They walked between the doors, leaving a trail of green sludge behind them.
‘We mades it,’ Tark said, as they approached the metal plinth.
‘Not quite,’ said a familiar voice.
Tark and Zyra looked up to see Princeling Galbrath step out from behind a nearby door, where he had been waiting.
‘I believe you have something belonging to me,’ he announced. ‘I shall have it back. And I shall have your money as well, as compensation for all my troubles.’
‘Who's the annoyin’ squirt?’ asked Zyra.
‘The princeling I tooks the sword o’ light from,’ answered Tark.
‘Sods off,’ called Zyra to the princeling. ‘Or I'll breaks ya face.’
‘Oh, I think not,’ said the princeling, smiling broadly. ‘May I introduce to you my new mage, Skurgebroth the Undefeated.’
A purple-robed figure stepped from behind the door on the opposite side to the princeling. He had flowing locks of curly gold; a long, disproportioned face with a squat nose and copious pimples; round, wire-rimmed spectacles; a wand of entwined gold, silver and bronze, ending in a flurry of platinum filigree; and he looked all of about thirteen years old.
‘Lets me guess,’ said Zyra. ‘He's undefeated ’cause he's too young to have beens challenged yet?’
‘Lay down your arms and surrender,’ said the pimply-faced mage in a cracked voice, as he raised his wand. ‘Or I'll turn the both of you into toads.’
‘I didn't thinks mages used wands,’ said Zyra conversationally to Tark.
‘No,’ agreed Tark. ‘Wands is used by apprentices who don'ts has enough of their own powers.’
‘So it's kinda like trainin’ wheels, really,’ said Zyra.
Tark nodded.
‘Stop it!’ whined the young mage, the end of his wand sizzling with power as he raised it above his head.
‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ demanded Princeling Galbrath. ‘Toad them!’
Skurgebroth threw his hand forward, pointing the wand at Tark. Sparks shot from the end, elegantly flew through the air for several metres, and then dropped to the ground and fizzled out of existence.
‘Real impressive,’ Zyra said.
‘Crap!’ said the princeling.
‘Hold on, hold on,’ said Skurgebroth, holding up his hands. ‘I've done this before. I can do it. I know I can.’
He raised the wand again, concentration contorting his face.
‘Betta be safe than sorry,’ said Tark, drawing the lightless sword o’ light, and holding it over his shoulder like a club.
Skurgebroth flicked his wand. Sparks shot from the end, this time heading for Tark with greater force. Still, by the time they reached him they were slowing. Tark swung his sword like a bat, easily hitting the ball of sparks, which streaked straight back to the mage with far greater speed than they had left him.
Skurgebroth tried to duck, but alas he was too slow. With a yelp and a puff of purple smoke, he demonstrated the validity of his spell by turning into a toad.
‘Crap!’ said Princeling Galbrath.
‘Croak!’ said the mage as he hopped out from the pile of robes and over to the princeling, jumping up into his hands.
‘You have not heard the last of me,’ said Princeling Galbrath, holding up the toad and shaking it at Zyra and Tark. The toad's eyes bulged. ‘I shall return!’
And with that, he turned tail and ran.
‘Star?’ asked Tark.
‘It'd be a waste,’ answered Zyra, as the princeling ducked out of sight behind a door.
Tark nodded.
‘Well, that wuz entertainin’, but,’ said Zyra, ‘backs to the matta at hand.’ She approached the pedestal and reached out a hand.
‘I'd waits if I was you,’ said a voice from an opening door.
A figure stepped into the whiteness, slowly cracking the knuckles of his right hand.
‘Nots again.’ Zyra sighed theatrically. ‘I thought we gots rid of ya.’
‘Don'ts ya eva learns?’ said Tark.
‘Oh, I learns plenty.’ The Cracker chuckled.
Straining to see, Zyra thought she caught a glimpse of red drapes, wood-panelled elegance and glass display cabinets, before the door slammed shut behind him.
‘Seems ya gots more learnin’ to do, yet,’ said Tark in his best menacing voice.
Zyra's hands moved like lightning, producing and throwing three stars in quick succession. With equal speed, the Cracker raised his right arm. The stars froze in mid-air, a centimetre from the back of his hand.
With his other hand, the Cracker pointed to a watch-like device strapped to his wrist.
‘Magnetic field.’
With a flick of his wrist, the stars were flung aside.
‘Toys,’ Zyra said.
‘Yeah, well,’ said Tark, stamping his feet and looking down at his boots. They still had splatters of green sludge on them. ‘I coulds just kick the crap outa ’im.’
The Cracker's eyes fell on Tark.
‘Well, well, well,’ he said slowly, tongue darting across his lips. ‘Aren't we the pretty-pretty boy.’
‘Wot?’ said Tark, glancing at Zyra, who rolled her eyes upwards.
‘You must be Zyra's pretty-pretty boy,’ continued the Cracker, eyes examining Tark from top to toe. ‘My, my, my. A thief for hire. The thoughts of potential coinage verily doth gives me the dizzies.’
‘Wot?’ snapped Tark, louder now, glaring at the Cracker. ‘Wot's ya on about?’
‘You, my pretty-pretty,’ explained the Cracker. ‘There is peoples who'd pay handsomely for a thiever the likes of you.’ He then shifted his attention to Zyra. ‘Of course, the two of you. Together. Now that's would be some serious coinage.’ He stroked the back of his hand across his burnt cheek. ‘Says the word, and I woulds be willing to forgets past grudges.’
The muscles in Tark's face twitched. ‘We works for no one!’
‘Sods off!’ snarled Zyra.
‘Haves it your way.’ The Cracker shrugged and reached into his coat. He pulled out a glove made of shiny black fabric, inlaid with silvery wires. It crackled and sparked with energy as the Cracker pulled it onto his right hand.
‘Nots more toys,’ grumbled Zyra. ‘Where, in the name of the Designers, does ya gets ’em all.’
‘Froms me employer, o’ course,’ said the Cracker. ‘And he wants you out of the way.’
‘Ya has an employer?’ asked Zyra.
‘’Course I does,’ said the Cracker flexing his gloved hand. ‘I freelance as well. But alls the big jobs is for the Fat Man.’
Zyra's eyes narrowed. ‘Ya works for that tub o’ lard?’ she spat.
‘Now, now, now, my pretty-pretty,’ said the Cracker. ‘Name callings will gets you nowhere.’
‘I can help you,’ called a voice from the whiteness.
Princeling Galbrath dashed out from behind a door.
‘Why woulds ya wanna ’elp us?’ asked Tark, surprised.
‘I have no intention of helping you,’ snarled the princeling. ‘I meant that I could help this fine gentleman, who is in the employ of my potential benefactor.’
‘Wot?’ asked Tark and Zyra together.
The Cracker also raised a quizzical eyebrow.
‘The sword o’ light,’ explained the princeling. ‘The Fat Man is my buyer. I was on my way to sell it to him when you,’ he pointed an accusing finger at Tark, ‘stole it.’
‘Shoulds ’ave used a star when ya hads the chance,’ said Tark to Zyra.
‘I believes I have the matter in hand,’ said the Cracker to the princeling, lifting his gloved hand and cracking his fingers, one by one.
Tark drew the sword o’ light. ‘It mays have lost its shine,’ he said, threateningly. ‘But it's still a sword. And I knows how to use it.’
The Cracker suddenly clenched his fist and thrust it forward. A bolt of white-hot energy discharged from the glove and blasted the sword from Tark's hand. Tark yelped and clutched his hand, which tingled and stung as if it had just been set upon by a swarm of bees.
‘Watch it, you moron,’ yelped the princeling. ‘That sword is worth more money than you'll ever see in your pathetic lifetime.’
The Cracker rounded on the princeling.
‘A dead sword o’ light ain't worth all that much,’ said the Cracker, flexing his gloved hand threateningly. ‘And you'd better watch your mouth or I'll shut it for you.’