Herbie Brennan - Ruler of the Realm

‘Oh, dear, what now?’ Madame Cardui sighed. She walked across and thumbed the security lock.

A florid-faced General Creerful was standing with his hand raised to knock again. He ignored Madame Cardui completely.

‘Gatekeeper, Lord Hairstreak’s at the palace gates. He demands to see Queen Blue.’

The heat hit him like a wall. Then came the smell. ‘Whooo!’ Pyrgus exclaimed, and began to cough helplessly as some acrid fume caught in the back of his throat. Nymph, who was hard on his heels, began to cough too. Only Woodfordi, bringing up the rear, seemed unaffected.

Pyrgus looked around, still coughing. This was his first visit to the Eastern Desert and, if he had anything to do with it, it would be his last. He’d heard about this area, but nothing prepared him for the reality. A barren, rocky pavement stretched as far as the eye could see, broken at intervals by plumes of smoke and dust. A criss-cross of cracks glowed dull red from the lava flows beneath, casting a peculiar glow across the entire scene. Not a hundred yards from where they landed, he could see a softly bubbling mud lake.

Woodfordi handed him a flask. ‘Try this, sir, begging your pardon, sir. And the lady too.’

‘What is it?’ Pyrgus asked between coughs.

‘Little something for the throat. Army issue. They tell you it lines the passages and prevents permanent damage. Don’t know about that, sir, but it does help.’

Pyrgus took a brief swallow and handed the flask to Nymph. The liquid was viscous and tasted foul, but his coughing eased at once. He turned to lock the flyer – no sense in taking unnecessary chances – then said, ‘North-east, wasn’t it?’ He glanced up at the sky.

Woodfordi smiled slightly. ‘’Fraid I don’t remember, sir. Part of the training.’

Nymph confirmed, ‘Yes, north-east.’

‘I’ll lead the way,’ said Pyrgus and strode off.

It proved heavy going, even on the flat, and after half an hour he began to wonder about Madame Cardui’s estimate of their timing. The trouble was the fumes. Although Woodfordi’s liquid stopped the coughing, there was no way of avoiding noxious gases getting into your lungs. He’d read somewhere that if you stayed a little too long in this wasteland you started to hallucinate. (And if you stayed a lot too long, you died.) But even before that happened, the desert sapped your strength.

The irritating thing was that neither Nymph nor the little soldier Woodfordi seemed to be as badly affected as he was, so he had to push himself to the limit to keep up the stupid pace he’d set. The two of them walked after him easily. They even had breath for a chatty conversation.

‘How did you get to be a CC?’ Nymph asked.

‘Born to it, I think, Miss,’ Woodfordi told her. ‘Parents found me chatting to my nan when I was a kid. Only trouble was the old girl died before I was born. Well, they didn’t know what to do with that, did they? Simple people, my folks – Dad worked on an ordle farm, Light rest him. So they sent me off to a special school: I think they were a bit scared, to tell the truth.’

‘Was this some sort of training school?’

‘Not really, Miss. But one of the teachers realised what I was and raised enough funds to get me a year in the Psychic’s Academy – you know, the one off Flannelmaker’s Square. That’s where the military found me. Only way a titch like me could get into the army. My wife says I need to stand on a box to kiss her anywhere above the knee. So you couldn’t imagine me in combat, could you?’

‘Can you still talk to dead people?’ Nymph asked curiously; and Pyrgus’s ears pricked up, even though he was pretending not to listen.

‘Heavens no, Miss. Army knocked that out of me. No use to them, see? Troops would waste their time chatting to their fallen comrades. They trained me to contact the Military Guide instead – some sort of angel, I think he is, although you’d never believe it when you hear him swear – and he showed me how to do the messages. Receiving was easy, right from the start, but sending’s a bit tricky until you get the hang of it.’

‘Can you send a message to anybody?’

Woodfordi shook his head. ‘Oh, no, Miss – only another channel. We make up a sort of network, you might say. When the Painted Lady called you before, she was talking in the ear of a mate of mine called Weiskei.’

Pyrgus stopped dead. They had entered a boulder-strewn area and he was certain there was something moving behind a rock.

‘Quiet!’ he hissed.

Nymph responded at once and unslung her bow. Pyrgus pointed silently to the rock and she began to circle behind it. As much for a diversion as anything else, Pyrgus said, ‘Better take cover, Mr Woodfordi.’

‘Sir!’ Woodfordi acknowledged briskly.

Then Pyrgus abruptly realised Nymph might be moving into danger and started to run towards the rock, reaching for his trusted Halek knife.

And then suddenly, incredibly, they were surrounded.

Blue woke with a start. For just the barest moment she didn’t know where she was, then saw she was in her Imperial Quarters, in a comfortable chair where she must have fallen asleep. How long ago? Minutes? Hours?

She felt better. Various pains had drained from her body, leaving only a residue of stiffness, and her mind was a great deal clearer. She started to push herself out of the chair when the memory flooded back. The war. She’d be needed in the Situation Room.

Then as the knocking came again she realised what had wakened her. ‘Come!’ she called and her voice pattern released the spell securities.

It was Gatekeeper Fogarty, along with Madame Cynthia and -

‘What’s he doing here?’ Blue demanded. Her heart was pounding suddenly. For a mad moment she thought he might be a prisoner of war.

‘My deeah,’ said Madame Cynthia cautiously. ‘Your uncle has something to say to you.’

Lord Hairstreak was already striding forward, arrogant as always, dressed in his favoured black. ‘Your Majesty -’ he began formally.

What in Hael was he doing here? No guards. No uniform. He might have been on a social visit.

‘I’m here to offer an immediate truce,’ he said.

Blue stared at him, certain she’d misheard. Nobody would offer a truce so soon. It had to be a trick.

‘Why?’ she asked him simply.

Hairstreak’s face remained unreadable. ‘Because,’ he said, ‘if we do not cease fighting at once, the Realm is doomed.’

Pyrgus slid his knife slowly back into its sheath. From the corner of his eye, he could see Nymph carefully setting her bow and arrows on the ground. Then she stood up and raised both hands to show they were empty. A little to his right, Woodfordi had ignored the order to take cover and was standing with his empty hands exposed as well.

‘We come in peace,’ said Pyrgus, feeling stupid.

There were maybe twenty-five nomadic Trinians in plain sight and Light alone knows how many more still hidden in the rocks. They were wearing only loincloths on account of the heat and all three Trinian types were represented. Violets predominated as you’d expect in a hostile environment, but there was a goodly scattering of orange and even one or two green. None of them was armed. They didn’t need to be – all three breeds were toxic. A Trinian bite was almost always fatal and even a venom spit – which travelled several yards – could incapacitate you for months. Pyrgus noted with relief that the leader – you could tell he was a leader from the feathers – was orange.

‘Ayre ning?’ the leader asked solemnly. His face was striped with white and purple paint.

Pyrgus looked at him blankly. Trinians – even nomadic Trinians – were supposed to speak Faerie Standard and perhaps this one did, but his accent was so thick it might as well have been the click-speech of High Halek.