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The next morning Tom, Beansprout and Woodsmoke were sitting on the top row of the wooden benches around the horse-riding skills arena, looking out across the racing tracks, jumps, ditches, and pools of water. Overhanging trees and bushes provided further obstacles, and the taller trees had viewing platforms in them, like miniature tree houses. A few fey were already making their way up their ladders.
To Tom, the competition ground looked like a death trap.
“This event is going to be so much fun!” Beansprout said.
“If you like risking life and limb,” Tom said.
Woodsmoke surveyed the ground. “I must admit, I was tempted to enter, but it looks very tricky. Did Merlin help with this?”
“I think so, I saw him heading over this way yesterday afternoon. I believe there’s a few surprises in there.”
“He’s had a busy few days, then,” Woodsmoke said, nodding at Tom’s sword where it lay in its scabbard.
Tom pulled it free and laid it on his lap, turning it over so that it flashed in the sunlight. It was his old sword, but it looked just like Galatine.
“That is such a cool spell,” Beansprout said. “I can’t tell the difference at all.”
“Neither can I, and it’s my sword!” Tom looked at its fine engravings and the large pair of yellow fire opals on either side of the hilt.
“And have you got the bough?” Beansprout asked.
Tom pulled it from an inner pocket. Vivian had given him the small silver bough when he’d first arrived in the Realm of Earth. It gave him a level of magical protection that had enabled him to wake Arthur, and had also saved him from becoming trapped in Nimue’s spell. It was the length of his hand span, and fashioned into the shape of a twig, with buds along it, as if it was ready to break into leaf. In fact, when Vivian had given it to him it had been a living branch that quickly turned to silver in his hands.
“Merlin’s enhanced its protection,” he said. “Don’t ask me how. He just muttered something over it.”
Woodsmoke grinned. “I’m sure it was more than a mutter, Tom.”
“Well let’s hope the sword draws some attention so we can catch whoever attacked us.” He put the bough back in his pocket, reassured by its presence.
From their vantage point they watched as fey wandered over and found spots on the wide benches. The only other event on today was the wrestling, which was taking place in what had been the sword-fighting area.
“What exactly are we looking for?” Beansprout asked, scanning their surroundings.
“Anyone who looks like Elan, or who just looks suspicious,” Tom said, taking a big bite of the wood-smoked pork sandwich he was having for breakfast.
“Just make sure you flash that sword about regularly,” Woodsmoke said. “No-one can steal it if they don’t know you’ve got it. We’ll move around the different sections so that everyone can get a good look.”
Slowly the benches filled up around them, a mixture of young and old – Aerikeen, Cervini, satyrs, fey, dryads, pixies, and even a few goblins. And then half a dozen judges arrived, a mixture of the different races, Merlin amongst them, and headed to their posts around the ground and on the tree platforms.
“Who’s competing in this?” Tom asked.
“Bloodmoon, most of Finnlugh’s crowd, and Brenna and a few Aerikeen,” Beansprout said.
An enormous blast from a trumpet resounded through the trees and the first competitor approached the start of the course, marked by a flag with a dragon on it. The rider was a fey on a large black horse, and after another short sharp blast of the horn he was off, galloping through the trees at a blistering pace. Within seconds he disappeared from view, reappearing seconds later, weaving effortlessly through the trees, over the obstacles and through the water. There were unexpected hazards too, like obstacles that moved, water that rose up, and mist that rolled suddenly across the ground. All things considered, Tom thought it was a miracle that the rider made it through the course at all.
As rider after rider competed, with varying success depending on which obstacles arose, Tom found he was forgetting all about his sword, until Woodsmoke prodded him. “Come on, time for a walk.”
“Suppose so,” Tom said, and he and Beansprout clambered down after him, through the crowded benches. There were lots of ooh and aahs, and a thud as a rider fell from his horse, and then the arena was behind them as they walked to the refreshments tent.
They found Rek sitting with Orlas at a long table, drinking a pint of Dryad’s Pride.
“You should try one of these,” Rek said by way of greeting, indicating the dark brew. “It’ll put hairs on your chest.”
“I don’t want hair on my chest, thank you,” Beansprout said archly.
Rek grinned. “Only for the men, my lady.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll risk it,” Beansprout said, as Woodsmoke brought three pints over from the bar.
“Where’s Arthur?” Orlas asked.
“As it’s the final day, he’s taking part in the judging and getting ready for the awards,” Tom said. “And watching out for more unexpected visitors, probably.”
Orlas nodded and extended his hand. “So, I think you should show me this amazing sword of yours, Tom. I haven’t had a chance to examine it properly yet.”
Tom handed it over, and Orlas made a show of examining it minutely and then held it up to the light. He even got to his feet and swished it around a few times so everyone got a good look.
“Nicely done,” Woodsmoke said, as Orlas sat down again.
“Thank you, I aim to please. And,” he nodded discreetly across the tent, “quite a few are looking.”
“Not surprising after all that,” Rek said, rolling his eyes.
Orlas ignored him. “How are Jack and Fahey?”
“Not too bad, really,” Tom said. “I just want to catch whoever did it.”
“We all do,” Rek said. “When you’ve finished your drink, we’ll follow at a distance.”
After chatting for a few more minutes Tom, Woodsmoke and Beansprout set off, keeping to the edges of the crowds and scanning for familiar faces.
The next couple of hours were spent sitting, walking and watching. By early afternoon Tom decided the plan wasn’t working. “I need to be on my own.”
“It’s too dangerous!” Woodsmoke said immediately.
“Whoever it is isn’t going to attack when I have bodyguards.”
“You’re right. Tom, I think we need to have an argument and then you need to walk off in a strop.” Beansprout looked very pleased with herself. “If you head to the orchards, keeping in the open for safety, it also means you can be seen on your own. Enter by the massive old plum tree and head for the walnut. We’ll circle round and meet you there.”
“What do you mean, pick a fight?” But instead of replying, Beansprout started having a go at him about something to do with cheating and bad sportsmanship, and then Woodsmoke rounded on him, and for a few seconds he felt anger mounting before realising it was a ruse.
“I’m not sticking around to listen to this!” he yelled. “You can both go stuff yourselves.” And he marched off across the grounds, trying not to smile.
He pushed through the crowds and past the stalls, scowling, people stepping aside to let him through. When he reached open ground he slowed to give the others a chance to get in position, and strolled across the manicured lawns until he reached the meadows bordering the orchards. As he walked he swung his sword, swishing it through the long grass, looking mutinous, as if to challenge anyone who crossed his path, watching out of the corner of his eye to see if anyone was following him. Once or twice he thought someone was, but when he turned he saw nothing except grass and trees and the pavilions in the distance.
He slowed further as he reached the orchards. Finding the gnarled old plum he plunged into the trees, singing loudly to advertise his presence. The sunlight fell through the leaves in dappled waves, and as he advanced towards the walnut tree he stopped singing and walked in silence, listening for the sounds of anyone following him, accompanied only by the murmur of the bees.
In fact the bees’ hum almost caused him to miss it – a low whispering drone.
He whirled around to see a figure in a long, hooded cloak, camouflaged by the shadows. He couldn’t see a face, but he could hear a voice, and it sounded like a spell.
“Why don’t you come a little closer and say that?” Tom raised his sword and stepped closer.
The figure held its ground and raised its voice, at the same time as its hands started to weave strange shapes.
Tom advanced on the intruder. “Spell not working?” He waved the fake Galatine. “If you want this, you’ll have to come and get it.”
The figure turned and ran, and Tom followed, yelling, “You’ll have to find more than spells to stop me.”
The cloaked figure raced through the high grasses, and then turned swiftly towards the high boundary wall, the hood falling back to reveal long red hair falling across slim shoulders – it was enough to show Tom his attacker was a young woman.
He changed direction to intercept. “Come back and fight, you coward!”
Two stags, Orlas and Rek, thundered into view, cutting off the boundary wall, and Woodsmoke stepped out of the trees, bow raised. As the woman turned again, Beansprout appeared in front of her and she hesitated for a second, giving Tom time to catch up. He leapt on her from behind, and they fell heavily to the floor.
She fought like a wild cat, throwing Tom off with surprising strength and leaping back onto her feet, her head held high and her eyes flashing with malice – but also with panic. She wasn’t as confident as she appeared. And she was young, maybe the same age as Elan. Again she started to whisper spells, and as the others advanced she threw her arms wide and they all flew backwards, crashing into trees and branches and the wall. Tom felt the wave of power pass through him as he too flew backwards, hitting the ground behind him with a resounding thud. He lay winded, trying to catch his breath.
The woman glanced at Tom’s sword, still clutched in his hand, as if weighing up whether to try and grab it. Then she thought better of it and fled over the wall in one mad scramble.
Groaning, they rose to their feet, clutching heads, shoulders, and backs.
“What the hell happened?” Rek yelled angrily.
“And who was she?” Woodsmoke asked.
“Did she take the sword?” Orlas asked, clutching his ribs.
“Please stop asking questions! And no,” Tom said, standing on unsteady legs, looking at the patch of Tom-shaped grass beneath him.
“I think her knowledge of magic is very poor,” Beansprout said, grimacing. “When she couldn’t bewitch you she was stuck, and had to use that other spell. It was pretty crude.”
“But effective,” Tom said sarcastically.
“At least she didn’t smack you across the back of the head, Tom,” Woodsmoke said grimly.
Orlas sighed. “Well, so much for our trap.”
“But at least we know who attacked Fahey and Jack,” said Tom, turning back to the castle. “That’s kind of a win.”
