlock fed small scraps to Skorfane, perched on the back of the chair behind him.

Several courses were served in this way. The starter was followed by a fish stew, which was mostly sea-slugs. As a meat dish they puff-adder pie, and then a nettle and thistle salad, and to top it all off there were slices of nightshade tart. These were all favourite Warlock dishes, but they had to take care to finish them at the same time as the Grand Warlock. If they finished too soon he might accuse them of greed, and if too late he might accuse them of not appreciating the food he had provided. Either of these could bring an unpleasant punishment. It all depended on his mood.

At any time during the meal the Warlocks could help themselves to the foaming drinks from the fillies’ trays, and Gracinda was kept very busy, taking back empty trays and picking up full ones.
Finally, when the meal was over, the table was cleared, and with a contented belch the Grand Warlock rose to his feet.

“My friends,” he said, “as I am kind and generous by nature, I have invited you all here tonight to share this meal with me, and I can see from your faces how happy you are to be in my company. I have had a good year, and I hope that next year will be even better. Because I am brilliantly clever in every way, none of my enemies has the slightest chance of succeeding against me, and of course I shall have even more triumphs in the future. I am pleased with the progress that has been made in this camp. Tomorrow I intend to inspect all the unicorns in it. Right now, it is time to pass from the pleasures of eating to the pleasures of punishment.”

Here he looked at one of the attendant Warlocks, who approached him with some hesitation. “Oh Eminent One,” he said, “there are no punishment victims today."

“No punishment Victims!”

The Grand Warlock was obviously disappointed. This was bad news. He thought for a moment.

“In that case,” he said, “as we Warlocks are a musical race, I will entertain you with some musical shouts.”

He took a deep breath, and then in a loud, harsh voice he sang, or rather shouted,

I am an eagle,
Glorious and regal.
I am an eagle.
Yaaahh!

The entire company joined him in the final word, yelling it out enthusiastically and raising their hands as they did so. This was a boast. He followed it with another.

I am amazing,
Like a comet blazing.
I am amazing.
Yaaahh!

Once again the Warlocks joined him in the ‘Yaaahh!’. Then he sang a challenging song, a taunt.

Foes, I despise you.
I’m going to pulverise you.
Foes, I despise you.
Yaaahh!

This time the ‘Yaaahh!’ was shouted in a nasty way, with a fierce expression, sometimes with the tongue stuck out. It was dangerous with the Grand Warlock to shout the wrong kind of ‘Yaaahh!’ The next song showed this.

I am a wonder.
Never make a blunder.
I am a wonder.
Yaaahh!

This, of course, was a boast, and most of the Warlocks responded with enthusiastic shouts. But one of them, who was sitting in front of Gracinda, and who had had at least 8 glasses of drink during the meal, did not. His jeering ‘Yaaah!’ might have gone unnoticed in the general noise, but the nasty expression and the stuck-out tongue were impossible to miss.

“GEVALDRICK!’

There was instant silence.

“Gevaldrick,” said the Grand Warlock very gently, “I may perhaps be mistaken, but I think you put your tongue out at me.”

Gevaldrick said nothing .

“ANSWER!” This time he shouted the word.

“N’not at you, Eminent One,” stammered Gevaldrick. “I thought - .”

The Grand Warlock turned to a group of attendants.

“String him up,” he said.

The other Warlocks grinned. They knew what was coming. Gevaldrick’s wrists were tied to the opposite ends of a bar, quite wide apart. Then he was hoisted up and over the table, and lowered till his toes just touched the top of it.

“Ten verses,” said the Grand Warlock.

If it had been some unimportant Warlock hanging there, the song would have been vicious and unfriendly.

Dregs of creation.
Doesn’t know his station.
Dregs of creation.
Yaaahh!

But Gevaldrick was a very important Warlock, so the song was gentle and sympathetic.

Poor old Warlock
Didn’t tug his forelock.
Poor old Warlock.
Aaahh.

Before you ask the question,” said Mr. Baxter to Tom, “the forelock is the hair at the front of the head, the bit that hangs down if you don’t brush it properly.”

“This bit,” said Tom, tugging it.

“That’s right,” said his father, “and in the old days tugging the forelock was a sign of respect, something men did when talking to an important person, who had to be treated with great politeness.”

Tom let go of his hair.

Mr. Baxter continued the story. “ The final drawn-out ‘Aaahh’ was sung in a tone of mock sympathy, but what followed was not at all sympathetic. At the end of the word they took rotten fruit from the boxes by their chairs and hurled it at Gevaldrick. They did this ten times, roaring with laughter and shouting out comments.

“Mould is good for the skin, Gevaldrick.”

“Beautiful. Yellow’s your colour, Gevaldrick.”

“You look nice, Gevaldrick. We must do this more often.”

The Grand Warlock played no part in this, but when the song and the fruit throwing were over, he turned to the vulture behind him.

“Tweak him, Skorfane,” he said.

The enormous vulture took to the air, and with slow, heavy wing-beats that blew the hair and faces of the Warlocks below, he circled round to approach Gevaldrick from behind. Perching on the wooden bar, he bent down and forward and gave a sharp bite. Then he flew back to his perch, leaving Gevaldrick with a bleeding nose.

The Grand Warlock had not finished yet. He looked at Gevaldrick, hanging over the table, dripping with fruit juice.

“Gevaldrick,” he said, “perhaps I misjudged you. You didn’t mean to be insulting. You simply made a mistake because you’d drunk too much and perhaps not eaten enough. If you’re going to drink you really ought to eat as well. Let me see. There should be a box of fruit beside your chair.”

Obviously looking forward to making Gevaldrick eat some rotten fruit, he bent forward to look, but the box was empty. The fruit, like that in all the boxes, had been used as ammunition.

“Oh well,” he said regretfully, “let him down.”

In spite of some disappointments, it had been a successful evening. The fillies helped to clear up before retiring, and the Grand Warlock went to bed in high good humour.

Well,” said Mr. Baxter, “it’s not too late. I think there’s time to go on a little longer.”

“Time for Knobby to have another dream, I expect,” said Tom. “What’s he going to learn this time?”

“Well, if you listen,” said his father, “you’ll find out what happened in the same way as Knobby did.

Knobby realised that once again he was standing in the cave, but this time there was no yellow light from the serpent’s eyes. It was total darkness. He began to move forward, cautiously feeling his way. He stopped when he saw a faint but steadily increasing glow of light. There was a rasping, slithering sound, and he was once more facing the serpent, the huge head with its enormous eyes swaying slowly from side to side.

Knobby spoke first.

“I would like to return now,” he said. “I feel there is urgent need, and I am ready to face any dangers.”

The reply was a long time coming.

“You have entered the cave three times,” said the serpent very gently and quietly. “You have had the experience of three dreams. What do you think you have gained?”

“I have gained many things,” said Knobby. “I have grown in strength, endurance and determination. I have learnt the value of careful thinking and the part it can play in life, and finally, I have felt the Fire of Truth. I have felt its splendour and its power.”

“And you think that will be enough – enough for what you have to do?”

Knobby had started to walk along the tunnel, going back along the route he had taken when he first arrived.

“Whatever I have to do,” he said, “it will be enough. It must be enough. I cannot stay here for ever, having dreams and going through endless preparations. I must go back to the camp. I feel there is need for action, and – I feel I am ready for it.”

He continued moving forward, away from the light and the cave

“If you wish to leave,” said the serpent, “then the choice is yours. It is not in my power to prevent you. But there are four dreams prepared for your particular need.”

Knobby hesitated.

The serpent said again, “The choice is yours.”

For a long time Knobby neither spoke nor moved. Then suddenly he turned and walked back the way he had come, past the serpent, then into the darkness and into his final dream.

Have we got time for the dream this evening?” said Mr. Baxter. “Yes, I think we have. The other dreams were the Dream of Earth, the Dream of Air and the Dream of Fire, and this dream is - .”

“The Dream of Water,” said Tom.

“That’s right,” said his father. “What else could it be?”







































Chapter 6. Water, the Fourth Dream

Mr. Baxter was about to continue the story, when the words of a poem began to appear in the air.

To catch the feel of the flowing tide.
The surge of life in the sunlit sea.
To find the truth that is deep inside,
And open the core of a mystery.

This was the end of the poem, but the writing in the air continued.

The halls of the sea are wide and deep, wide and deep. From the ruby glow of the coral caves to the sparkling, icy grottoes of the North, from the darkest caverns of the deep abyss to the sun-bright glory of the rainbow surf, they are under King Neptune’s sway.

In his many undersea palaces with walls of coral and roofs of pearl he lives in great splendour, sitting, trident in hand, on a magnificent throne, and presiding over a court beyond compare. His exits and entrances are heralded by Tritons blowing on their conches. His councillors are grave merrows, in chamber or hall his sight is gladdened by mermaids, combing their sea-green hair, while beautiful nereids dance attendance on every side.

He is wealthy beyond imagination. He has mountains of flawless pearls, to rival the finest on Earth. He has ancient coffers brimming with gold and silver coins. He has treasure chests overflowing with diamonds, emeralds, amethysts, rubies and precious stones of every kind, the garnered spoil from a thousand sunken galleons

The extent of his realm beneath the waves is truly vast. There are mountains and volcanoes, there are rolling hills, there are broad, flat plains, there are forests of waving kelp, where great herds of sea-cows graze, there are oyster beds and plantations, there are spreading gardens of sea-anemones, whose delicate fronds are protected, tended and nipped in due season by a host of crabby gardeners, and this vast domain is teeming with sea-life of every kind, for his subjects are many and diverse, and their activities are as varied as their nature.

Dogfish chase catfish through the palace gardens, glamorous starfish pose and smile, pious monkfish make their devotions, and alone in simple dwellings on the peaks of undersea mountains, old hermit crabs dispense their wisdom to all who seek them out.

A little star, an asterisk, appeared by the word ‘out’, and looking down, they saw another asterisk just above their father’s head, and next to it a note that said, “For example, if you need a loan, do not approach the sharks.” When Judy asked her father what that meant, he said, “I’ll explain it later.”

The writing continued.

On the sea-bed an army of plodding lobsters clears away unwanted debris and maintains a level of order, while Silver Swordfish weave their intricate formations, rising, descending, twisting, turning, dividing and recombining throughout the full expanse of the crystal deep, their joyful underwater ballet bringing peace and harmony to the Seven Seas.

Above them dolphins and porpoises leap and tumble, sea-horses toss their white manes in the swirling foam and leviathans spout on the far horizon, while a kindly yellow sun beams down, and from the four corners of the Earth gentle Zephyrs puff their cheeks, refreshing the face of the waters and raising up dainty, white curlicues of waves.

This, then, is the realm of King Neptune, where since the very beginning of things his subjects have lived together in harmony, all happily acknowledging his benevolent rule.

But all is not well. Far, far below, in the deepest , darkest, foulest cavern of the nethermost abyss, mired in malevolence, enrapt in his fell designs, the King of the Octopi is mustering his minions. Sea-slugs and scorpions, bloodsuckers, parasites, cestodes and nematodes, sea-lice and green acid-eels, creatures that crawl and hide and wriggle in slime, creatures that shun all brightness and hate all truth, creatures of inner darkness, with venomous natures and vicious intent, he is sending them all.

Undulating, insinuating, drifting and penetrating, maliciously, silently, slowly, they are spreading unseen, and they are all imbued with his evil power.

They undermine joy and delight. They bring in hatred and discontent. They usher in clouds and storms, and sow dissension under the waves. They turn gentle breezes into roaring gales. They turn shining spray into a stinging whiplash of pain, and there is nothing immune from their insidious malice and spite. The warmest, kindest sunshine is diffused through a gloomy haze, and they tarnish the magic silver of the moon. The effect of their presence is increasing hour by hour.

Here the writing stopped.

“Golly,” said Judy. “That was like a sort of picture in words, wasn’t it?”

“What about a real picture?” said Mr. Baxter.

“Yes please,” said Tom and Judy together.

The picture that appeared showed a woman with long, blonde hair. Although she was smiling, her face looked rather spiteful, and – she seemed to be underwater.”

“If that’s a mermaid, she ought to have a fish’s tail,” said Tom.

“It’s not a mermaid,” said his father. “It’s a siren.” Then he added, “Well, let’s get on with the dream.

Knobby found that he had become a swordfish, and he seemed to know without being told – you know the way things sometimes are in dreams – that he was one of a team that was going to present an underwater dance. It was called the Dance of Harmony, and it was part of a competition that had been organised by King Neptune. The king was very worried about the evil plans of the King of the Octopi, and he had offered a prize to any of his subjects who could find a way to purify the ocean.

The competition was to take place on and above the sand not far from the central palace. King Neptune was seated on a simple throne, with his councillors close by. All his courtiers were lined up on either side, including a number of beautiful mermaids, (some of them in charge of squalling water babies). His lesser subjects, not only respectable fish, but also crabs, lobsters, mussels, oysters, whelks and other types of shellfish, were also there in large numbers, waiting for the competition to begin.

It began in a very solemn style. A shoal of monkfish sang a pelagic mystery chant in their deep, bass voices. It was rich in meaning, but almost all on two notes, with a third added on at the very end.

They were followed by thirteen spider-crabs, who began by marking a number of shapes on the sand. There were spirals, circles, triangles and squares, all connected together in a very ancient design. Then over, around and through this figure, they did a complicated series of steps, which they said would purify the ocean.

After that came the entry that most of those present had been waiting for. Three Mega-Starfish, famous throughout the Seven Seas and even beyond, sang a number of underwater songs. These were all well received, but the most popular of all was the final song, the Ocean Lullaby. It had many verses, and was sung to a beautiful, haunting tune that brought sighs of pleasure from the listeners. The final verse summed up the mood of it.

Mighty breakers cease your roar.
Just calm down and break no more.
Little wavelets go to sleep,
And so the world in safety keep.

When the last notes drew to a close, there was a storm of applause. Some of the courtiers clapped or slapped their tails, fish waved their fins, jellyfish pulsed with delight, water babies, who had no idea what it was all about, just smiled at the general pleasure, and the king himself nearly floated off his throne. Even the Portuguese men-o-war, (that’s a kind of jellyfish), though annoyed at having to leave their weapons behind, had enjoyed the song. Perhaps the whole event had more to do with the fame of the Mega-Starfish than the harmony of the seas, but it had been a splendid performance.

The entry that followed, which took place on a small patch of sand in front of the throne, was not so impressive. Twenty-four lobsters danced a quadrille, which was so slow and went on so long that most of King Neptune’s court, not to mention the rest of the audience, began to get sleepy.

The lobsters then gave a demonstration of how to make the sea-bed, which was mostly done by rearranging pieces of seaweed. As their leader carefully explained, “When the sea-bed is tidy, the rest of the ocean becomes tidy too.”

At the end of this performance King Neptune said, “We extend our royal gratitude to all in the lobster team,” and then in a tone which some might have thought showed a certain relief, “and now for the final entry.”

This was the swordfish dance. The team was known as the Silver Swordfish because of their shining, silvery colour. As Knobby swam up to the starting point directly above the court, he was sure he knew what to do, although he still felt slightly nervous in case he forgot some detail, or his mind went blank for some reason. He need not have worried. As soon as the dance began, each movement followed easily from the one before. There were twelve Silver Swordfish in the team, and the dance was in three parts.

It began with a steady circular movement, a level rotation. Then, turning suddenly inwards, they all shot towards the centre. At the last moment they twisted upwards or downwards, so that instead of spiking each other, they clashed their blades together in a pattern of crossed swords. Then twisting round, they all swam rapidly out again, making fierce stabbing movements. This was repeated several times.

The second part of the dance was smooth and gentle in nature, with continuous, flowing movements. The group rose, fell, expanded, contracted and rotated, all in a natural, satisfying way. The feeling was light and free and open.

The final part was joyful, leaping, twisting and turning, shooting into the air in a cloud of silver spray, and diving back down with a trailing wake of bubbles.

When the dance came to an end Knobby was filled with a sense of gladness and a strange feeling of having gained some kind of victory.

Then, grouped together on the sand with the other contestants, they waited for King Neptune to announce the results. The king spent some time talking earnestly with a group of senior councillors. Then he spoke, bubbling slightly as he did so.

“First of all,” he said, “we should like to extend our royal gratitude to all those who offered their contributions. We appreciated them all. The chanting was deeply effective. The spider-crabs’ steps were impressive in their power. We all greatly enjoyed the singing, and of course we will always appreciate the splendid qualities of our friends the lobsters.

However, the final entry was in a class of its own. The new Dance of Harmony was astonishing in its range and breadth and quality. It also has the advantage that there are many more swordfish who can perform this dance, which is not true of some of the other entries. Therefore,” he concluded with a kindly smile at the assembled contestants, “it is now our royal pleasure that the Silver Swordfish should approach us more closely.”

The twelve Silver Swordfish moved forward to form a tight group around the throne.

“We desire to know,” said the king more quietly, “the amount of time that would be required to instruct perhaps ten other groups of swordfish to perform this remarkable dance.”

The leader of the group was about to reply, when there was a commotion overhead, a disturbance of the waters, and they saw what appeared to be a group of nereids approaching. It soon became clear that they were not nereids but sirens, and they seemed to be in a state of great anxiety.

“Wait!” they were calling. “Wait! Wait! Wait!”

The Silver Swordfish moved aside to allow the sirens, six in all, to approach the throne.

King Neptune was annoyed. “We should appreciate,” he rumbled, “an adequate explanation for this rude interruption. If this is another entry, the competition is over.”

The sirens simply smiled in a way that was obviously false and insincere. They were quite unlike mermaids, who had fishtails and glistening, sea-green hair. They were more like nereids in appearance, except that the nereids were dark, and the sirens had long, golden hair. They also had shifty, untrustworthy-looking faces, and a manner that was altogether too flattering and sweet.

One of them spoke. “Oh mighty and illustrious monarch, eternal and gracious protector of this great and glorious realm – ”

“Indeed,” said King Neptune with a hint of impatience, “It is our royal pleasure that you should proceed from adulation to information. In other words, what do you want?”

The artificial smiles flashed out again.

“Incomparable potentate,” said one, the one who had already spoken.

“Bright beacon of wisdom,” said a second.

“Fount of all justice and truth,” said a third.

Then all six together in chorus.

“We have come to pacify the ocean. We have come to purify your realm.”

King Neptune, although he knew all about the sirens and their ways, appeared to be taking a certain amount of interest.

“What can you do?” he asked.

“Almighty king,” they said, “we would like to give your Gracious Majesty a demonstration.”

The demonstration was not beneath the sea. It took place in a little bay, with steep cliffs rising up on three sides, and snow-white breakers foaming on to the sand. The king’s throne was set up close to the waterline, with his courtiers gathered on either side. His other subjects, those who were able to leave the sea-bed, were on the sand or in partly sheltered water between the rocks.

In the centre of the bay a large, smooth rock rose clear of the water, and here all the sirens sat and began to sing. They sang slowly in sugary-sweet voices. At times the song sounded almost like sobbing. At others it was gentle and coaxing. Yet it was certainly effective. After one verse the wind, which had been gusty, began to die down. After two verses the waves were distinctly smaller. After three verses the grey clouds began to part, and the sun beamed through. By the end of the song the entire scene was totally transformed. It was a glorious, sunny day with not a cloud in the sky.

The water was calm, like a sheet of glass, and crystal clear. There was not a breath of wind. There was also an overall feeling of friendship and good-will.

King Neptune was beaming with pleasure. His decision was not in the slightest doubt. The sirens had won the contest. Delightedly he promised them full support. He would tell all his subjects, he said, to give them every assistance wherever they went. The sirens assured him that there were many other sirens who could sing the same song with exactly the same results. So, on this hopeful note, the competition came to an end.

Some time had passed. Since their triumphant demonstration in the bay the sirens were everywhere, not just the original six, but many others. They were high in the royal favour, and they made the most of this. They were always extremely polite and flattering to the king, but they were quite the opposite to his subjects. They were scornful of the monkfish and spider-crabs, and they were beastly to the careful, hard-working lobsters, frequently amusing themselves by deliberately ruining their work. They also laughed at the Silver Swordfish when they practised their Dance of Harmony.

King Neptune had lost all interest in this dance and no longer agreed to give any support in the matter of teaching it to other swordfish, or fish of any kind. Meanwhile the sirens continued to sing their songs.

The strange thing was that they did not seem to be making any real progress. Although their songs always improved the weather, this only lasted a very short time, and the weather quickly became worse than it had been before. The same thing happened with feelings. At first the songs left the listeners with a feeling of happiness, but this very soon changed to boredom, suspicion, anger and a strange sense of heaviness

The sirens refused to discuss their activities at all, except with King Neptune. They told him that although the first improvements disappeared in a very short time, they would soon become more long-lasting. The process might feel unpleasant, they said, but this was necessary, and they assured him that their methods would succeed in the end.

King Neptune believed them.

The Silver Swordfish continued to practise the Dance of Harmony, although they felt there was not much point in it, now the king had lost all interest.

Knobby kept on thinking about the sirens’ demonstration, and grew more and more uneasy in his mind. He had been impressed at the time. They all had. But as he thought about it more carefully, he began to feel that there was something very false
about the sirens’ songs. It was not just the sentimentality, the sugary sweetness. It was more the feeling of something that looked fine on the outside, but was totally empty inside. It was a feeling of flatness, of something not really being there, like eating delicious food in a dream. Yet for a short time the songs were successful, very successful. He decided he would like to hear another song, this time when the sirens thought they were alone.

King Neptune had a Chariot of State. It was superbly made, constructed from countless cockle shells, royally decorated, and covered all over with magnificent, glowing pearls. When he made his Royal Progressions around the Seven Seas, the chariot, lightly riding the waves behind the splendid team of prancing, pure-white sea-horses, was always accompanied by two lines of cavorting Golden Dolphins, six on the left and six on the right.

Knobby decided to talk to one of them. He was known as The Captain, and was the head of the team, always swimming in first position in the right hand line. He was like a picture of a dolphin on some ancient shield or coat of arms, being covered in shining, golden scales, with a golden crown on his head, and a splendid, spreading tail. He too was not happy about the way things were going, and listened with keen attention.

“I would like to see these sirens at their work when they think that no one is watching,” said Knobby. “I have a feeling they did not show us everything at the demonstration.”

“I will come with you,” said The Captain. “Then if you discover anything you will have a witness. I am still on good terms with the king, sirens or no sirens, and I think he will listen to what I say.”


So it was that the two of them, depressed and gloomy, but clinging to the hope that things might still turn out for the best, set off on their apparently hopeless journey.

Some time later, after following a group of sirens without being seen, they found themselves close to a rocky coastline, where low cliffs were constantly pounded by heavy seas. In one place the sheer power of the waves had smashed right through the lower part of the cliff, while leaving the upper part still in place, so making an opening in the form of an arch. As each wave broke, a great mass of water came pouring through this arch in boiling confusion, to spread out over the inlet beyond. Then as the wave drew back, it poured out again with almost equal fury. The force of the waves had carved out caves and hollows below the surface, which echoed and boomed in heavy seas, while great plumes of spray were thrown up high in the air. It was a fearsome place

But as Knobby and The Captain watched, the fury began to die away. The group of sirens was sitting at the top of the arch and singing. As they sang, each inrush of water that poured through below them was smaller and quieter than the one before. In the end the waves died down completely. The water no longer surged in and out, and as before there was not a cloud in the sky, not a breath of wind, and the sea was clear and glassy calm. The siren song continued, but the sirens now separated into two groups, and moved to either side of the arch. Finally the song came to an end, but unlike the song in the first demonstration, it did not end on a note of gentle sweetness. It ended with a horrible, angry, ear-splitting scream. And with that scream, so completely different from what had gone before, the effects of the song were instantly reversed.

A cold, bleak wind sprang up, black clouds covered the sky, and enormous waves once more came crashing through the opening in the cliff-face. Then as they watched, the top of the arch, where the sirens had been sitting, began to crumble, until, with a thunderous roar, it collapsed, and in a great mass of broken rocks and boulders, fell into the raging water beneath.

“You were right,” cried The Captain. “You were absolutely right. In that first demonstration we only heard half the song. When King Neptune learns about this he will certainly change his opinion.”

In his excitement The Captain rose up well clear of the waves, and was seen by the sirens. Instantly their faces twisted up with rage, and they screamed insults and curses at The Captain and Knobby, vicious, horrible curses never heard on the land. Then, still screaming, their long hair flying in all directions, all trace of beauty and glamour gone, they leapt into the churning sea and disappeared from view.

“Well,” said The Captain, “they have condemned themselves. Their song was false, and what seemed to be benefits were a deception, like the water draining away from a beach before it returns as a tidal wave. They were probably working for the King of the Octopi. After this I scarcely need to speak to King Neptune, but I think I had better see him all the same.”

The Captain set off alone. The world of King Neptune and his courtiers, the mermaids, the swordfish and their dance, and the sirens with their treacherous songs – the whole underwater world – was fading away and becoming a memory as Knobby awoke from his fourth and final dream.

And that’s it for tonight,” said Mr. Baxter. “Sweet dreams, the pair of you. You should be upstairs by now.”

“So Knobby has had four dreams,” said Judy as they were leaving. “Will he go back to the camp now?”

“Well,” said her Dad, “you’ll find that out tomorrow.”

When he continued the story the following evening, it was clear that the time for dreams was past.

“Once more,” he said, “Knobby found himself in the serpent’s cave.

“Unicorn,” said the serpent, “you have been in the cave a long time. You have faced the obstacles, passed the tests, learnt the lessons, and received the gifts of four different dreams. Your preparation is now complete. It is not in my power to offer more. You must find your own path. But if you can make full use of all the lessons you have learnt and the qualities you have received, and if you can bring to your task each one when it is needed, then your path may lead to greatness.”

“Thank you,” said Knobby.

There was no reply. The swaying head turned sideways and sank down on the piled-up coils. The enormous eyes had no lids, but their light grew rapidly dimmer, and then was gone.

Slowly and hesitantly in the darkness, Knobby began to walk through the tunnel and out of the heart of the mountain.

He did not remember much about the journey, but when he finally arrived at the camp it was getting dark. He had no plan in his mind, not even a rough idea of what he meant to do. He simply knew that he wanted to find Gracinda. What happened after that would depend on where he found her – and when. He did not even know if she was still a palace filly.

His first thought was to go to the gap in the fence where he had left the camp. He approached it cautiously, and he could see from a distance, without leaving the shelter of the trees, that the gap had been repaired.

After that he moved carefully round, always keeping to cover. There was little sign of activity outside the camp, and he saw no Warlocks. Before long he found himself opposite the main gate of the camp, which was normally opened several times a day to allow carts and other vehicles to pass. It was closely guarded, and he could think of no way of getting in without being seen. Then he realised that not far from this gate, on the right hand side of it, was a steep rock-face, and at the top of this he could see the roof and part of the wall of the Grand Warlock’s palace. Perhaps there was another entrance, he thought. Carefully and quietly, through the rapidly increasing darkness, Knobby moved closer. There was a good deal of growth along the base of the cliff, rough grass and bushes and a few small trees. He could see no door of any kind in the smooth rock wall, and there seemed to be no pathway or track between the base of the wall and the small road that ran along beside it. Then he saw a door. It was partly hidden by a tree growing beside the road, but it was just visible in the face of the cliff. He could see no frame and no details, such as panels or a handle. There was just the faint shape of a door, which was hard to see because it was the same colour as the rock on either side.

Knobby came slowly closer. Then he waited for what seemed a very long time. The darkness descended completely, and he could no longer see the wall of rock or even the shapes of the trees. There was just a faint glow of light from the main gateway some distance off to the left.

Then suddenly the door was opened, and the darkness was pierced by a beam of light. It seemed bright at first in the pitch black of the night, but he soon realised that it was really quite a dim light from somewhere inside the wall. As he watched he saw the dark shapes of two unicorns coming through the door. They seemed to be carrying something, boxes or containers of some kind. They made their way along the base of the cliff, and there was the sound of something being tipped out on to a heap. Then they returned and went back in through the door. While this was happening Knobby silently moved in closer until he was standing in shadow just a few paces from the door. In a short time the two unicorns appeared again. He could now see that, unlike palace fillies, they were docked, and they seemed to be quite old. They both had trays of some sort attached to their stumps, and these were loaded with various objects, which appeared to be bones or possibly scraps of food. As they came out through the door and made off with their loads, Knobby quickly and quietly went in.

At first he could not see much. He stood there, not moving a muscle for fear of attracting attention, while the two unicorns passed close by, going out to the heap

twice more. Then they came back in and pushed the door shut behind them. By this time Knobby could see that he was in some kind of store-room. There were piles of boxes and other objects all around, and he was standing in a small, clear space in the centre. There was a flight of steps on one side, and the light was burning at the top of this. The two unicorns went up the steps and must have picked up the light, for it quickly grew fainter and disappeared.

Knobby was once again in the dark, not just because he could see nothing, but also because he had no idea what to do next. Then he remembered the encouraging words of the serpent. He carried with him, in body and mind, everything that he had gained from his dreams. He felt sure that during his time in the cave he had grown in size, in strength, in endurance, in dash and speed and determination, in sharpness and understanding, and thanks to the fourth dream, which he was fortunate not to have missed, in sensitivity and the deepest kind of wisdom.

He had no idea what would happen if he was seen. Perhaps, with his undocked horn, he could pass as a palace filly. The thought aroused grim memories of Banseth and his scornful comments on that fateful docking day. At the same time it brought a strong feeling of warmth and hope. He felt that Gracinda was close at hand. Slowly and silently, but boldly, filled with a kind of joyful determination, he began to move forward in the dark.





















Chapter 7. The Wind-Chosen

And that brings us,” said Mr. Baxter, “to the last part of the story, the last chapter, you might say.”

“Does that mean you’ll give us another picture?” asked Judy.

“Well, alright,” said her father, and thought for a moment. Then he raised his hand. The picture was a unicorn, but very different from the ones he had shown them before. It was a large, young unicorn, who looked full of strength and vigour. He had a brilliant, pure-white coat and a splendid, full-length horn that was shining like silver.

“Silverhorn,” said Tom. “That must be Silverhorn.”

“What happens, then?” asked Judy. “Does Knobby meet Silverhorn?”

As she was asking the question some writing appeared, another poem.

The dreams and struggles of countless years
Converge on a single day,
And the load of a thousand hopes and fears
Is shattered and swept away.

“You’ll see what happens,’ said Mr. Baxter, when both the picture and the poem were gone. “Let’s get on with the story.

For the first time in living memory, and so far as they knew, for the first time ever, all the Cantibri unicorns, every member of every compound, were gathered together on the flat, open ground at the end of the Grand Warlock’s palace. As this was a very special occasion, they had no tools of any kind attached to their horn-stumps.

The guardians, headed by Banseth, were facing them, ready to take action if there was any unruly behaviour, but the unicorns stood there in almost total silence with very little movement. The guardians seemed hardly necessary.

The palace fillies were lined up neatly close to the guardians. Gracinda was in third place next to Zannerette, who was standing beside the Head Filly. Like the rest of the Cantibri, they were keeping very quiet.

Gracinda saw Knobby’s parents, Garromant and Mellinore, in the front row near the centre, and a little later spotted her own, standing more to the right in the third row back. She made no attempt to communicate with them, either by sight or sound. The lesson of keeping quiet had been too well learnt.

Around them the palace birds were watching from various nearby trees, which were filled with the noise of their squabbles over perching places. From time to time one of them would fly, a bright flash of colour, from one tree to another.

The silent waiting finally came to an end when two Warlocks came out of Meeting. One was carrying a small wooden platform, and the other had a long wooden bar with a crosspiece at one end. The one with the platform placed it on the ground, while the other slotted the bar into place, so that the two together formed an upright post, with the crosspiece at the top.

There was another period of waiting. Then suddenly the door of Meeting flew open with a great crash, and the Grand Warlock himself was standing there, with the dark, hunched shape of Skorfane perched on his shoulder. He slowly descended the steps and came forward to stand near the wooden platform. He was followed by a large crowd of Warlocks, those who had been at the feast and others, who took their places along the edge of the terrace, between the Cantibri and the guardians.

The Grand Warlock looked at all the Cantibri gathered together in front of him, and then his gaze moved to the branches of the trees. The noise of the quarrelling birds had completely died away, but for some time nothing else happened. Then, with a loud clapping of wings, Ballabeck appeared from a large beech tree and flew down to take his place on the wooden crossbar. He did not seem at all nervous, either of the Grand Warlock or of Skorfane. He knew the importance of his position. When the Grand Warlock began to speak, the Cantibri did not hear his words directly. They heard them from the twisted beak of Ballabeck.

“My friends,” he said, “I wanted to have you all together in one place, so that you could feel the encouragement that can only gained from seeing my face and hearing my words. I have inspected the work that has been done in this camp, and I am pleased. Your building work is solid and strong, and your agricultural work is going well. So I have decided to make use of you Cantibri unicorns for a glorious new scheme that I have in mind. When the time is right you will receive information on this matter. In the meantime I am going to demonstrate my generosity and the kindness of my nature by rewarding your leaders.”

There was a short pause after that, while the Grand Warlock spoke briefly to a pair of assistant Warlocks, and then Ballabeck, in a voice even harsher than his normal scream, shouted, “Head Filly!”

The Head Filly walked proudly forward and followed the two Warlocks up the steps and in through the doors of Meeting. She came out a short time later wearing a coat of greyish silver fur, and instead of the flag that she normally had on her horn, there was a plume of peacock feathers. She seemed delighted with this new costume and swaggered back to her place.

The Grand Warlock spoke to his assistants again, and then Ballabeck, as raucously as before, screamed, “Banseth!”

The huge guardian leader moved forward and stood in front of the Grand Warlock. After a moment Ballabeck shouted out another name.

“Ellisette!” he called.

At this a slim, mainly white palace filly with a delicate, yellow horn walked out of Meeting and down the steps. She seemed extremely nervous, and walked in a clumsy way. Banseth looked her up and down and said quietly, “No.”

Ellisette continued past him, looked quickly around, and joined a group of Cantibri standing far at the back. Her time in the palace was over. They were all so nervous that there was no greeting between her and the unicorns she had joined. That would come later.

It had never been done like this before, but most of the Cantibri knew what was taking place. The palace fillies certainly knew. One of them was going to be picked by Banseth.

Gracinda’s feelings, as she stood motionless next to Zannerette, were mixed. Her main sensation was great relief. If things had been just a little different, if the Grand Warlock had not changed his plans, if Belzeena had not tried to be so clever, then she, Gracinda, might be one of those now parading in front of Banseth, rigid with fear, and desperately hoping they would not be picked.

Combined with this feeling was one of sympathy for the fillies who were in this position. She was sorry for all of them, though she did not know much about them, having had little contact in the palace, but most of all she was sorry for Belzeena. She might have felt hatred for Belzeena, or a hope that she would be picked by Banseth, but these were not the thoughts in her mind. She remembered Belzeena’s helpfulness at the time when she, Gracinda, was learning to be a palace filly. She thought of Belzeena’s intelligence, her clever tips on how to remember things. It was Belzeena’s misfortune that she had allowed her intelligence – and her fear – to guide her actions. Combined with her sympathy, Gracinda, although she was not at all to blame for what had happened, felt a sort of guilty relief. It was an unpleasant feeling, but there was nothing she could do. It was all beyond her control.

Bllabeck squawked out another name.

“Azzamella,” he called.

Another filly walked down the steps from Meeting. She was very dark, mainly black with patches of brown and a dark-brown horn, and was, if anything, even more tense and nervous than Ellisette had been. Banseth took one look at her and repeated his previous comment.

“No,” he said shortly.

Azzamella was followed by Delvesta, who was black and white, Soubette, who was pale-brown, with a browny-yellow horn, and Serriole, who was a greyish-white, with little specks of brown. Banseth rejected them all. During this time Gracinda grew more and more tense.

Finally Ballabeck drew himself up on the crossbar and shouted out the sixth name.

“Belzeena!” he screamed.

There was a long pause during which nothing happened. There was total silence throughout the whole assembly. However, Gracinda’s thoughts were racing around in her head. This was the moment, the awful, terrifying moment, that Belzeena had schemed so hard to avoid. All her plans and all her calculations had come to nothing. After all her efforts to prevent it from happening, she was about to appear in front of Banseth, and quite probably, almost certainly Gracinda thought, she would be chosen. Gracinda’s feelings were a painful mixture. She was extremely glad not to be in Belzeena’s position, but at the same time she felt very sorry for her. She could hardly imagine what Belzeena must be feeling.

The silence was broken by the harsh, impatient voice of Ballabeck shouting the name again.

“Belzeena!”

This time something happened. There was the sound of some activity inside Meeting, and then the door opened slowly and Belzeena appeared.

It was Belzeena. It had to be Belzeena, yet she was hard to recognise. She seemed somehow smaller, as if shrunk into herself, and her movements were fearful and slow. Step by step she came down from the door of Meeting, and began to cross the terrace. Banseth and the Grand Warlock were standing some distance apart, and as Belzeena slowly advanced she moved towards the Grand Warlock, obviously trying to keep as far awayfrom Banseth as possible. As she did this Banseth moved forward until finally Belzeena was standing between him and the Grand Warlock, almost touching both. There she stayed. She could go no further.

Banseth looked her over. In spite of her miserable condition she was still a handsome unicorn, with her neat, trim body and smooth, dark coat. After studying her for a while, Banseth moved back a few paces, and looked again from there. Then, gruffly and briefly, he spoke to her. “Turn round,” he said.

Stiffly and awkwardly like a robot, Belzeena turned. She was now looking back the way she had come, towards the steps of Meeting. Once again Banseth looked at her for a long time. All of a sudden he seemed to make up his mind. “No,” he said.

There was no movement. Nothing happened.

“No,” said Banseth again.

Still Belzeena made no attempt to leave. She stood as motionless as if no word had been spoken, or as if she could not hear what was being said

The Grand Warlock spoke to Ballabeck, who then turned towards Belzeena.

“Unicorn,” he yelled in a raucous scream, “get out of it! Go!”

This finally had some effect on Belzeena. She began to move forward, realised she was going back towards Meeting, turned, and then stood, as if afraid to approach Banseth again, half suspecting that it was some kind of trap or cruel trick.

Ballabeck screamed a second time, “Get out of it! Go on, get out!”

Still Belzeena hesitated. Then she suddenly burst into action, dashing frantically not for the gap between the Grand Warlock and Banseth, but out to the left in the way that would pass them at the greatest possible distance. There was something despairing and hopeless about the way she ran, as if she could not believe that she would ever escape. She collided with the boundary wall, stumbled and nearly fell, righted herself, and finally joined the rest of the Cantibri unicorns

By now there was quite a lot of noise among them. The Grand Warlock frowned, and Banseth glared around fiercely, then started to flex his whip. The other guardians did the same, and the sound soon died away.The Cantibri waited for the next name to be called. Then they slowly began to realise that there were no more names. It was over. All the palace fillies returning home that year had now returned, and Banseth had chosen none of them.

Once again they waited in silence. Then the Grand Warlock moved towards Banseth, who seemed to be lost in thought, and spoke in a quiet voice.There was a short conversation, in which it appeared that Banseth was asking for something. The Grand Warlock considered for a moment. Then, nodding as he spoke, he made a brief reply before moving away.

Banseth looked quite different. His whole manner had changed. Whatever the Grand Warlock had said to him, he was obviously delighted. It soon became clear why.

Taking his time, Banseth looked around him. He looked at the main body of Cantibri unicorns. He looked across the terrace at the lines of Warlocks. He looked at the hooded guardians, armed with their whips. Finally he looked at the group of palace fillies where Gracinda was standing, and he began to walk towards them. Ignoring all the others, he went straight up to Gracinda. As if in a daze, she saw his enormous form, the dark-grey, slightly curly coat, with patches and flecks of white, and the huge, red whip swinging lazily overhead. He seemed to loom over her, blotting out every other sight and sound. Banseth did not speak to her. Turning once more to face the Grand Warlock, he finally made his choice.

“I want this one,” he said.

The Grand Warlock nodded and gave a short command. Several attendant Warlocks came forward, together with two of the guardians. They led Gracinda away, up the steps and in through the door of Meeting.

Some time later she reappeared. Still with the guardians and the attendant Warlocks on either side, she came slowly down the steps. The whole group advanced to where Banseth was waiting. Then the Warlocks and guardians left, leaving only Gracinda standing there. She was now wearing a light-blue cape, which had a number of dark-red stars embroidered on it. They were the same colour as Banseth’s whip and the same size and shape as his medallion. Then, as Gracinda stood there, something completely unexpected happened, something which had never happened before. Banseth, staring round at the assembled Cantibri, issued a challenge.

“This filly is mine,” he said. “Are there any here who dispute my claim?”

There was total silence.

“Good,” said Banseth. “I take it that none of you objects.”

This time there was a response. Gracinda’s father, Dennister, lifted his head in a movement of protest, and said something that might have been “Yes.”

“Aha,” said Banseth, “so you object, do you?”

He stared hard at Dennister, and then said, gently and quite politely, “In that case would you mind stepping forward.”

Slowly but defiantly, as Banseth waited, Dennister came forward, pushing his way between the densely packed mass of the Cantibri. When he was clear of the group, Banseth suddenly arched his neck, and the enormous, dark-red whip shot out. Dennister tried to dodge, but with a vicious, ear-stunning crack, the whip slashed across his side, leaving a bright-red mark on his coat. Dennister half collapsed, and Banseth drew back his head to strike again. At that moment another voice was heard. Loudly and clearly it rang out over the whole assembled gathering.

“Yes,” said the voice, “I object.”

Checking his second whip-stroke, Banseth turned. So did all the Warlocks, the guardians and the palace fillies. Every eye was on the half-open door to Meeting. There, standing on the steps, was an unknown unicorn. They took in the smooth, light-grey coat and the undocked horn, but it was clear from the voice, the size and the general appearance that this was no palace filly. They watched as the unicorn came down the steps from Meeting, moved on to the terrace past the row of fillies, and halted some distance from Banseth. Then he spoke again.

“You asked if anyone objected,” he said. “The answer is yes. I object.”

Banseth stepped forward a little. He seemed to be measuring the distance between them. His voice, however, was quiet.

“And who are you?” he asked.

“An objector.”

“I see,” said Banseth. “Well, that can be cleared up later. Right now ---.”

Without warning he suddenly arched his neck, and the great red whip shot out towards the stranger. The stranger was quicker than Dennister had been. Like lightning he jumped back out of range. The whip made a deafening crack, but did not make contact. Then, before Banseth could draw back to strike again, the stranger closed in quick as a flash, and stood with point of his horn against Banseth’s throat. It was a large, strong, light-grey horn, and the watchers could see that it was ready to strike home. Banseth could do nothing. His whip was useless at such close range, and if he tried to move away, the stranger kept pace with him. There was no escaping the long, grey horn, so Banseth simply stood there, seething with rage, while the tip of the stranger’s horn never left his throat.

The Grand Warlock was looking alarmed, and spoke rapidly to Ballabeck, who passed on the message in his usual raucous voice.

“There are 25 guardians here,” he said to Banseth. “If you need help with this intruder, they can surround him and prevent him from escaping. He can then be killed with a sword or sent over the Fatal Fall.”

“Help?” shouted Banseth in a fury. “I do not need help with my executions. I will kill this wretch myself in a formal duel.”

Then he said to the stranger, “The choice is yours. Strike home now and we will both die, but for you, pushed off the terrace to fall on to the jagged rocks far below, it will be undignified and nasty. Or you can take your chance in a duel with me, which will follow the proper rules that have been laid down for these occasions. Do you accept?”

“I accept,” said the stranger.

The Grand Warlock was pleased. The running of the camp depended largely on the guardians, and it was important that they should not appear weak. They had to be seen to be unbeatable, especially the Head Guardian. There was no doubt that Banseth would win a formal duel. The Cantibri would see that the stranger’s victory at this first meeting was just a fluke, and Banseth would regain the respect that he must have lost in their eyes. So the Grand Warlock ordered the place to be prepared.

A short time later, after the group of Warlocks had moved away from the edge of the terrace and were standing, together with the guardians, close to the end of the palace, after the Cantibri, already quite closely packed, had shifted back and back until they could go no further, and after the Grand Warlock himself, taking Ballabeck and his stand, had moved to a position at the end of the row of fillies, the empty space in the centre of the terrace was a great deal larger. The space was empty, that is, except for the two contestants.

The stranger was standing between the Warlocks and the lines of Cantibri. Behind him the terrace had no boundary fence or wall. It ended in a sheer drop down to jagged rocks, which were outside the Cantibri camp. It was said that more than one unicorn had gone over this in the past, and not always by accident. It was known as the Fatal Fall.

The Grand Warlock, speaking as usual through Ballabeck, announced the conditions of the contest.

“This duel,” he said, or rather Ballabeck squawked, “this duel is about a filly. Banseth, having been offered a filly in reward for his services, and having made his choice, has been challenged in the matter by an unknown stranger. The Grand Warlock, following the ancient custom, has decided that they may settle the matter by formal combat. When Banseth kills the stranger, as he surely will, the stranger’s body will go over the Fatal Fall. If, on the other hand, the stranger is victorious, he will be free to take the filly, and the two of them will be free to leave the camp. And now,” he concluded, “you are invited to watch the fate of all who challenge the authority of the guardians. Let the combat begin.”

What began, however, was not the combat itself, but a sort of test to see if the stranger deserved the honour of meeting Banseth in a duel.

One of the senior Warlocks, who had disappeared into Meeting a short time before, now came out wearing a many-coloured robe and a tall, pointed hat and holding a wand in his hand. He was the Grand Warlock’s Enchanter. Accompanied by two assistants, he made his way to the centre of the terrace, between the two rivals, and there he set to work.

One of the assistants, who had a handful of what appeared to be dry sticks, put them carefully on the ground. The enchanter then walked slowly round them in a circle, never taking his eyes from the pile. Suddenly he pointed his wand at the sticks and spoke a single word, a short, sharp word that sounded like a curse. There was a crackling sound, and then a thin wisp of smoke began to rise from the pile. The smoke very quickly became thicker and began to spread, and as it did so the Enchanter began to sing. It was a complicated song, rising and falling in a not very tuneful way, and sounded for all the world like a set of instructions, which was precisely what it was.

When the smoke was high enough and widely spread enough to enclose a small building, the Enchanter’s song came to an end, finishing on a long, drawn-out word that sounded like now-ow-ow. The smoke then cleared very quickly, as if the magic that had made it was also making it disappear.

Where the pile of sticks had been there was now a circular, flat-topped building a little higher than a unicorn. The walls, and also what could be seen of the roof, were jet- black in colour, and made of some shiny, smooth material. Yet the general effect was far from black, because set in the circular wall of this building and equally spaced all round it were many doors, each one a different colour. In the centre of each door there were eight small, square panels, set quite close together, and here again the colour of each was different.

The two assistants now retired, and the Enchanter, who seemed able to speak any language, and did not need a translator, turned towards the stranger.

“Stranger,” he said, “you have dared to challenge the leader of the guardians, who has offered to meet you in a formal duel. Before doing this, however, you must pass a test to prove that you are worthy of this honour.”

He then pointed to the circular building.

“In this building which I have conjured up, call it a riddle house, there are, as you see, many doors. Behind one of those doors there is a sword. Behind all the other doors there are various monstrous creatures whose exact form not even I, who called them into being, know for certain. These monsters have been created by magic, and they can only exist for a short space of time. When that time is coming to an end the doors will automatically open, and the monsters, whose natures have been formed in such a way that they will attack you and you only, will be released. Needless to say, they will destroy you. There is only one way you can avoid this fate, and that is to find which door conceals the sword and open it first. If you succeed in doing that the monsters will not be released. Your task, in other words, is to find the sword before the monsters find you.’

“I see,” said the stranger. “So, with no further information, I must find and open this door.”

“I will give you three sets of information,” said the Enchanter, “which will be in the form of riddles. The first two riddles will give you the colours of two doors which you must not open, but which, taken together, may tell you the right door to open. The third riddle will tell you how to open it.”

“I see,” said the stranger again. “I am ready to begin.”

The Enchanter made no reply. He took up a position between the stranger and the riddle house, and stood in silence for a moment, as if deep in thought. Then he spoke. “Hear now,” he said, “the first riddle.”

A mighty shout,
And yet not high.
Open this door,
And you will die.

The stranger did not move. He said nothing. He was thinking. There was total silence throughout the gathering. Not even the birds made the slightest twitter. Then the stranger began to think aloud.

“A mighty shout,” he said, “is a bellow. It is also a bawl, a yell or perhaps a cry.”

“Go on,” said the Enchanter.

“Something not high is low, or in the case of a shout perhaps soft.”

“Time is passing,” said the Enchanter.

The stranger thought in silence for a moment.

“Yell and low,” he said, “make yellow. So I must not open the yellow door.”

The Cantibri applauded, tossing their heads and drumming their hooves on the ground, but stopped when the guardians began to flex their whips. The Enchanter gave a grim smile. “Hear now,” he said, “the second riddle.”

An aim or intention,
Then a lair.
Open this door
And face despair.

Again the stranger stood deep in thought, but this time he did not speak. He kept his thoughts to himself. The watchers had no way of telling how close he was to solving the riddle.

“The time is passing,” said the Enchanter.

Still the stranger said nothing.

“Not even I,” said the Enchanter, “can say precisely when the monsters will be released.”

The stranger did not reply. The riddle house shifted slightly. It seemed the creatures inside were moving about. Then the stranger spoke.

“I have the answer,” he said. “An aim or intention is a goal. A lair is a den. Goal and den makes golden. So I must not open the golden door.”

There was another burst of applause, which not even the guardians with their whips could prevent. The Cantibri were filled with excitement – and hope.

“You have discovered two doors that must not be opened,” said the Enchanter. “Go on. There is not much time.”

The riddle house was now shaking, and strange sounds, grunts and growls and other animal noises, could be heard inside. Ignoring these, the stranger walked round it, carefully examining the doors. Once again he was thinking aloud.

“I must not open the yellow or golden doors,” he said, “but these doors together will show the door that should be opened.” He paused for a moment and then added in a thoughtful tone, “Between them they will give the answer.”

After another pause he suddenly exclaimed, “There is only one door between them, and that is the green.” Then, turning to the Enchanter, he said, “I choose the green door. That is the one I would like to open.”

“You will have to be quick,” said the Enchanter, and with no change of expression he continued, “Hear now the third riddle.”

To mark the flesh,
And to allow.
To finish searching
Press it now.

The stranger stood thinking, and as he thought, the noises in the riddle house increased. There was a deep, gruff roaring, together with a snarling, snuffling sound. This was followed by a series of screeches, as well as thumps and scratches against the doors.

Still the stranger stood in thought. Then something else happened. Very slowly, with a nasty, creaking noise, the doors began to open. It could now be seen that they were still held by chains, but through the power of the enchantment the chains were growing longer link by link, and as the chains lengthened, so the doors opened wider. Only the green door remained completely closed. As the doors opened, strange things began to appear from behind them, from one a large, bird-like foot with long, yellow talons, from another a thin snout with curving fangs, and from a third a pair of slimy, green tentacles, as the snarling, hissing, grunting creatures inside did their best to escape.

“The monsters will soon be free,” said the Enchanter.

The thin-snouted creature was pushing against its door, and a single eye was now visible, while the two green tentacles had been joined by a third.

Suddenly the stranger stepped forward towards the green door, and pressed the tip of his horn against one of the small, square panels – a bright red panel – in the centre of it. Instantly the opening doors began to close again, while the green door swung smoothly and easily open. Inside, on a kind of low table, was a long, gleaming sword of the type that was sometimes used by guardian patrols.

“Stranger,” said the Enchanter, “allow me to offer my congratulations. You have passed the test.”

There was a tremendous burst of applause. The Cantibri were delighted. This stranger had not only shown that he was an excellent fighter. He had also proved that he was intelligent. He could keep his head and think clearly and rapidly in a dangerous situation. They did not know this of course, but none of the snip-snip birds, not Gripling, not Dumpling, not Stickling himself, could have done any better.

The riddle house, meanwhile, had begun to disappear. The roof and walls grew thin and flimsy, before vanishing completely. The creatures inside lasted a little longer, though in a tangled mass, in which the shapes of teeth and claws and a pair of bat-like wings could still be seen. Then, hissing and sputtering like burnt-out fireworks, they too disappeared. All that remained was the table and the sword that was lying on it.

Pointing to this, the Enchanter said, “This sword is now yours by right. Though also created by enchantment, it is a real sword, and it will last as long as you need it for the duel.”

“I need no sword,” replied the stranger. “My horn is my weapon. I will fight as I am.”

“The choice is yours,” said the Enchanter, “but your opponent will certainly have a sword.. To defeat him with your horn you will need as much good fortune as you had in guessing which of the panels would open the door.”

“It was not a guess,” said the stranger. “To mark the flesh is to scar, and allow means let, so I pressed the scarlet panel.”

The Enchanter seemed about to reply, but Banseth, who had quietly left the terrace after the solving of the final riddle, now reappeared. The large, red whip that he normally carried was gone. In its place was a shining sword, which was the same size and type as the one on the table. As the Enchanter went to join the other Warlocks, and the table with its unwanted weapon was removed, Banseth took up his earlier position, and stood facing the stranger. The Cantibri, looking at the two of them, found little in the sight to raise their hopes.

The stranger was a fine-looking young unicorn, large and clearly very strong. The muscles rippled under his glossy coat, he moved with perfect balance, and they had already seen that he could attack with lightning speed.

If the stranger was large, however, Banseth was larger. Banseth was truly massive, and there was no doubting his enormous strength. He could also move fast, and when he made practice cuts with his sword, so that it whistled round in a flashing arc of fire, it seemed impossible that any unicorn armed only with a horn could stand against him.

Ballabeck now made an announcement. “The stranger,” he squawked, “having passed the riddle test, has earned the right to meet Banseth in a personal duel. However, before the duel begins, the Grand Warlock would like to make one final offer.”

He turned to the stranger.

“Your opponent is armed with a sword,” he said. “It is your right to have a similar weapon, and as you know, there is one available. You are undocked, but that can soon be changed, so the Grand Warlock asks you, one final time, if you wish to take this opportunity.”

The stranger’s reply was brief. For the second time he said, “My horn is my weapon. I will fight as I am.”

There was no more to be said. Rising up importantly on his perch, Ballabeck, also for the second time, called out, “Let the combat begin.”

As the two unicorns began to circle each other, Banseth said, not loudly but loudly enough for the Cantibri to hear, “I am glad you passed the riddle test. I now have the pleasure of killing you myself.”

The stranger made no reply. The two of them continued to circle. The stranger was alert and so light on his feet that he seemed to be dancing. Banseth was calm and very confident. His plan was to cut off the stranger’s horn with his sword, after which it would be easy to kill him. But to do this he needed to get in a good, straight blow, and the horn was everywhere at once, now sweeping round in a circle, now flicking out to right or left, now driving forward in a lightning lunge. The stranger himself was never still. With his alertness and lightning speed, there was no question at this stage of driving him into a corner or towards the Fatal Fall. Twice Banseth slashed at the horn, and twice he missed, the sword-blade swishing through empty air. The third time he made contact, but the blade was turned aside by a quick twist of the horn, and he could not avoid the stranger’s counter attack. It was only a slight wound, the horn had punctured the great knot of muscle at the top of his leg, but the Cantibri went wild. The terrible Banseth, the unbeatable Banseth had been wounded. First advantage had gone to the stranger. There was no stopping the Cantibri. They not only drummed their hooves and tossed their manes, they began to shout.

“Come on stranger! Keep it up stranger! You can beat him. Give him another one, stranger.”

Whether or not these shouts encouraged the stranger, they certainly had an effect on Banseth. His mood was completely changed. He had not been badly wounded, but his pride had been hurt. His early confidence had now turned to a grinding rage, a vicious, grim determination. If it was going to take longer than he had thought to kill this stranger, then so be it. But kill him he would.

His method now was to stand his ground and wait for the attack. Sooner or later the stranger would make a mistake, he would leave himself unguarded, and when that happened, a single good, straight, downward cut of the sword would be enough. Even without that, the stranger could hardly keep up the present pace. He was bound to tire.

Yet this did not seem to be happening. In spite of his constant movement, in spite of the speed of his attacks, the stranger seemed to have the endurance of an aurochs. There was no sign that he was tiring. His attacks never stopped for a moment, and they seemed to be growing even faster. Banseth had to concentrate on defending himself, rather than cutting the stranger’s horn, but he was wounded twice more, very slightly at the base of the neck and rather more deeply in the left side, while the stranger was still unmarked. Then, in another lightning attack, the stranger scored again. The tip of his horn pierced the fleshy part of Banseth’s right foreleg, and the guardian leader, losing his temper, threw aside all caution.

Roaring with rage, and slashing from side to side with his sword, he charged at his rival. Caught off balance, the stranger warded off the blade, but could not avoid the full force of the charge, which knocked him over. With incredible agility and speed, he got back on his feet, while Banseth, also thrown off balance by the collision, stumbled slightly. Then he twisted round, and his wildly slashing sword caught the stranger on the side. It was a shallow cut, but definitely a wound..

The two then met in a whirling confusion of fighting fury, churning up the earth as they struggled for advantage, but too close together to use their weapons to any effect. Twice they separated and crashed together again, and the second time, after a furious exchange of attacks and counter-attacks, that was almost too rapid to follow, the watching Cantibri realised that the stranger’s horn was caught in the tangled hair of Banseth’s mane, so that the two opponents were locked together. Both had been freshly wounded. Banseth, using his greater weight, was slowly forcing the stranger towards the edge of the Fatal Fall.

Then suddenly the pattern changed. The stranger turned sideways, so that he now had the crowd of Cantibri behind him, and twisting back towards them, he freed his horn. Banseth slashed at the air as the stranger leaped clean over his back. The stranger, whirling round even as he landed, pressed the sharp point of his horn against his enemy’s throat. The tables had been completely turned. Banseth was beaten.

The silence that followed was broken by a single word.

“Surrender,” said the stranger.

The silence continued. Grimly, stubbornly, Banseth made no reply.

“Surrender,” said the stranger again.

Then something quite unexpected happened.. One of the guardians darted forward from the group, and with every ounce of strength in his scrawny body brought his whip squarely down on the stranger’s back. As the stranger whirled about, Banseth, who had never surrendered, raised his great blade and crashed it down in a mighty blow, a terrible sword-stroke that shattered the base of the horn and sliced through muscle and bone. He killed the guardian. The stranger, with almost incredible speed, had not only twisted round, but in the same movement had leaped to one side, and Skimmeril, the crafty, vicious Skimmeril, had paid the final price for his interference.

As this happened the Grand Warlock started forward with a loud shout. Whatever the word he called out, it seemed to act as a signal. The remaining guardians, all 24 of them, dashed forward to help their leader. The result was a battle that was one great tangle of confusion. The stranger was everywhere at once, yet it was impossible to get to grips with him. The guardians tried to lash him with their whips, they tried to surround him and prevent him from moving, they tried to force him over the edge of the Fatal Fall. Banseth made desperate efforts to kill him as he had done Skimmeril, but the sheer numbers of the guardians blocked and hampered his efforts on every side.

The stranger leaped and twisted, swerved, advanced and retreated. He ran forward and then reversed, so that the guardians attacking him collided with each other. He leaped clean over the backs of his attackers. He advanced towards them, so that they turned and ran and got in the way of others. He retreated before them and sprang to one side, so that in their eagerness they lashed other guardians. And always he fought them, stabbing and thrusting and stabbing again. He fought like a hero, like an avenging fury, like a Banneree dragon aflame with the Fire of Truth.

One by one at first, and then in greater numbers, limping, hobbling, groaning, the guardians retreated from the battle, leaving the two opponents face to face. Both wounded, they began once more to circle round each other. The mark of Skimmeril’s whip on the stranger’s back was now criss-crossed by many others, but he had not lost his agility. Banseth, on the other hand, was beginning to stiffen. Nevertheless, he was the first to gain an advantage. With a slash from his sword he cut the stranger’s cheek. The stranger fell back, and Banseth, sensing victory, followed him. As he advanced he began to talk, a string of nasty threats and promises.

“You’re finished,” he said. “You’re played out. You’re beaten. I’m going to kill you. I’m going to slice you to pieces, and I’m going to send you over the Fatal Fall.”

The horn-thrust took him by surprise. A lightning stab in the chest was followed by another in the side, as the stranger parried his stroke and shot past him, striking as he ran. Banseth, roaring with rage and pain, whirled round to face his enemy. Then, desperate to win at any cost, he played a trick that brought him disaster.

It began by chance. As the stranger was coming forward to attack again, Banseth caught his sword in the ground, which by now was well churned up and loosened, and it flicked a small chunk of earth into the stranger’s face. This was a mistake, but what followed was not. The earth did not harm the stranger, but it distracted him, and he did not press on with his attack, so Banseth tried to do it again. Deliberately this time, he dug his sword deep into the ground and heaved. With a tremendous crack the blade broke in half.

It was over. Once again the stranger closed in. Once again he called on Banseth to surrender, and this time Banseth responded.

“I surrender,” he said.

It was truly over. The stranger had won. Banseth was defeated and stood there sullenly as the Grand Warlock, together with the Enchanter, came on to the field. The Enchanter spoke.

“By the agreed terms of the duel,” he said to the stranger, “you have the right, as the winner, to go your way unhindered, together with the filly. However, as her cape is embroidered with the badge of your rival, it should first be removed, and this can be done more easily in the palace.”

The stranger thought for a moment, and then agreed. Gracinda was once again led up the steps into Meeting, and several Warlocks went with her, including the Enchanter.

It was quite a long time before she came out. While they were waiting a strange thing happened. Some dark-brown smoke drifted out of the door of Meeting, and more came out of some of the windows. Then Gracinda appeared. She stood at the top of the steps, with the Enchanter behind her, and seemed to hesitate, before coming slowly down. As she made her way past the row of fillies, she was walking in a strange way, and holding her head very low. The stranger watched her, and when she came to a halt he began to move towards her. Gracinda stretched her head towards him and waited. He had almost reached her when suddenly, for no obvious reason, he leaped away.

He was just in time. With a loud, harsh, whirring sound, Gracinda’s tongue, or what seemed to be her tongue, shot forward out of her mouth. It was in fact a long metal spear, about twice as long as the stranger’s horn. For a moment she stood there motionless, while the deadly weapon, still quivering, moved slowly up and down. Then she fell on her side, and smoke began to rise from her body.

It was not Gracinda at all, but like the riddle house and the monsters in it, a thing made by enchantment, a horrible, conjured-up imitation, as false as a siren’s song. If the stranger had not been able to sense the deception and leap away, the spear would have killed him.

There was silence over the gathering as, like the riddle house before it, the body sizzled and smoked, and then disappeared. The silence was broken, surprisingly, by Banseth. For some time he had been looking at the stranger.

“I asked you before,” he said, “and I ask you a second time. What is your name?”

The stranger hesitated.

“I am surprised at your question,” he said, “because we have met before.”

“We have met before?”

“We certainly have, and it is not the second time you have asked my name. It is the third.”

Banseth was puzzled.

“Perhaps you remember,” said the stranger, “a docking day, and a young dockee who did not want to be docked.”

Banseth started. A change came over him. He glared at the stranger. Then he began to roar with rage.

“You! You! You!”

At the same time he began to shiver slightly, and the shivering increased until he was shaking all over. Then suddenly he charged. It was a crazy, desperate, suicidal action. The stranger scarcely needed to dodge. He stepped aside as Banseth, still roaring, hurtled past him and went straight on – over the edge of the Fatal Fall. The awful, fading cry of rage and despair was cut off at last by a terrible impact. Then silence.

It was the end. Plainly and simply, it was the end of a brutal tyrant. In a wider sense it was the end of many more things. The cruel, hateful rule of the guardians, the power of the Warlocks, the evil plans of the Grand Warlock himself, and above all else, generations of slavery in the Cantibri camp, all these things had perished with Banseth on the jagged rocks below.

It was also a new beginning. Just as Gracinda, the real Gracinda, appeared at the door of Meeting, the stranger turned to face the Cantibri. The words he spoke had not been heard among them for many generations, yet in some strange way they seemed to understand their meaning.

“Cantibri unicorns!” he cried. “Cantibri unicorns! I invoke the Thunder Horde. Follow me.”

And they followed. Without the assistance of the guardians, the Warlocks could do nothing to hold them back. The Enchanter’s magic, though powerful, was not designed for such things. They followed the stranger down the entrance road, not the narrow path beside the palace, but the main entrance road, then under the little bridge where Gracinda had been trapped and on round the curve till they came to the high stone arch. There was a guardian there – not quite all of them had been present at the gathering – but he was young, and when he saw the Cantibri he made no attempt to stop them. It would have been useless. The second stone arch was unguarded, and passing this, they poured out on to the road by the docking field.

They were now near the entrance to the camp, and thundering up the road past an empty guardian compound, they found that the gate, though closed, was also unguarded. It had not been made to withstand a determined charge, and it did not withstand the Cantibri unicorns. Leaving it shattered and hanging open, they streamed along the road outside. Then, galloping through a wood, across a field and through another wood, they came to the banks of the river Tan. Without pausing, they splashed and swam across this, and then on over fields and through clumps of trees, until they found themselves in open grassland. Here they waited for a time to let the slower ones catch up. Then when they were all together in a group, they set off towards the distant line of mountains.

The stranger hardly spoke, but he seemed to know exactly where he was going. When they were still some way from the edge of the plains, he turned slightly to the left and made straight for a gap in the line of hills. They followed him through this, and passing a number of smaller hills, they finally came to one that seemed unusually steep, and was a good deal higher than the hills all round it. Without hesitation the stranger made his way to the base of this hill, and as the Cantibri watched, he began to climb it.

He seemed to know his way. In a very short time the Cantibri, who had spread out to form a circle round the hill, saw his form appear at the top. He was standing there motionless, as if waiting for something. Then they realised that directly above them a large, black cloud was formimg. It was spreading rapidly, and very soon it covered most of the sky.

Suddenly there was a blinding flash of lightning, and a moment later a deafening crash of thunder. Then the rain came down. It came down like a gigantic waterfall, almost a solid wall of water. At the same time, while the thunder rolled and roared, the lightning played about the sky. It stabbed down into the hills. It flashed into sheets of flame. Finally a colossal bolt of lightning came straight down on to the pinnacle of rock where the stranger was standing. The thunder that followed was so loud that it seemed to shake the world.

Then the Cantibri realised that the rain had stopped. When they looked up they saw that the sky was beginning to lighten. The storm was over.

And there, on the rocky summit, was the stranger, but he was transformed. The cuts and wounds and traces of battle had disappeared, the whip marks were gone, and the coat that had been grey was now brilliant white.

But the greatest change of all was in his horn. For the magnificent, perfect horn that he raised to the sky was no longer grey. Nor was it brown or white or yellow.

It was GLEAMING, SHINING SILVER.

And a tremendous shout went up from the Cantibri, a single word that came bursting out, as if from some ancient memory.

SILVERHORN!

It echoed round the mountains.

SILVERHORN!

It soared to the sky.

SILVERHORN!

It rang out over the plains.

At last the sound of it died away. Then a different sound was heard. It was very soft at first, but it quickly grew until it blotted out all other noises. It was a rising wind, but it was no normal wind. It seemed to be blowing into the centre from every direction. It had risen now to a gigantic roar, and it was bending the trees. All the trees around the hill were bent down low, as if paying their respects, and the Cantibri were pressed down close to the ground.

Then quite suddenly the wind subsided. The trees straightened up again, and everything was calm. When the Cantibri looked up at the summit of rock, the stranger was no longer there. Then some of them saw a movement at the base of the hill.

A little later on a flat stretch of grassland out on the plain, the Cantibri had formed a circle round their new leader. They waited in silence as he stood there, looking about.

Then Gracinda, with her ivory-coloured coat and her slender, undocked horn, left the circle. She walked up to the leader. They looked at each other and said nothing. The feeling between them was too deep for that, and there would be plenty of time for talk. When she finally spoke it was just a single word.

“Knobby,” she said.

Many hours later the unicorns were strung out along the top of a ridge, looking down on a broad expanse of country below. They could see rolling plains, mile upon mile of waving grassland. They could see woods and scattered groups of trees. Far away, glinting like silver in the evening light, they could see a river, and beyond that a range of mountains – new mountains. The Cantibri camp and all its surroundings were far behind them now.

Gracinda, Garromant and Mellinore were standing near the leader, and Dennister, whose whip mark had nearly gone, and Pelisse were also nearby. Bumpus too was there. He was admiring the leader.

“That’s the way to be,” he said. “A sorry sight most of us look, with stumps instead of horns.”

The leader looked at the line of Cantibri, spread out along the ridge. The palace dockees were there, most of them still with pans or brushes on their horn-stumps. Close by them was a small group of fillies, who had all once been picked by Banseth, and, standing slightly apart from the rest at the end of one line, there were some large but very subdued-looking unicorns. These were ex-guardians, who had asked, and been allowed, to join the group.

By far the greater part of the line, however, was simply the working population of the camp, the Cantibri unicorns. The leader turned back to Bumpus.

“Your horns will grow,” he said. “Given time, they will grow.”

Then, looking about him, he raised his voice to speak to the whole of the gathering.

“Come,” he said. “Come. We have a new life to begin.”

A short time later anyone looking at the scene might have noticed a moving cloud of dust on the far horizon.”

There was a short pause after that. Then a final piece of writing appeared in the air.

‘And so, for many, many years, the great and glorious King Silverhorn the Mighty, with his beautiful queen, Gracinda, led the Cantibri unicorns in a life of exultant freedom, to gallop over the plains in a phalanx of living thunder, to graze at ease in the lush, green valleys, to strike brave sparks from the chilly mountain gorges, to raise their horns to the sky and feel the vibrations of the creative power that made them, and to live again as once their race had lived, for age upon age since the very dawn of time.

And there, in their pristine world of valley and mountain, river and pasture, Earth and sky,
there, in their primal harmony,
there, as we finish the tale and return to the hassle of human existence,
there let us leave them,’

The story was over. For a moment or two they sat in silence. Then Mr.Baxter looked at his watch.

“Time for the two of you,” he said. “We seem to have finished rather late this evening.”

Neither Tom nor Judy said anything. They were both thinking. Finally Judy spoke, in a rather dreamy way.

“I liked the writing at the end,” she said. “It was sort of poetic, wasn’t it?” Then, after another thoughtful pause, she asked, “Did Knobby really turn into Silverhorn on the mountain?”

“Well, not exactly,” said her father. “He became the new leader, and he was given the title Silverhorn, as well as the appearance that went with it, the pure white coat and the horn that shone like silver. It was rather like getting a new uniform to go with his position.”

Tom had also been looking thoughtful. Now he said, “Knobby needed all four of the dreams. If he’d missed just one of them he would have lost the fight.”

Judy seemed doubtful.