Sample Chapters
Extract from Thera: Our World, Not an Empire, by Andrew Dobbig, published 1781, summarising Thera’s early history until the year 410
No one knows where it came from or how it came into being. According to the 5th century Theraeon Cosmography, the Shield of Crenac just appeared one day in the year of 410 AT. There is no reason to doubt this – particularly as earlier works mention nothing of shields, magnetic or otherwise, and Therans were clearly free to visit and enslave the Thissibriles unhindered before the year 410. Furthermore, thousands of Thissibrileans were being sent in the opposite direction, also unhindered, to live out miserable lives as slaves in Northern Epanaga. Or at least they were before the year 410.
The earliest pre-410 literature to have survived and been translated was, of course, penned by our Father of History, Theodorus, after whom our periods of ancient and modern history are divided. He was aged thirty-five when he first dipped a quill in ink and began recording history on a roll of papyrus. Ten years later, in the now-official year of 10 AT, he began work on his great atlas, Orbis Theraeum – a work which, significantly, did not contain any references to magnetic shields in the Northern Ocean, or anywhere else for that matter.
What Orbis Theraeum did showcase, though, was a talented team of ancient cartographers. Not only were those first maps in Theran history a reasonable approximation to northern Epanagan maps of today, but in circumnavigating the continent, they also worked out that Thera was orb or globe-shaped. Then, when they went on to map the Thissibriles, they reasoned that our islands were at the northern apex of our globe, and posted the first-ever theories as to what might be at the opposite end of our world, too.
But, as the 8th century Thissibrilean monk Ebde said, some seven hundred years later: “One day, we will rejoice in this knowledge.”
Yet still, we wait.
I must now backtrack slightly, to satisfy the Theran Conspiracists, a movement which is gathering some momentum, these days. The Conspiracists believe that Theran scholars have been sending disinformation through the Shield of Crenac for centuries. Anything to disadvantage us should the Shield ever disappear, and part of an alleged centuries-old masterplan to enslave us once again, taking our fairest ladies for their harems, and our strongest men to fight in their barbaric gladiatorial pits – as they once did over 1,300 years ago!
Of course, there is no evidence of these institutions and practises in our literary exchanges with the Therans, but I suppose one should keep an open mind. So, humouring the Conspiracists, one of the main vehicles of this disinformation, they say, is that today’s maps of Northern Epanaga resemble very closely those of the 1st century. Since we can’t pass through the Shield to disprove that theory, the Conspiracists retain their voice. Personally, I have no problem believing the Therans – as the Neo-Therans of the 18th century have had almost a millennium and a half to develop the more enlightened culture that they portray in their literary updates. How, after all that time, could a modern-thinking and forward society, whose contemporary inventions are parallel with, and sometimes exceed our own – how could they possibly remain underpinned by foundations based on brutality, slavery and conquest? That is completely socially infeasible.
What I can say with absolute certainty, though – thanks to serving for twenty-seven years on the United Thissibrilean Universities Committee for Knowledge Exchange – is that we Thissibrileans return a perfectly accurate account of our culture to the Neo-Therans, keeping them up-to-date with our scientific, medical and engineering advancements. There have also been some remarkable examples of collaboration between we Thissibrileans and the Neo-Therans, with plans for modern inventions being passed back and forth over the Shield of Crenac. Recent examples include the development of the miners’ safety lamp, the creation of the steam engine and the introduction of the stethoscope. There certainly doesn’t appear to be any element of disinformation from my viewpoint, which leads me to believe the Neo-Therans on another major social issue – when they tell us that they ceased producing weaponry three centuries ago, and as a result, their multiple nations live in permanent peace. Naturally, the Conspiracists dispute that claim, always pointing out the occasional messages in bottles that reach our shores painting a very different picture of constant war and bloody conquest – which, in turn, the Neo-Therans dismiss as the work of cranks and troublemakers.
But back to cartography, and let’s assume that modern Neo-Theran maps are indeed accurate. This places Liatia at the heart of Western Epanaga along with its capital, the city of Thera – this being located a hundred leagues south of the Liatian port of Siplonea on the Northern Ocean. What is remarkable about those early 1st century cartographers, though, is that they also mapped two hundred leagues of terrain south of Thera, as well. And despite the passage of over 1,350 years, today’s maps reveal little more than those of the Ancient Therans – fading away at the bottom into the unknown vacuum of The Desolation, an area still blistering and arid, bereft of shelter and therefore still uncrossable. Again, the Conspiracists dispute this. But what would the Neo-Therans gain from withholding southern geographical evidence? It is of zero use to us, penned in as we are at the North Pole.
It is fair to say, though, that later Theran maps from the 2nd and 3rd centuries deliver a less-accurate outline of the Thissibriles, but surely this was down to the infancy of cartography back then, combined with the difficulty of mapping the rugged, complex and island nature of our polar homelands. They could certainly be forgiven for missing off some of our nine hundred-plus islands, particularly the multitude which surround Aldenocia, and they do at least place our islands in the correct positions, suitably ranged about the North Pole. By contrast, mapping their own continent must have been comparatively straightforward, given only one mappable (albeit vast) coastline. And let’s not forget that it still took we Thissibrileans another one thousand years to improve on those ancient Theran maps of our islands, plus another three hundred and fifty to perfect them!
But we digress. My inbound point on this debate about ancient cartography, is that the Shield of Crenac is conspicuous by its absence from those 2nd and 3rd century maps; it clearly didn’t exist, back then.
Moving away from maps, it is also thanks to Theodorus and his Theran successors, that we know some of the basic detail of our own cultural development, here in the Thissibriles. Clearly, during Theodorus’ lifetime, these islands were home only to barbarians, whilst the ‘enlightened world’ lay to the south of Glennad and Lendria, in north-western Epanaga. At this time, northern Epanaga was dominated by the First Theran Empire, which ran from roughly 200 BT to 425 AT, and the centre of this empire was, of course, the ancient city of Thera – also the name of our world – but in terms of name alone, the city came first. Theodorus, himself, explains when writing in 11 AT:
“It was around two hundred years ago that we Therans decided to name our world after our First City – thus ensuring that should the empire ever fall, its name will live on forever.”
Back to the Thissibriles, though, and we all accept that it was in the year 43 AT that the First Theran Empire conquered our polar homelands. And although we only have the Therans’ word for how that panned out, and how they then ruled here for nearly four hundred years, our extensive modern archaeological evidence suggests that their accounts are accurate. It is certainly clear that at the time of the Theran invasion, the islands of the Thissibriles were still locked in the Iron Age, which began here in around 700 BT – the point at which the local Iron Age tribes began constructing vast hillforts. Many of the ditches and ramparts of these hillforts survive across our islands, demonstrating how elaborate those defences were, whilst within, there were closely packed round huts, some used for accommodation and some for storage. Some of the larger Iron Age hillforts supported over a thousand people.Alas, these hillforts were still rapidly overrun in 43 AT, by the organised and sophisticated Ancient Theran legions. The nearest of our main islands to Liatia, Glennad and Lendria, were taken first but, suitably forewarned, Bramcia and Aldenocia proved far more difficult to conquer, having organised a fierce resistance. They were led by the legendary Accrataus, and it was he who led his famous ‘last stand’ against the Therans in 51 AT, having successfully resisted the invaders for eight years. That said, it is thought that Accrataus unwittingly brought on the invasion in the first place. He was a chieftain of the Levitucalutan tribe in central Glennad, and prior to the Theran invasion, he had begun to expand into neighbouring Trebastea territory. The ousted Trebastean queen, Revica, fled to Thera and appealed to the emperor, Dacu Lius, for help. This was allegedly the excuse Dacu Lius had been looking for to invade the Thissibriles, which he promptly did in the summer of 43 AT.
According to Theran records, Accrataus’ ‘last stand’ of AT 51 was smashed by the Therans in a battle somewhere in Bramcia. Accrataus was captured and surprisingly spared execution – albeit to be sent in chains to the city of Thera, where he would see out his remaining days as a gladiatorial slave. Accrataus is said to have fought bravely in the Theran amphitheatre known as the Mesocluso (which allegedly still survives today) for over three years, but accounts state that he was killed in a bout where the odds were ‘stacked absurdly against him’, much to the anger of his growing army of fans – an event that was said to have sparked the riots which brought down the rule of Emperor Dacu Lius (41 AT to 54 AT).
Back in the Thissibriles, though, the capture of Accrataus in 51 AT brought about the total subjugation of the islands, and the ancient Thissibrileans would not know freedom again for another 359 years. Despite this, Theran rule in the Thissibriles brought unprecedented technical and social progress to the islands, and although the Therans mined Thissibrilean ore and farmed Thissibrilean lands to help service their vast war machine back in Epanaga, their advanced civilisation slowly began to bring the natives out of the backwardly-oriented Iron Age. Parts of some of those ancient Theran cities still survive on our islands, offering us an insight into the structure of their settlements, with forum, basilica and public baths, and clever water systems supplied by enormous networks of aqueducts, while their sumptuous villas were equipped with tessellated mosaic flooring, sophisticated thermal underfloor heating systems, and even had plaster and wallpaper on the walls.
It all came at a cost to Thissibrileans, though. Indigenous males aged fourteen to forty were packed off in their droves as chained galley slaves, pulling the oars on Theran warships off conquering Eastern Epanaga, and feeling the lash on their backs every day of their lives. Others, like Accrataus, were conveyed to Liatia where they were forced to kill friend and foe in fighting pits and varying-sized arenas. It wasn’t always against other men armed with steel, either. Their reward for defeating endless other slaves from across Northern Epanaga and the Thissibriles, was occasionally to pit their wits against pre-enraged and half-starved lions, tigers, boars and even bears. Such was ancient Theran sport.
Alongside this, girls and woman aged from eleven to thirty, deemed to be of fair appearance, would also be packed off to Northern Epanaga – mostly to the towns and cities of Liatia, to serve out their lives in the harems of ruling officials. And of course, back in our homelands, very few Thissibrilean men or women achieved positions of status – a situation which lasted until 410 AT.
What happened next isn’t entirely clear – but it is almost certain that the Shield of Crenac appeared in 410 AT. Alas, the largely illiterate Thissibrileans couldn’t record events north of the Shield. Thankfully, our southern neighbours continued to communicate with their stranded compatriots by sending messages back and forth across the Shield by unmanned boat. Some of those accounts have survived the interim 1,371 years, and they talk of mass death – of ships with over one hundred souls on board – whole legions, in fact – all reduced to what soon became known as ‘The Madness’. This applied whether heading south-to-north or north-to-south. Thereafter, victims’ bodies were said to gradually shut down, and every single person who crossed the Shield of Crenac was dead within three days. As they still are today.
Of course, we know it is still lethal today because of the regular executions coming across from the south. The Neo-Therans distance themselves from these deaths, stating they are nothing to do with the Theran state, but merely ruthless individuals carrying out executions which are impossible for them to police. That doesn’t help us, though, as we nurse too many of these poor unfortunates through their final hours and then bury them – assuming we actually come across these floating coffins first. Alas, most of them die a lonely and terrible death at sea and their tiny boats either succumb to storms or wash up on the shores of Glennad or Lendria along with their grisly cargo. All of which provides more ammunition for the Conspiracists, of course, and their fixation on this brutal, linear, millennia-old Theran civilisation.
Naturally, we Thissibrileans aren’t completely innocent of exploiting the Shield of Crenac, and there have been a number of disappearances over the years for which the Shield is a likely explanation. And then there are those occasional drunken imbeciles who play the insane game of Shield Shooting for dangerous kicks, running their boats right up close to the Shield, sometimes with northerly winds at their backs. Inevitably, some lose either their bearings or control of their boat…shortly followed by their faculties and then their lives.
As for the genesis of the Shield of Crenac, the latest scientific research suggests that a dramatic shift of the North Epanagan tectonic plate occurred in 410 AT, resulting in the release of a vast magnetic phenomena from Thera’s iron core which, in turn, is surrounded by churning, molten metal. It is this combination at the heart of our planet that also maintains the vital magnetosphere, the magnetic barrier surrounding the planet which shields us from solar radiation. However, on this occasion, in 410 AT, the released magnetic properties struck out as a lethal magnetic field line in both directions to form a continuous belt around Thera at a latitude of around fifty-five degrees north.
Of course, attempts have been made during the intervening thirteen centuries to cross the Shield, with all sorts of increasingly protective clothing and headgear, and at all points around the belt. All have failed, and all have resulted in the death of those crossing over.
Recently there has been increased activity, thanks to developments in hot air ballooning, but none of the animals sent up in the balloons has survived. However, as those balloons become capable of flying ever-higher, we can-but hope that, one day soon, this will provide our route back into the other five sixths of planet Thera. Inevitably, the Conspiracists disagree with that viewpoint, and remain happy with our isolation, determined to keep it that way.
We now return to 410 AT for one last time – for at a stroke, the playing field in the north had changed forever. Unable to cross the Shield of Crenac, the Therans of northern Epanaga were no longer able to send legionary reinforcements to the conquered lands of the Thissibriles, and their supply lines were now also cut. Inevitably, the Thissibrileans revolted, and overthrew the ruling, but vastly outnumbered Theran hierarchy and claimed the islands back for themselves. To our eternal shame, we then rounded up every single Theran – whether man, woman or child, whether legionnaire, official or even tourist – and sent them back over the Shield of Crenac. And although more than 1,370 years have passed since then, many Thissibrileans fear that should the Shield ever disappear, we may still be held to account for that ancient crime – by a regime that the Conspiracists argue is every bit as brutal today as it was back then…
Emilya Luca loved architecture. Her grandfather had once told her that ninety-five per cent of people who walked around Ghantiss, missed ninety-five per cent of the best architecture. When she’d asked him what he meant, he’d said: “They don’t look up, Em.”
She was doing that now – looking up Irongate at the upper reaches of buildings on both sides of the street, taking in the extraordinary diversity. There were barely two buildings the same. Modern red-brick three-storey houses, with brick-stacked chimneys, sash windows, and pedimented door hoods, rubbed shoulders with older two and three-storey timber-framed houses, one of which had a startlingly yellow plaster infill. These older houses sported mullion and transom-style windows, while the example directly opposite included two long, horizontal timber beams which separated storeys one from two, and two from three – and which ran in wonky, warped lines that didn’t remotely run in parallel with each other.
In her mind’s eye, Emilya was visualising uneven internal floors and ceilings when her attention was caught by an officious-looking gentleman striding up Irongate with purpose. He had a leather document holder tucked under one arm, his long open coat fanned out around his legs, and his knee-length boots clicked loudly on the cobbles. He whisked past Emilya without acknowledging her existence and entered her father’s bakery – just another early-rising official, accountant or solicitor anticipating hot sausage roll for breakfast.
Emilya sighed with impatience. Where was Drasner? The miller was never late with his deliveries. ‘Drasner the Reliable,’ or so her father had christened him. Emilya glanced at the parts of the glass-fronted counter which were visible between the seven or eight people queuing, and which was looking ominously under-populated. With Irongate still clear of either horse, carriage or wagon, she made a snap-decision. Drasner usually stuck to the same routine, and the bakery owned by her father, Danny Luca, was always third in his delivery schedule. If Drasner hadn’t visited either the Thomas or the Colin bakeries, there was likely a significant delivery problem.
Emilya waited until her apron-clad father glanced up, and when their eyes met, she made a quick thumb-jabbing gesture down the road. Danny Luca nodded his approval, his mouth set in an unusually grim straight line. Business was business, and his early-morning queue of officials and professionals were unlikely to sympathise with supplier issues. With this in mind, Emilya ran for the alley five doors down Irongate, and then began weaving in and out of frowning folk walking in both directions. One balding man dressed in a curate’s outfit turned around and shouted after her: “Heavens above! Slow down, boy!”
Emilya smirked. A common mistake, but she didn’t care. Her unfeminine roughspun brown breeches gave her the comfort she preferred, and her flat cap hid her curly, shoulder-length, dark-auburn hair which was tied up and concealed within; her baggy smock-top and matching brown jacket hid the other tell-tale signs.
Seconds later, Emilya burst out of the alley, turning left into Sadler Gate. Fit as a fiddle, she then hared up this new set of cobbles, her flat sandals making ‘slap, slap’ sounds, before she arrived outside Colin’s Bakery, still breathing relatively normally. Unfortunately, Drasner’s horses and wagon were nowhere to be seen, and the look on Rex Colin’s gaunt face, coupled with a remonstrating customer and a largely bare counter told her that she didn’t need an update from Rex.
Instead, Emilya raced on up Sadler Gate, past the noisy tanneries and blacksmiths with their unique leathery-cum-horsey-cum-forgey smells that she loved, and then turned right into Ghantiss’ enormous and spectacular Market Square. Surrounded on all four sides by magnificent buildings, the huge square within was graced by many permanent stalls with gaily-striped awnings, which competed for space with myriad flower-beds and two-dozen tinkling fountains of varying sizes. Despite the early hour, the place was already busy and there were several carriages and wagons around the periphery of what was the trading heart of Glennad – although none of them bore the legend ‘Markus Drasner: Miller to the Masses’. Stranger still, Thomas’ Bakery – which was obscurely wedged in between two grand, portico-fronted houses to the north – was all shuttered up and clearly closed.
Emilya paused to take stock – just as the Gothic town hall clock began to chime seven o’clock. She briefly flicked her eyes to take in the striking tower and multi-crocketed spire, and noted that just beneath the ornate clock-face, the garish merry-go-round of carnival figures, mostly playing instruments or riding horses, was working again. She then headed for an alley on the opposite side of the Market Square, just as the porcelain dancers under the town hall clock began their twirling around to more discordant bells. Emilya’s hope, now, was that Drasner was delivering in reverse order today – which meant that Richard’s Bakery on the harbour frontage was worth a visit, as it was usually delivered to last.
The alley which connected the Market Place with the harbour was long and was also dark in the filtered early-morning daylight, so Emilya slowed her pace whilst keeping her eyes drilled to the floor – as the alley was also notorious for not being the cleanest. She had moved around three-quarters of the way down the alley when she heard the first whimper. Emilya stopped, stock still, all thoughts of missing millers immediately forgotten. The sound seemed to have come from behind a wooden gate a few paces further on, on her left-hand side. That awful sound had conveyed the most desperate need. And if there was one thing that Emilya Luca would never turn her back on, it was an animal in need.
She held her breath, waiting for another sound to enable her to hone her bearings. Then she heard the anguished cry again – which was followed by a harsh laugh. “Hard lines, Dolly!” exclaimed a very posh voice. “It’s still alive! Time for Reaper to finish the job.”
“Aw come on Mags! My Scrapper’s done all the hard work,” whined a second voice.
Emilya felt her hackles rising. She knew exactly what this was. The posh students from Ghantiss University were notorious for it. It was called ‘Let us Prey’. Two competitors, two dogs – usually large and savage – and the Prey. Held in a confined space, with nowhere to escape, the two dog-owners took it in timed, thirty-second bouts to unleash their slavering dogs on the Prey – usually a small animal, typically a stray puppy or kitten – although they weren’t averse to kidnapping family pets either; in fact, you allegedly commanded greater winnings for that due to the risk factors in acquiring the Prey. Other small animals like rabbits, piglets and rodents were also considered fair game. The winner was the owner of the dog who eventually kills the Prey in their thirty-second bout. It was hideously brutal and entirely unworthy of enlightened Ghantiss, but the authorities did little or less to stamp it out as the perpetrators were usually rich and systematically defended or protected by their wealthy families.
“Sorry, Dolly, old boy,” came back the cultured reply from the first man, the one called Mags. “You’re out of time. Rules are rules, and this one’s mine, old chap. You can pay me my winnings back at the palace.”
“Aw, spoilsport!”
“Just get Scrapper back on his leash, Dolly. I’m not having him spoil Reaper’s fun.”
As Emilya’s brain processed this new information, her heart began to bounce off her ribs. Mention of the palace, along with Mags’ plummy accent could only mean that he was that lousy idler, Prince Magnus – despised by the folk of Ghantiss as a work-shy bully, philanderer, drunkard and several-times rapist, but totally untouchable thanks to his birthright. He’d probably been out on an all-night Prey-fest, gambling huge amounts of money, and had decided to pick on a stray dog on his way home as a bonus. What was she to do?
Emilya then heard the victim whine again, followed by another callous laugh from one of the men – almost certainly Mags. Emilya’s blood began to boil. Unable to stop herself, she sprinted towards the gate, gathering pace, and dropping her left shoulder on approach, her mind momentarily considering before impact that there was a good chance that she might dislocate it.
She didn’t. The wood was a good deal rottener than it looked in the dawn light, and she smashed through it, sending wood splinters flying in all directions.
Absolute pandemonium erupted in the courtyard beyond. Both young men reacted initially with squeals of terror – which set both of their dogs barking with maniacal frenzy. Fortunately, one of the dogs – a vicious-looking rottweiler – was tied to a post, but the other – a doberman of some sort – slipped its leash and launched itself at Emilya. Luckily, it went for her arm first, which she’d put up to protect herself – although Emilya cried out in pain as it sank its teeth in and shook its head from side to side. As she fell backwards, though, instinct took over, and she picked up a shard of wooden door and battered the dog once over the head. It immediately yelped and then flopped to the floor, making dreadful screeching noises. For a second, Emilya was unsure what had happened, but then realised that she couldn’t pull the shard free of the dog. A three-inch nail in the back had embedded itself into the doberman’s left eye.
By this stage, the two young men had recovered their poise, but the still-tethered rottweiler continued to bark its brain out. One of the men went straight down on his knees to the stricken doberman and started sobbing when he saw the damage. The other man showed little compassion. “Oh, for pity’s sake, Dolly – pull yourself together man. It’s only a dog.” He then turned his attention to the barking rottweiler: “Reaper! Quiet!” he commanded. Remarkably, the rottweiler ceased its aural assault immediately.
Alongside this, Dolly was still trying to soothe his dog – clearly Scrapper, given the overheard conversation – stroking his flank as the screeching subsided to whimpering. He then slowly stood up and turned to face Emilya – who had remained half-paralysed with remorse at what she had accidentally done. “You bitch!” cried Dolly, through his tears, his address making Emilya realise that she’d lost her cap in the door assault and that her hair was now draped wildly across her face. She swept it back and glared at the man she now knew was called Dolly. He stopped, two paces in front of her, and pointed. “You’ll pay dearly for this, you urchin.”
Emilya tried her best to control her pounding heart and reviewed her predicament. Dolly’s face was distorted in anger, but instinct told her that he was of weak character. Slightly below medium height, he had a pasty face, curly hair somewhere between blonde and ginger, and no discernible chin – even though he wasn’t particularly overweight. Meanwhile, his companion – who was dressed in the finest clothes she’d ever seen at such close quarters, and whom she had now visually confirmed was indeed the hated Prince Magnus – was very different. Tall, dark and handsome, for starters, and also very laid back. She briefly noted that his chiselled features were framed by thick and wavy, collar-length dark hair, and two stylish, manly sideburns – just like his portrait in the town hall – while the jacket of his dark blue, three-piece suit was exquisitely piped in gold around the cuffs and collar along with two panels of gold buttons running up the centre. In stark contrast to his pasty and very angry friend, Magnus was also smirking and seemed to be enjoying the whole situation. “Well, Dolly,” Prince Magnus said. “Make her pay, then. Make her pay now.”
The man called Dolly hesitated, looked at his dark-haired friend, then back at Emilya. “No,” he said, turning to Magnus again, now apparently back under control. “I’ve a better idea,” he added, nodding towards the tethered rottweiler. “To the victor the spoils, methinks.”
“Ah,” said Magnus. “I see what you mean. Poor Reaper is indeed in need of his breakfast, after all,” he added, turning towards his tethered but slavering pet.
“Release that dog, and I’ll run you through right here,” announced a new and gruff voice.
Emilya looked up to see a middle-aged, dark-haired man in a nightshirt, holding a cutlass to Magnus’s throat. “Cos that aint no way to treat a little girl, matey,” he added.
Magnus stood stock still, his stance still somehow mocking, despite the obvious danger to him. “You do know who I am?” he asked.
“Oh, I know who you are, matey,” replied the man. “And everyone in this town knows what you are, too.”
Magnus’s eyes flashed dangerously at that, but he wasn’t stupid enough to provoke the man. Instead, he appraised his foe. He should have been a comical sight dressed in only a white linen nightshirt that ended just below the knee, but he was as tall as Magnus, and his thick arms, barrel chest and upright stance spoke of a dangerous and physical adversary. This wasn’t a man to back down from a fight, and he clearly cared little for Magnus’ status. Magnus therefore changed his tack. “We appear to be at an impasse,” he said.
“Keep still!” barked the night-shirted man, his order directed at Dolly, who was moving to his right.
“I need to tend my dog,” said Dolly, frightened that Scrapper’s whimpering had now ceased. “The urchin you’re defending has grievously wounded him.”
“Aye, and clearly in self-defence! If it’s any consolation, boy, your dog will live if you care for him right. It’ll obviously be blind in that eye, mind.”
“Can we, erm, negotiate, please?” asked Prince Magnus, his hands still half-raised in surrender.
“Gladly. Girl,” barked the night-shirted man. “Make yourself scarce.”
Emilya slowly stood, now very aware that her bloodied left arm was hurting badly. She looked at the man, for the first time noticing that his nose wasn’t straight, running slightly off-centre from top left to bottom right. She briefly imagined the likely brawl that had caused that. Then she heard that pathetic whining sound again – the sound that had brought her crashing through the gate in the first place. Her eyes flicked towards a dark corner of the courtyard where she spotted a small terrier for the first time. He or she was desperately trying to stand up, failed, and then flopped back down, whimpering again.
Emilya moved quickly over to the terrier, her bottom lip trembling at the sight. Its thick grey fur was matted with blood, while half of one ear was missing, and at least one leg was broken. Gently, Emilya crouched down and tenderly picked the animal up, briefly noting it was as heavy as a bag of beans. It squealed and panicked, but Emilya held firm, shushing the poor creature and gently stroking its matted fur – just as the first of her tears began to run down her grimy cheeks. “Shush, my darling,” she said. “You’re safe now.” Then, despite her predicament, and good fortune, Emilya turned to face Magnus. “One day,” she said, her eyes narrowing to squints, “you will pay for this.”
Magnus’s response was a standard smirk. “And one day,” he responded, “you will pay, too, my dear,” he leered, parting his lips and flickering his moistened, royal tongue at her.
The cutlass was pressed harder against his throat, and a tiny rivulet of blood slid down the inside of his pristine white silk shirt. “Go,” said the night-shirted man.
“What will you do?” asked Emilya, as it began to dawn on her how perilous the man’s situation now was.
“I can look after myself, girly,” he replied gruffly.
Emilya delayed a second longer, before looking the man right in the eye. “Thank you,” she mouthed. Then she turned around, and with the bloodied terrier cradled gently in her arms, she passed through the shattered gate and hurried back to her father’s bakery.
Princess Alicya swept her soft body brush one last time across the shining coat of her chestnut colt and stood back to admire her handywork. “There you go, Sebastian,” she cooed. “You shall go to the ball, my dear.”
“Not with a tail like that, he won’t,” announced a gruff voice.
Alicya turned around, a half-smile already playing across her aristocratic features. “Very funny, Maddox,” she said, moving aside one of the long strands of lustrous dark hair that had fallen across her pretty face. “And for just how long have you been spying on me?”
“Saw the lot,” he said, before issuing a huge double sniff. He then turned and hobbled towards the stable door. “Five out of ten,” he threw back over his shoulder.
Alicya’s face immediately went into pout mode. “Oh, Maddox! You’re such a cruel stablemaster.” But Maddox didn’t respond, he just kept on hobbling out of the stables. Alicya’s face fell, disappointed that Maddox hadn’t engaged in their normal banter. “You could at least check his hooves for me,” she shouted.
Still nothing. Disappointed, Alicya turned her attention back to Sebastian. Standing to one side, she began by separating the worst of Sebastian’s tail-tangles with her fingers before grabbing the tail brush and gently working her way up from the bottom of the tail, taking extra care over the bony upper section. As she finished the job, two sounds coincided. Firstly, she heard the distant clopping of horses’ hooves, but then they were drowned out by the palace clock tower striking eight o’clock. She was therefore taken by surprise when Maddox re-entered the stables leading a chestnut filly. The old stablemaster’s face broke out into a crooked-toothed grin. “Told you I’d have her by the end of the week, didn’t I?”
“Oh Maddox!” she exclaimed, moving smoothly across to the new arrival, and then gently placing the flat of her hand against the horse’s face. “She’s beautiful.” Tears welled up in both eyes. “Can you imagine the babies they’ll have?” she added, glancing back at Sebastian.
Maddox merely grunted at that, while Alicya stepped across to the stablemaster and gave him a peck on one of his stubbled cheeks. “Maddox from the Paddocks strikes again,” she joked.
“Give over, lass,” he said, both awkward and delighted at the same time. He hid his discomfort by hobbling across to Sebastian, where he ran his fingers through the tail. “Not bad,” he said.
Alicya immediately beamed.
“Six, I’d say.”
Alicya’s face fell.
“I’m only joking,” replied Maddox. “It’s a grand job.”
Alicya was about to comment when a commotion from outside diverted their attention. It sounded as if the courtyard door had just been smashed off its hinges, and that explosive sound was immediately followed by her brother’s ranting diatribe.
“I swear to God, Dolly, I will rip that bastard’s heart out with my own bare hands and eat it for breakfast myself. And as for that little bitch of an urchin who caused all of this…”
Alicya ran out into the courtyard, Maddox hobbling behind. She stopped dead in her tracks, put her hand to her mouth to stop herself from laughing, and then put her hand over her eyes to stop herself from seeing. In the meantime, Dolly had taken shelter behind Magnus.
“What?” demanded Magnus, absolute fury written across his face.
Despite his evident wrath, Alicya couldn’t help herself. “Well, brother dear,” she began. “What have you been doing, this time?”
“This isn’t funny, Alicya.”
“All right, so please tell me why Dolly is missing his breeches…” Alicya tailed off, as she took in the half-mast white breeches that Magnus was wearing, and which weren’t the splendid dark blue ones he had gone out in the previous night. Furthermore, the bottom of the breeches rested just above his knees, revealing white knee-flesh above his boots, while the rest of the material was far too tight around his thighs and crotch area. She began to laugh hysterically.
Magnus’s response was to stride towards her aggressively, whilst the luckless Dolly attempted to keep pace to protect his modesty. “I’m warning you, little sister. You may find this funny now, and I might even laugh with you about it in – oh, I don’t know – in about fifty years-time! But if word of this gets out,” he said, his eyes narrowing, “I will know exactly where it has come from, and you will be sorry.”
“All right Mags,” said Alicya, her laughter now subsiding. “So, you’ve got caught again with your breeches down by some vengeful husband, and poor Dolly here had to donate his to cover your own modesty!”
For a second, Magnus’s chin jutted, while his fists were bunched, and Maddox took an instinctive step forward. “You what?” sneered Magnus, eyeing Maddox with disdain.
“Oh, leave him alone Magnus and go get yourself and Dolly dressed.”
Magnus looked as though he was going to escalate the confrontation, but then he uncharacteristically backed down.
“No offence meant, Your Highness,” said Maddox, briefly catching Magnus’ eye. “Here,” he said, taking off his coat. He hobbled forward and passed the coat to Dolly. “Put this around your waist, son.”
Without a word, Dolly took Maddox’s roughspun coat and draped it around his waist, holding it very tight at the front – thus enabling him to step out from behind Magnus.
“Thank you, Maddox,” said Magnus. “I’m glad you’re here, actually. I’d like you to cut along to the kennels. There’s a dog in there that needs your care and attention.”
“What’s wrong with it?” asked Maddox.
“I don’t pay you to ask questions, Maddox. Just do as you’re told. Please,” he added, with a toothy but ice-cold smile.
As Maddox moved away, he couldn’t help firing back a parting shot. “You don’t pay me anyway. Your father does.”
Despite his perpetual smirk, Alicya could tell that her brother was rattled with that statement, not to mention a tad undermined. Nevertheless, she decided to pull their conversation back into line
“All right, so, not a vengeful husband then?” probed Alicya. Magnus maintained his silence on the matter. “Oh, come on!” exclaimed Alicya. “What happened?”
“We were -,” began Dolly, only to be cut off by a light, backhand cuff to his left cheek from Magnus, that forced Dolly to stagger…and drop Maddox’s coat, too.
This time, though, Alicya didn’t laugh. Thanks to this latest exchange, and the previous reference to an injured dog, Alicya suddenly saw through them. She rounded on her brother. It was now her turn to be angry. “You promised me you’d never do that again.”
Magnus rolled his eyes. “They’re only dogs.”
“Only!” screeched Alicya. This time it was Magnus who got a slap across the face. “There are times when I swear that you’re not of the same blood as me,” she said, but as she turned to stalk away, Magnus grabbed her wrist and pulled her back, savagely.
“I’ve told you before, Lissy,” he said, through gritted teeth. “You can’t rule and be weak.” He then deliberately squeezed her wrist as hard as he could, feeling bones begin to shift.
Alicya wrenched herself free. “I don’t ever want to rule,” she said, rubbing her numbed wrist. “I’d rather stay human, thanks very much.” Despite her brother’s typical bullishness, Alicya stood her ground as curiosity caught up with her again. They both regarded each other for several seconds. “You might as well tell me everything, though.”
“What’s the point,” replied Magnus, calmer now. “You’ll only come down on her side.”
“Whose side?”
Magnus kept his mouth shut, so Alicya turned again to Dolly. “Whose side?”
Dolly paused for a second, caught between loyalty to either prince or princess. Finally, he found his voice. “The urchin.”
“What urchin?”
“Don’t forget the old sailor, as well, Dolly,” said Magnus.
“What sailor?” asked Alicya.
“The one who had the nerve to do this,” said Magnus, pointing to the sore-looking nick on his neck, “and then decided to slash my breeches with his cutlass, to stop me tracking him back to his hovel.”
“Wow, brave man!” Alicya was genuinely shocked. “Was he drunk? I mean, there isn’t a man in Ghantiss who doesn’t know your face.”
“No, he wasn’t drunk. But he’ll be wishing he was blind drunk when I catch up with him.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Anything I please, little sister. And as for that urchin -”
Magnus immediately regretted his words, as his sister knew him too well. “Whoever she is, you will leave her alone,” demanded Alicya. “I think I’ve got the measure of this now. The old sailor was defending the urchin, after the urchin defended the Prey, am I right?”
Silence confirmed her theory. “Well, good on ‘em both, then. In fact,” she added, “I might try and search for them myself – to congratulate them and give them a reward!”
And with that, Alicya turned and flounced back towards the stables.