“Those are the colours of our trade,” Pettyl explained when asked. “Red and yellow are the goldsmith’s, white and grey the silversmith’s, brown and black the bronzesmith’s, white with black and red feathers is the fletcher’s, yellow and orange the brewer’s, and so on. You will soon learn them.”
“What about the . . .”-he didn’t know the word in Elfish, so he used the English-“blacksmith’s?” He was interested in what elfish weapons were to be had. “What colour is that? Red and black?”
“What is a ‘blacksmiths’?” she asked, unpacking and smoothing down the surface of a long banner.
“Someone who shapes, um . . . steel,” Daniel replied. “An ironmonger.” He drew his sword and tapped it.
Pettyl twitched, as if shocked. “Put that away! Let none see it!” she whispered harshly. “Hidden prince,” she said as an oath, “if I had known that all this time, you-good elves have no need for such a thing!” she exclaimed.
“What do you use for swords and tools?”
“Bronze is good, as is brass or any number of mixed metals. Some swords are even made from stone, but those are expensive and rare-the art to wright those is being lost.” She frowned. “Steel is a cold, hateful metal, and iron is downright heartless. It houses none of the passion that the warm metals keep. It despises our flesh and corrupts it. We have no dealings with it.”
Daniel sheathed his sword again. This information sparked a train of thought. He now recalled, vaguely, that iron was tied up with elfish lore and myths somehow. There was iron in his blood, he knew. Maybe they didn’t have any inside them. But did they get any of it in their diet? Had he been getting any of it in his diet? Maybe that was why he was feeling so fatigued.
What would happen if he never got it? Would he die?
“When will I be able to talk to someone who can send me back home?” Daniel asked the collier and his wife once the shop had been completely set up. Daniel was impressed. Various streamers and flags had been arranged to make a compelling pattern. Sawdust had been strewn all about the ground so that it was dry and clean, and a long banner with the colours of their trade and an elfish script describing their name had been fixed to a pole a little distance away from the tent, closer to the general flow of elves walking within the Fayre.
“That is best done soon,” the collier said. “Pettyl will mind the stall now, you come with me.”
The two followed a wide path that took them into the heart of the Fayre, where a group of more interesting and esoteric stalls stood. They passed cloth merchants selling clothes with fantastically woven patterns and pictures. Smaller vendors offered strange foods, calling out their names: Roc Eggs, Christian’s Delight, Old Man’s Temptation, something called snake’s hoofs, suckling roasted carbuncles, spiced mandrake root, and more besides.
There were drinks and potions also: Honeymooner’s Mead, Red Absinthe, sweet milk, moly tea, and wines and cordial made of fruits and berries Daniel had never heard of before. Then they came to a part of the Fayre that sold charms and trinkets-table upon table of bright, dazzling pieces of metal- and stonework, as well as vials containing potions and elixirs.
“The rule for the forest goes the same here-perhaps more so.
Lest you be trapped here permanently, touch nothing.”
Daniel kept his hands in his pockets but took in all he could with his eyes. There was a banner outside one blue-and-black tent that caught Daniel’s attention-he couldn’t read what it said, but it bore shapes that apparently represented different realms, because one of them was shaped exactly like Great Britain.
4
Alex inspected the wound at his side. It wasn’t much. It didn’t look as if he would need stitches. He went towards the dead dragon and started to work his sword out of it. “That was a good upwards swing,” he complimented Maccanish. “And well placed.”
“Thank you. I’m a keen golfer. What do we do with the body?”
“Whatever you like. Although it’s not going to be around for long. The natural chemicals it makes in order to spit fire are highly corrosive. It’ll be a pile of sludge by nightfall unless you know the proper way of removing them. Look, see-the head is already decaying.” Alex finally managed to pull his blade free. He inspected it. Apart from being covered in acidic dragon’s blood, it seemed none the worse for wear. It needed a good cleaning. Luckily, he had an alkali solution wash in his Land Rover.
“Remarkable. What about the trolls?”
“Again, whatever you please. Leave them here or call the Royal Society of Anthropology. That’d give them a fright. I always wondered what would happen if someone did that. In any case, my work here is finished. You had bigger problems than I thought if you had a dragon move in here.”
“So what does that mean?” Maccanish asked. They stepped outside and stood in the cave’s mouth. “What does that mean for the valley? For our troubles?”
“Well, you’ll be back to being able to sleep, for a start. People will be less inclined to evil deeds and the feeling of dread and oppression will be lifted. But people will still be hurt, and they’ll still be frightened, as they won’t understand, or allow themselves to understand, what has happened. It’ll be your job to help them through that. You need to keep an eye out, though. If the people hereabouts slide back into despair, these things and more could come back. Keep an eye out. And I’ll give you a number where I can be contacted. But you can give thanks now that you have been delivered from evil.” Alex stuck out his hand. “And I can give thanks that you’ve kept such an excellent golfing form.”
Maccanish smiled and shook Daniel’s hand.
“What are you going to do now?” Maccanish asked.
“There’s one more thing that I need to check on. You go on back. Thanks again for your help.”
“Thank you.”
Rector John Maccanish started off, back down Morven. As
Alex watched him go, he heard the man begin to sing a hymn as the clouds finally opened and released a gentle rain upon the mountain and its plain.
Alex went back into the cave. He broke another glow stick and clipped it next to the other, which was dimming. He hung his sword by its hilt onto a carabiner on his belt; it bumped comfortingly against him as he walked. There would be no more danger here-he was no longer on alert.
Instead, he tried to get himself in the right frame of mind- doing the mental exercises his father taught him-and walked farther into the tunnel. He stepped cautiously over the body of the dragon and then those of the trolls. He turned the corner and passed the dragon’s pile of shiny loot-its bedding. Then he came to a chiseled stone wall made of square one-foot-by-one-foot blocks, and about as high and wide as a standard doorway.
Alex put his hands up against it and cleared his mind, thinking only of being between. He had no intents or aims in life; he was open to all options. He was standing at the crossing of all paths.
He visualized this last thought as standing in a country road with signs pointing in all directions.
It took a few moments before he felt his hands sinking into the stone. It was harder now that he was older and had a purpose in life, but his heart and soul were still open to new callings. Once his arms were through the stone, it was easy. He visualized himself being between the stones now. He stepped forward and, with a sensation like moving through water, he was through and into the hidden chamber of Morven.
It was much like the others he had been in. A simple octagonal room with a ceiling, perhaps lower than others. Silver lamps lined the walls, throwing their ancient light on the stone plinths and the eight sleepers that lay on them.
Except that these warriors were no longer sleeping-they were dead. They had been dressed in full plaids and sporrans and had been armed with two-handed claymore swords and sgian dubhs, but now their corpses were mangled, eviscerated, picked-over. Flesh had been torn from bone, joints separated, and the pieces scattered.