Darren Craske - The Eleventh Plague

'When diplomacy fails, it's time to fight dirty,' Prometheus had once told him.

It was good advice.

The biggest of the Scarabs, Arus, stepped towards Quaint, his fists raised. 'We shall grind your bones and feast on your entrails, Englishman!' he snarled.

Quaint smiled. 'Aren't you going to say "Fee-fi-fo-fum"?'

The hulking Scarab swung at him with his massive fists, surprisingly quickly for a man of his size. The showman was taken aback and the punch felled him. Sprawled on his back, Quaint kicked out like a mule and the Scarab wailed as his nose cracked.

'That's going to bruise in the morning,' Quaint quipped.

The other Scarab saw his chance and he leapt. The conjuror whipped the bottle of absinthe from his waistband and smashed it across Nasbek's face. Like a shot partridge, the Scarab fell to the ground on top of Arus, who was still nursing his bloodied nose.

Quaint wiped his mouth. The fight was done. Had it not been for most of the camp's Scarabs pursuing Polly, it might have been too big for him to handle.

'You are nothing but an old man,' said Arus, spitting blood.

'What did you just say?' Quaint asked, taken aback.

'He called you an old man!' said Nasbek. 'You cannot escape. Our clan brothers will kill you before you get twenty yards!'

'Oh, I doubt it,' Quaint said. 'They'll be far too busy putting out the fire.'

'Fire?' asked Nasbek.

'What fire?' asked Arus.

Quaint reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver tinderbox. Opening it, he struck the flint and a spark hopped from the box into the puddle of anise-smelling liquid spread on the floor. The flames followed the trail of alcohol, snaking across the room towards Arus and Nasbek as if they were seeking them out consciously. Arus howled as the fire caught hold of his robes. Soon, Nasbek joined him in the twisting, twirling dance as they tried to pat out the flames. The fire skipped to the walls, setting the door alight. Within seconds, the room was engulfed and the doorway out was searing with flames.

Quaint took the only exit available and followed the route used so successfully by the Professor. He leapt out of the window, landing uncomfortably on the veranda outside. He could hear yells and screams behind him as the tavern erupted in a crescendo of alarm, the fire spreading quickly to other parts of the building.

Heading to the makeshift stables, Quaint yanked the long pole that the Scarabs' horses were tethered to, and it fell free of its mooring. He clapped his hands and stomped his feet to frighten the horses, and they scattered in all directions, all except for a tan-coloured horse. Heaving himself onto the animal's back, he looked at the trail of dust rising on the horizon. Faroud was right. The Professor would not get far on foot.

Quaint recalled a word that seemed to induce a marvellous effect on horses, yelling 'Az-Toray!' into the beast's ear.

The Diversionary Tactic

CORNELIUS QUAINT STREAKED through the Bara Mephista valley in hot pursuit of Aksak Faroud's posse. Following the track that snaked its way between the towering, sand-covered mountains, he risked a glance over his shoulder. A gang of Scarabs tumbled out of the tavern, plumes of thick, dark smoke spewing from every window. One thing was for sure: he had blown any chance of getting information out of Faroud now. He followed the dust from the Scarabs' horses up a gentle incline until his eyes lost sight of it. The sky was darkening, and visibility was already poor. He could see the tips of a large mountain range in the near distance, framed against the burning purple-orange sunset, and he urged his horse on further, trying to beat the curve of the hill's rise. As the ground dipped sharply, Quaint saw something that made his stomach lurch.

Only fifty yards ahead of him was a herd of tethered horses, plus a group of four dismounted Scarabs standing on guard outside a large cave at the foot of the shadowy mountains. The incline of the hill had masked just how big the mountain range was and it fell deeply into the low-lying ground, spreading out across the landscape as far as the eye could see.

Quaint dismounted and quickly retreated down the incline to find a better vantage point to observe the Scarabs' movements. He would be of no use to the Professor if he got himself caught. Keeping as low to the cooling sand as his broad bulk would allow, he crawled along the ground on his elbows. Soon, he had circled around behind the men. It was then that he was faced with a conundrum – how was he to get past four armed Scarabs without being seen? He needed a diversionary tactic, something to thin out the odds, and as he noticed the gathering of horses tethered together nearby, a semblance of an idea struck him…

The four Clan Scarabs froze stock still as the frantic neighing of panicked horses filled the air all around them. A maddened herd – tethered together at the neck with their tails aflame – charged across the desert trailing plumes of stench-ridden smoke. The Scarabs stood open-mouthed. Despite their best efforts to translate the sight, an answer was not immediately forthcoming.

'What was that?'

'Demons!'

'Do not be stupid. It was not demons, Mukhtar!'

'But, Temis, they were creatures aflame like beasts from hell!'

'They were our horses, you fool!' said the more sensible of the Scarab quartet. 'If we do not get them back the Aksak will set our tails alight! You two stay here and keep your eyes keen.' The Scarab nudged the arm of a slight younger man on his right. 'Alifah, you can come with me!' The two men sprinted into the desert wasteland, following the golden glow that lit up the dusk in the distance.

From his position, Quaint grinned satisfactorily as he clipped shut the lid of his tinderbox. Now there were only two Scarabs left for him to deal with.

Much better odds.

He moved swiftly, rising from amongst the grasses, smashing his formidable mass into his foes. The dumbstruck Scarabs fell to the ground in a clumsy mess of sprawling limbs. As they dizzily tried to clamber to their feet, Quaint snatched up a discarded sword from the dust.

'You chaps have two choices,' he said, switching the sword from Mukhtar to Temis in time with his words. 'Either you can take a leaf out of your friends' books and run like mad…or you can stay here and tussle with me. But I warn you; I know how to use a sword, and whereas one of you might get lucky, the other one will surely taste the blade. Now, which one of you is going to be the lucky one?'

Mukhtar and Temis swapped nervous glances.

'Horses?' asked Mukhtar.

'Horses,' confirmed Temis.

They scrambled to their feet, and soon were just specks in the distance, their feet pummelling against the sand frenetically.

Quaint looked thoroughly pleased with himself. 'Not bad for an old man.'

In the cave behind him, he could hear whooping and jeering, and he was returned roughly to the here and now. The Clan Scarabs were on a hunt for their quarry and the chase had started without him…

The Intriguing Development

AFEW MILES ALONG the road that followed the snaking bends of a lake, Ahman slowed his cart to a halt next to a small ring of trees. Helping Destine down, he laid a blanket onto the cool sand by the lapping waters of the lake. Along the banks, lush grasses and ferns flourished, reaching up to tease the breeze. The setting was an ideal stage upon which to discover the origins of the long-buried secret.

Ahmad made a small fire that battled against the wind to stay alight, and he rushed around busily, finding kindling to keep it burning. It was only when he was finally seated that Destine laid the parcel onto the blanket. Whatever it was, it was wrapped in rough sacking, fastened with a thin strip of leather tied into a thick knot. Savouring every moment, Destine unfurled each flap of rough, worn material.