And the White Stag wasn’t white.

His antlers were white, shimmering white, and there was a silvery aura around him. But his coat was bright and dark red while his hooves were shining black and his eyes were dark limpid pools of the night sky.

Delicately, hoof by hoof, the stag picked his way down the rocks until he stood in front of them. He eyed each of them in turn. It was a strange sensation, felt like you were being completely and totally examined from inside to out, all the threads that made up your life, all the joins and darns and mends and frays where things were only just holding together, as well as the parts that were rock solid. They each felt it. Owen & Seabhag  had felt it before, met the Stag, for the others it was new and each of them felt it differently.

Billy took one look at the Stag and gave a little whimper of delight, then ran up and hugged the Stag’s front leg. The Stag leaned down and licked Billy’s forehead.

‘Welcome, little one,’ the Stag said softly. ‘You are very welcome and all that you desire will come to pass. Now … what about the rest of you?’

Seabhag stood back. He was watching the Stag; the stag had thoroughly dissected him but he didn’t mind that at all, it was to be expected when you met one of the powers of the Land, he did it himself after all. He came to find Billy, had done this and now just has to get him back home. He nodded greeting to the Stag who nodded back.  Owen too held back; his life was as sorted as it ever was, he enjoyed it and was in need of nothing in particular. Magpie shuffled her boots and fidgeted with the horse’s mane. The Beast stepped forward.

‘I need to find myself …’ she whispered to him, stretching out her claws, pleading.

The Stag reached out his nose, touched her forehead. ‘Your brother is waiting for you,’ he told her. ‘Soon, I will send you to him. He will be able to help you.’

The Beast’s claws reached out, gently stroked the Stag, their eyes met.

Watching, Magpie thought both pairs of eyes looked the same, both were deer’s eyes.

The Stag looked at her. ‘Well …?’ he asked.

The Beast had moved away, was staring out over the Abyss of Mists – the presence she gave off was one of happiness, for the first time since Magpie had known her. Seabhag stood nearby and Owen too had moved closer to her. Billy was back with Seabhag too and the horses were chatting among themselves, comforting the Mousies who were getting over the shock. Magpie was all on her own … with the Stag.

‘You had no idea this was what you were coming to, did you?’ the Stag pushed his nose into Magpie’s stomach.

She shook her head, dumb; she really didn’t know what she was doing here. ‘I won this carpet,’ she began, ‘magic carpet. One of the players accused me of shuffling the cards to my advantage but I hadn’t, I didn’t! I’d been to that tavern before though. Long time ago, but …’ she tossed her hair back from her face. The Stag looked down his nose at her. ‘Well … but well, I’ve got a reputation. And yes, I had marked the pack.’ She paused, swallowed. ‘Anyway, I thought it best to leave. The carpet was faulty, that’s how I ended up at the Shapeshifters. It was nice there, everyone was kind, it felt like a break, and I sort of got snaffled up into the adventure. I like adventure.’ She stopped, found herself smiling into the Stag’s huge liquid eyes.

‘What do you want to do with your life?’ the Stag’s eyes held hers while he asked the question.

‘I’ve never known what I wanted to do with my life,’ Magpie muttered, looking down. ‘I fell into the School, by accident.’

‘You had to leave because you got yourself blown …’

Magpie nodded.

‘But Morningstar said you could still be of use, did he not?’

Magpie nodded again.

‘So … what did the eagles say to you?’

‘Said I had skills, and nouse, and gumption.’ Magpie glanced up at the Stag.

‘And what did you promise them?’

‘That I’d begin …’ Magpie stopped, looked up straight at the Stag. ‘Does that mean, does it mean … I can begin? I can be part of the School? I can do the work?’

‘I’d say so, wouldn’t you? It’s always been your choice, Magpie. You ran away. You thought you could never go back. You dived into adventure and trouble with both hands. Morningstar said you could still be useful, in a covert way. Perhaps getting yourself the thieves’ reputation is just that, useful … had you thought of that?’

Magpie shook her head. ‘I just ran … you’re right … I just ran.’ She stopped, her face changed, she was thinking. ‘As a thief … as a thief, I might be able to know all sorts of people that ordinary straight folk would never know …’

Now it was the Stag’s turn to nod.

‘I’m a stunningly good thief …’ she paused again. ‘But I want to steal everything! I love it. I’d steal the antlers off your head if I thought I could,’ she added, sotto voce.

The Stag looked down his nose at her again. ‘I wouldn’t advise you to try,’ he said gently.

‘You weren’t supposed to hear that,’ Magpie muttered.

‘Perhaps that’s what Morningstar wants you to do, only with some discrimination. And not actually stealing everything you set eyes on. And stealing for other people’s benefit …?’

‘I suppose … but it’s hard. I really want beautiful, fascinating things …

‘Well … you’re having some practice here at giving them up again …’

She snorted, glared at him, then grinned. ‘I suppose.’

His eyes smiled back at her. She somehow felt better, in spite of having to give up that wonderful golden horn. She grinned again, did a little two-step dance.

‘Now don’t get carried away,’ he told her. ‘To be a stunningly good thief is hard work. You’ll upset the competition and sometimes you’ll need to work with them not against them. You’ll have to carry lots of stories … legends … in your head and always know exactly where you are, when you are and who you are. Morningstar needs information, you can help him with that. Does that sound like a good career?’

‘I’ll give it a damn good try,’ Magpie told him.

‘Hmmm … then I think you’ll meet someone, fairly soon. Have you heard of Grymalkyn?’

Magpie’s eyes widened. ‘You mean Grym? Morningstar’s chief assassin? I’ve seen her, at the School, but I don’t know her. She’s something else … not sure how we’d get on!’

The Stag made a soft braying noise, Magpie realised he was laughing.

‘Well give it a try. She might not be as bad as you think. She tries to be invisible most of the time. But yes, that’s who I meant. I think you may get to meet her come the end of this adventure. If you do, stick with her, ask her to take you on, help you. You might,’ the Stag almost winked at her, ‘you might mention me to her. We go back a long, long way.’

‘Thank you!’ Magpie dropped to one knee and put her forehead against his hoof. ‘Thank you,’ she repeated. ‘And you’d better count the hairs on your fetlock to check I’ve not nicked any.’ She stood up, grinning.

‘You can keep the three you took,’ the Stag replied. ‘You’ll find them useful, sometime, I expect. But be prepared to give them away.’ Then the Stag gave a roaring bark. Everyone jumped.

‘Now …’ he began, ‘about this baby dragon. After her contretemps with a dyslexic pixie she has landed in the castle of a wizard up in the Pictlands. At present she’s in no immediate danger – except of overeating! – but she does need finding and bringing home. As it happens, your quest will be best concluded if you go up there too, Madam Beast. You will find your brother up in the Forest of Calydon and he needs your help as much as you need his, in fact you need each other. It’s high time Billy got home too. And Owen, you will like to see Jimson again, I’m sure. ‘The Stag looked down his nose at Owen who had the grace to nod agreement. ‘Magpie will do best to go along too and I’m sure the IBWs will find it both enlightening and amusing. In any case,’ the Stag glared at the wyzards, ‘I’m counting on you two to keep the rest of them on target. Seabhag, you’ll do as you please but I think you’ll enjoy accompanying this motley crew.’ In fact, you might like to transport them up to Bennachie …’

Seabhag smiled and bowed slightly. ‘It’s your show,’ he demurred.

There was a thunderous bray, a flash of lightning and thunder rumbled all around the sky. The sun went out temporarily too.

‘Flashy bugger, isn’t he?’ Kefn whispered to Iolo.

And they were gone …

It worked. He bounced off several flights of steps, the baying more distant but even more blood-curdling as it echoed behind him, then crashed into the floor. The hounds were gaining again as he lay breathless and bruised in the darkness – they might not be as fast on stairs as him but they were still on the trail! – he staggered to his feet and turned around blindly, then blundered off, arms outstretched in front of him and whimpering in terror.

Jimson and Tom reached the front door in time to see the tail of the last hound vanish down the cellar steps. They traded alarmed looks, then grabbed lanterns and headed down after the pack. What could have set the pack off this time? And why the cellars?

The hounds had gone silent, noses down on the trail, intent. From time to time the lead bitch, Ranter, let out a bay just to make sure the prey knew they hadn’t given up, but the troll was crossing and recrossing his own tracks as he ran headlong through the dark labyrinth of tunnels, cellars, chambers and age-old burial barrows that made up the deepest of the Wolfshead’s cellars. Robin and Jimmy had heard the ruckus from their work on the first level of cellars and caught up with Jimson and Tom as they reached the bottom of the steps, Robin very wide-eyed at going into these usually strictly off-limits places. Jimson glanced back, frowning.

“Stay close and stay together! The passages here can move – take a wrong turn and who knows where you’d come out!” he warned them, then led off, following the distant echoes of the hunt and the trail of footprints in the thick dust on the flagstones.

Robin grabbed Jimmy’s belt in one hand, sensibly, and Jimmy reached forward, taking hold of Tom’s. Tom swallowed rather hard and seized Jimson’s belt in turn and his father grinned rather grimly and relied on his position as Master of Wolfshead…. And he hoped very hard that the place remembered that! He stopped suddenly as a large troll pounded across in front of them, running from right to left with eyes closed and hands stretched out in front, moaning in time with his panting. A minute later, the pack sped across the junction in hot pursuit – Ranter was in front, then her mate Ruthless, followed by Ranter’s sister Tumult and her mate Clamour. Behind them were Ranter’s pups Rage, Banshee, Storm and Mort, then Tumult’s pups Yell, Gale, Fury and finally the youngest, Roar. Jimson waited while they streamed past, then started walking again as the troll reappeared in the distance ahead of them, crossing now from left to right. Jimson paused, looking over his shoulder and holding up his lantern, and sure enough a few seconds later the troll went across again behind them, again from left to right.

“What?” Robin noticed it, and Jimson shrugged,

“It’s a bit funny down here sometimes. Come on! I think I know where it’ll all end up.”

It took them nearly half an hour to walk through the cellars, with the pack and the troll streaming past in various directions from time to time, but finally Jimson reached a chamber with a high corbelled roof and a deep stone-lined well in the centre. A few minutes later the troll thundered into the chamber and went straight into the well, legs still working as he plummetted into the water five feet down.

“Sit!” Jimson yelled at the top of his voice and automatically all the hounds obeyed him, skidding slightly as they tried to sit while in full gallop but ending up in a startled line around the top of the well, “Good dogs! Stay. Now, what have we here?” he added, taking a step forward and raising his lantern to show Bully spluttering as he trod water in the well.

Seabhag’s jaw dropped slightly as he watched Owen disappear through the hole in the tree. One minute he’d been peering through the hole, then there was slurrrrrp! Then there was no Owen. He started forward in the ridiculous hope of grabbing onto Owen’s no longer existent legs … well, no longer extant in the world in which he stood, he reminded himself. Please the gods Owen (and his legs) were all still extant somewhere.

Billy stood up, no longer stone but troll again, ‘Where’d he go?’ he said, looking round everywhere with a bemused expression and furrowed forehead.

Iolo went up to the tree and jumped up and down, trying to see through the hole just over his head. Billy promptly crouched down again into being a rock.

‘Thanks, Billy.’ Iolo made to climb aboard.

‘No you don’t!’ Kefn caught hold of the collar of his leather jacket. ‘Not without a sheet-anchor you don’t.’

‘Erm … yes,’ Iolo agreed sheepishly. He climbed more cautiously onto Billy’s stone back; Kefn’s arms were round his waist; the Beast, hung onto Iolo’s legs. ‘That ought to do it,’he said as he stuck his head through the hole.

Sluuuuurrrrrrrrrrppppppppppp !!!

Iolo, Kefn and the Beast had been slurped up by the tree-window.

Seabhag’s jaw dropped even further, ‘Oh … bother …’he muttered, ‘one of those!’ He rolled his eyes, surely he’d been in the company of competent wyzards … Hmmm! Perhaps not.

Seabhag sighed. He should have seen that coming but really! Surely Owen was more competent than that, getting wired by the forest. Hmm! It was a tricksy forest; Seabhag nodded his head to it in acknowledgement. The two outer branches of the window-tree waved slightly in return.

‘Now what do we do?’ Magpie was exasperated; if the forest could get Owen then what on earth were they supposed to do? She began to consider how to get herself out of the place. Billy crept over to her side and slipped his hand into hers, squeezed gently. She squeezed back, he needed the comfort. At the same time she hoped she wasn’t going to be saddled with a baby troll. Would there be a way of sneaking out on her own?

The elf horse pushed his way past them all to stand in front of the window-tree.

‘Well,’ said the horse, ‘that’s where we have to go. The tree says it’s a shortcut, since Owen got us lost up here in the first place. You’d better all climb aboard us and we’ll fly you through.’

‘Ahem!’ One of the Mousies coughed. ‘Ahem! We can’t fly! It’s all very well for you lot, kelpies and elf-horse and whatever … Ouch!!!’

Magpie’s horse nipped the Mousie’s rump. The pony turned and glared, offended. ‘Well, I don’t know what you are!’ the Mousie said crossly. ‘Anyway,’ he carried on, ‘we can’t fly!’

‘It’ll work as long as we’re all touching each other,’ the elf-horse continued. ‘You grab my tail in your teeth, your mate grabs your tail in his teeth, and you sort of fly-by-wire. You’re OK aren’t you?’ The elf-horse turned to the kelpie and Magpie’s horse.

‘No problem,’ said the kelpie. Magpie’s horse just grinned.

‘Come on then.’ The elf-horse nudged Seabhag gently. ‘And check the girths,’ he told the elf-lord.

‘I remember the story,’ Seabhag replied with an old-fashioned look to his horse. He pulled the girth-straps, they were tight and the pins firmly through the holes. He mounted lightly. ‘Billy, you want to ride with me? This is going to be fun.’ He smiled down at the young troll.

Magpie helped Billy up in front of Seabhag then went to mount her own horse. ‘You can do it?’ she asked.

The horse’s grin widened. ‘You’re going to love this!’

Resignedly, Magpie mounted up. The elf-horse led the line-up with a Mousie clutching his tail; the second Mousie grabbed a large lump of Mousie-tail in his jaws while the first Mousie whickered gently. The kelpie followed, grabbing the second Mousie’s tail in his teeth.

‘I thought you could do this …’ Magpie stared at the kelpie.

‘Itshch to make ssshuure,’ the kelpie replied in a muffled voice through the Mousie tail. ‘In cashe he dropsh hish end. I’ve got him sheckurely.’

‘Oh … right …’

The Mousies both whickered in an anxious manner.

‘Get a grip!’ said the elf-horse and took off.

‘Sheeeeeeesh !!! V-TOL !!!’ the second Mousie lost his grip on his mate’s tail. The kelpie snorted.

Magpie watched as her horse sprouted two huge wings, like swans’ wings. They rose up out of the shoulders in front of her, spread to twice the length of the horse and swept down hard as the horse’s back muscles bunched under her; the creature leaped into the air. Magpie’s stomach was still somewhere on the ground, she hoped it would catch up by the time they arrived wherever-it-was they were going. The picture in front of her was amazing; everything had extended, grown and gone slow-motion. The beautiful elf-horse galloped through the air very slowly; the Mousie clung to his tail, its legs threshing gently; the second Mousie dangled pathetically from the kelpie’s jaws while the kelpie himself appeared to be swimming through the air. She herself was riding a flying horse. The air shimmered all the colours of the rainbow. Magpie gasped; it was the rainbow! A rainbow bridge! The path they flew along had straightened itself into an undulating carpet of red-orange-yellow-green-blue-indigo stripes. It flowed through the hole in the tree like a ribbon.

All of a sudden the hole was in front of them. Just as Magpie was certain they weren’t going to make it the hole opened like an iris, a lens, and they all streamed through. Then they landed. The horse stopped almost instantly, Magpie flew over his head bounced twice in the soft turf and came to a stop at Owen’s feet.

‘Nice to see you,’ he bent and offered her a hand up.

‘Ugh … err … errrmm … thanks …’ Magpie climbed to her feet in time to watch her horse’s wings dissolve back into the shoulders. She stared around her; it was quite different to where they had been.

‘Do you happen to know where we are?’ Seabhag asked Owen.

‘Cloutsham Ball,’ Owen replied. ‘Managed to have a look around before you arrived.’

‘Does that help?’ Seabhag raised an eyebrow.

‘Well, it does … and it doesn’t. Dun Kerri is over there.’ He pointed across a mist filled and steep-sided valley to a peak on the near horizon that looked quite close.

‘What about that?’ asked Iolo.

‘Do we have to go down there to get over there?’ Kefn did not sound keen.

‘I hope not,’ Owen said. ‘I hope we’ll get some more help.’

‘The horses could fly us,’ Magpie offered.

‘If you think I’m eating any more Mousie tail you’re mistaken!’ said the kelpie, still spitting hairs out of his mouth. ‘Tastes disgusting!’

‘And I don’t fancy my tail being pulled out any more either,’ said the elf-horse acidly.

Both Mousies crept closer together, their noses twitching and eyes rolling.

‘I’m game to fly over,’ said Magpie’s horse.

All the other horses snorted derisively.

‘Enough!’ Seabhag took charge for a moment. ‘What do you propose, Owen?’

But Owen wasn’t listening. He stood on the hilltop, legs spread and slightly crouched, both arms up in the air and his head bowed. His hands were fists. He was singing a tuneless song of four notes, up and down, up and down.

There was a rush of air, the sound of great wings.

‘The eagles are coming! The eagles are coming!’ the Beast stood with her claw shading her eyes, looking into the sun.

Four great golden eagles swept out of the sun. As they flew closer their huge shadows ran before them, climbed the hill of Cloutsham Ball and shrank to nothingness as the birds landed in front of Owen.

‘What can we do for you?’ the eagle’s voice was harsh, like stone grinding over stone.

Owen dropped to one knee on front of the great birds. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘We need to get to Dun Keri, to see the White Stag. We would like help crossing the abyss of mist.’

A strange coughing, gargling noise came from all four birds. It took Magpie a moment to realise they were laughing.

‘Not a good place for you to go!’ said the second bird.

‘We can carry them,’ said the third; the fourth nodded.

‘The horses can carry some of us,’ Owen said, ‘but we would be very grateful if you could carry the others.’

‘How grateful?’ asked the fourth bird.

‘What do you think would be a good exchange?’ Owen replied.

The four eagle heads conferred together. They turned to look at Magpie.

‘M-me …?’ she stammered. ‘B-but I don’t have anything!’

‘Yes you do,’ the first bird told her.

‘Skills,’ said the second bird.

‘Nouse,’ said the third bird.

‘Gumption,’ the fourth bird added.

‘You promised all these to Morningstar,’ the first bird went on. ‘You can renew your promise here, to us.’

‘You really will find it worthwhile,’ the third bird added in a kindly tone.

The four eagles gathered round Magpie. They were huge, enormous, as tall as she herself. They raised their wings, enfolding her in a great feather pyramid; their eight clawed feet touched hers so gently; their feathers just brushes against her; the four great beaks surrounded her head, she could feel their breath.

Words came to her …

Earth water fire and air

Met together in a garden fair

Put in a basket, bound with skin,

If I answer this riddle I’ll never begin …

She stopped. ‘I will begin,’ she whispered to the birds. ‘I’ll hold the riddle inside myself, know it is me; live it not talk about it.’

The warm eagle-breath breath flowed up her nostrils, filling her. She’d not felt like this for a very long time, not since Morningstar … she stopped that though before she burst into tears.

‘I will begin,’ she repeated to the eagles. ‘I will begin.’

The eagle-pyramid pulled back, became the four great birds again. Magpie found she was shaking slightly but felt better than she had since she’s left the school. ‘I … err … was that OK?’ she asked.

‘Yes. Come.’ The first eagle said. ‘Those of you who can ride the horses mount up. We will carry the others.’ He crouched down and spread his great wings, the Beast climbed onto his back. ‘Grip tight!’ the eagle told her.

The second eagle crouched beside Billy. ‘You’ll love this,’ the bird told him.

Billy looked up to Seabhag, would he approve? Seabhag nodded, smiled. ‘Yes,’ he told Billy, ‘you really will.’

Billy climbed onto the eagle’s back. His little short legs stuck out to either side; he looked round worriedly, wondering what to hang on to; he didn’t want to pull the eagle’s feathers out.

‘There’s big tufts in my ruff,’ the eagle told him. ‘Hang onto those, they won’t come out and you won’t hurt me.’

Billy took a firm grip … and a deep breath.

‘What about us?’ whickered one of the Mousies.

‘You’ll be fine,’ said the third eagle. ‘Just shut your eyes and think of spring grass.’

Seabhag leapt onto the elf-horse; Magpie mounted her horse, she was looking forward to those wings again, it was going to be fun. Owen leaped onto the kelpie’s back as the beast reared and neighed loudly, ‘Let’s do it!’ the kelpie cried, springing into the air.

The elf-horse followed him, along with the eagles carrying the Beast and Billy. Magpie’s horse unfurled its wings and lifted gently into the air. The two remaining eagles lofted, each hovered over one of the Mousies, then reached down their claws to grab a pony by the mane and tail.

‘Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeek !!!’ and ‘Gadflies !!!!!’ shrieked the ponies. Both had opened their eyes for a crazy moment and, as their heads and legs dangled from the eagles’ claws over a misty nothingness they realised looking down into the abyss had been a mistake!

Steady, strong wingbeats carried them. Magpie on the horse found a similar sense. The strength of the birds and her horse was stunning. Watching the elf-horse and the kelpie was quite different but no less amazing; the two beasts seemed to dance in the air, galloping, tossing their heads, manes and tails streaming out in the wind … and all of it in slow motion again. The ride across the abyss seemed to take both forever and no time at all. She was really sorry when the landed.

She slid off the horse to stand knee deep in black heather. Ahead was a pinnacle of stone and there, on the very top, balanced like a dancer himself, was the White Stag.

Coming to a slightly unsteady stop at the end of the bridge, he saluted it with the last mouthful of moonshine and put the jar down, slightly surprised that the ground moved a little and the jar fell over as he let go. He hadn’t had that much, it must be the ground, right? Yeah, right. The ground.

“Hey, Dragon!” he yelled, cheerily, “Hey, you! Dragon!”

The dragon unthreaded just the very top of her long pale-blue head from the smooth blueish-grey granite slabs of her bridge and blinked. To Bully, slightly awash on a tide of alcohol, it looked as if the bridge had just grown eyes.

“Wotcha, Dragon! You know a little dragon called Shparky?” he asked, grinning as he put his hand in his back pocket to fondle the spoons. “Bout so big? Kinda blue on top and white un’nerneath?”

The dragon unthreaded the rest of herself and lunged. Bully was suddenly flat on his back on the floor, pinned under a very large nose and stone cold sober as a pair of very large golden eyes focussed on him.

“Of courssse I know Ssssparky, troll. What about her?”

“I know where she is!” Bully squeaked. There was a long pause, then the dragon backed off about six inches. Bully breathed cautiously, not daring to move.

“Well, and where is ssshe?”

“What’s it worth?” Bully paused, licking his lips and suddenly wondering if he really wanted that bridge at all, “I mean, I’ve gone to a lot of trouble, it’d be fair if you gave me something back, like? You know… after I tell you….” He trailed off, aware of a faint ticking sound somewhere inside the dragon. What was that, a sort of sparking mechanism? Maybe the sound of flames building up? He was very aware that his stomach was right under her mouth still. “She’s at the Wam Barrows, the Wam Wights have her!”

“The Barrow Wightsss of the Wam Barrowsss have Sssparky?” the dragon repeated, with the air of one making sure that she understood correctly. Bully nodded, inching backwards on his hands and heels to try and get his body out of the firing line, just in case.

“Uh, yeah, and, uh, could you, maybe, see your way to, maybe, a tip? For the info, like?”

“A tip.” The dragon cogitated for a moment, faint wisps of smoke coiling from her nostrils now, “H’m. Very well. Here’ssss a tip for you.”

Bully scrambled to his feet, forgetting his nervousness. It had worked! The dragon drew her head slightly back,

“Run very fassst.” She advised, and for a second he stood motionless, then his feet realised what his brain was still grappling to comprehend. Bully turned and ran for his life while the dragon darted her head forward, teeth snapping shut right behind him. He screamed, sprinting even faster, and the dragon chuckled softly to herself as she dropped a mouthful of the seat of his pants onto the ground. Three gold spoons fell from the torn pocket and landed in the grass softly, and the dragon gathered them in with talons as long as a man’s arm.

“Poor Wightssss….. I’m sssure my little Ssssparky’ssss having a lot of fun…..” she mused, threading back into the bridge unhurriedly.

Owen turned to her smiling, ‘You can say that again! No! Don’t!’ he added quickly as her mouth opened to do as he said. ‘We … or rather I … have to find our path. I’m sorry, I lost it, that’s how we’ve arrived here. Thank the gods the kelpie had the nouse to stop because I certainly didn’t.’

The kelpie looked mollified, tossed his head gently.

‘Anyway, I’ve got to sort the path so you might as well have a quick rest while I do. I hope I won’t be too long.’

Billy peered cautiously round Seabhag’s leg and down over the cliff edge.

‘Cooooooooo … !!!’ he whispered, awestruck. ‘It don’t half go down a long way.’

‘Yes,’ Seabhag agreed, grabbing onto the troll’s collar. ‘And we don’t want you sailing down there, so come back here and sit down. It would be a real nuisance to have to fish you out of those pine trees after you’d bounced through a few at eighty-six miles per second per second. And it would put back rescuing Sparky by quite a while.’

Billy looked up at the elf, worried, then he saw that Seabhag was smiling. He gave the elf’s leg a quick hug and backed away from the precipice to sit down in the crunchy leaves far enough away to be safe.

Iolo came up to have a quick look over the edge too. ‘Hmm!’ he said. ‘Nice drop.’

‘Good paragliding,’ Kefn said from right behind him.

‘Damnit! I wish you wouldn’t do that!’ Iolo spluttered, backing away from the edge and treading on Kefn’s toes, quite deliberately.

Kefn chuckled and they both backed off out of the way.

Owen crouched down at the edge of the first step that led off out into nowhere. He was hunting for threads. Where were all those nice rainbow-strands he’d seen as the path did its jiggling tricks earlier? Now, right at his feet, he found them, or ones just like them, tied into a neat double-bow over a good reef knot. Ha! that was pretty conclusive and made sense of the notice; the gods would not be helping anyone dumb enough to step out off those steps. He sighed, relieved, he hadn’t fancied the idea of making a bridge across forever out of rainbow strands to carry the party across wherever-it-was that was the gulf in front of them. OK, so they were meant to go another way. He turned back and took a few steps back the way they’d come.

The others had taken his advice and spread themselves to sit down comfortably and take a break, out of his way. But the landscape had changed.

The forest trees stopped a few yards from the cliff edge; no path was really visible but right where he was sure it had been was now a tree. A very big, odd tree it was; its massive trunk stretched up to just over his head; above that three enormous branches reached out, one horizontally to his left, another out to his right and the third went directly upwards. Just below them, in the centre of the trunk, was a hole, like a window.

The hairs on Owen’s neck rose and his skin prickled. It was a window; a window between worlds.

Owen went up to the tree. There was a humming around it, like a force field. He tried putting his hand gently towards it; the field let his hand in but instantly all his hair stood on end. He heard the muffled gasps of half-laughter behind him, knew he must look a sight. ‘Damnit!’ he muttered, ‘I suppose I have to look like a clown’. The field let his hand through so he could touch the tree; there was instant communication.

‘Remember that saying about camels and needles?’ the tree asked him.

Owen sighed. ‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Well, that’s what you gotta do,’ the tree told him.

Owen would have sworn it was chuckling too.

‘How?’ he was feeling terse and somewhat frayed.

‘Climb up and have a look, boyo,’ the tree replied.

The hole was a bit over the top of his head. He withdrew his hand and stood looking at it, wondering how to see through; there were no rocks or logs he could stand on.

Something, someone, tugged at his trousers. ‘I can do that,’ Billy whispered to him.

Owen crouched down to Billy’s level. ‘You can do what?’ he asked, kindly.

‘I can be a rock,’ Billy said patiently. ‘I’m a troll. We’re rocks, stone. I can be a rock.’

‘Did you hear what the tree said to me?’

Billy nodded, looking worried. ‘Shouldn’t I have listened?’ His brow was furrowed and his eyes looked nervous.

‘No, no, I mean yes,. I mean that’s quite all right. I just didn’t know you could hear trees.’ Owen was smiling and put a hand on the little troll’s shoulder. ‘Have you always been able to hear trees?’

‘No-ooo …’ Billy hesitated. ‘It really sort of started after we got going on this journey. I didn’t know what it was what was talking to me, just I sort of heard things. Then, now, since we comed through that gate into … here …’ Billy waved an arm to indicate the forest, ‘then and now when you put your hand on that there tree, I can hear what he said like.’ He grinned sheepishly. ‘I think it all sort of comed clear when your hair stood on end.’

‘That’s good, that’s good,’ Owen smiled encouragingly. ‘So … you could be a rock. And would you mind if I stood on you so I could see through the window?’

‘Nah, that’s what I meant. You stand on me then you can see through and see where we gotta go.’

‘OK, thanks. I think that’s part of what I’ve got to do.’

Billy slithered across the leaves, through the force field – it made him prickle all over but he wasn’t going to say anything, he was too proud to be useful again. He curled himself into a good solid rock-shape, keeping his back nice and flat so Owen would have a good platform to stand on and not fall off, then he shuddered gently and shifted.

One moment Owen saw a young troll, next a handy-sized rock platform at the base of the tree the top of which looked very level and easy to stand on. He stepped into the force field, putting up with his hair all standing on end again, and stepped as carefully as he could up onto the rock, Billy’s back. It was just the right height; his head came up level with the window; putting a hand each side of the hole Owen leaned to peer through it.

He jumped back and fell off Billy. The rock shifted slightly and Billy’s head reappeared.

‘You all right, Guv?’ the troll asked.

‘Yep, sure.’ Owen picked himself up. ‘Hope I didn’t hurt you.’

‘Not a bit. You seen enough?’

‘No, I need another proper look, if you don’t mind.’

‘Go for it, Guv.’ Billy turned himself back into a rock.

Owen climbed back up, more wary this time, and peered again through the hole. The rainbow lines swam before his eyes, it was like literally looking into, having your head inside, a rainbow. He felt slightly giddy, took a deep breath and remembered to put his roots down through his feet, being careful of Billy on the way, and down into the ground. That stabilised him, things stopped wavering in and out of focus and held their shape. Now he could see the path, straight and narrow but very strong. He pulled back, climbed down and peered round the side of the tree. No, as he’d thought; no path.

‘Sorry Billy, not quite done yet.’

Owen climbed back onto Billy’s back and looked through the hole again. Yes there it was, very plain. He felt a suction on himself. Next moment he was sliding through the hole and out the other side, falling onto the soft grass. He sat up and looked back. There, indeed was the tree … but beyond was a whole new country. Where the hell was he? And … worse … where the hell were the others?

Finally, Len succeeded in navigating them back to the Turf-n’Donkey, whose owner had given them a quote for repairing the Capri. While Dmitri bounded eagerly into the dingy doss-house, energised by the prospect of getting his darling car back into good condition again, Len climbed out and opened the boot, his tone bracing.

“C’mon, Pete old boy! Wakey wakey, rise’n’shine and all that! We’re here!”

That was unbelivably unfair. Peter groaned as he gingerly unfolded his cramped limbs and eased out of the car – Bully had spread in his sleep, stretching his long heavy body sideways so he could lean his head on Peter’s shoulder. The troll’s considerable weight and gravity, assisted by the cross-country excursions and rough roads, had done the rest nicely and Peter now felt as if he’d spent a good few hours in a vehicular version of the Iron Maiden.

Len staggered into the hostelry with his arms full of gold plates and serving dishes, leaving Peter to gather up the dishes, side-plates and cutlery. Limping and wincing at every step, Peter followed his friends inside.

It was so dark in the taproom that Peter nearly walked into the other two before he saw them. The squat, heavy-muscled man who ran the place was peering closely at one of the plates and after several tense minutes, he made that time-honoured craftsman’s noise that brings dread to the heart of every householder, a kind of sibilant indrawing of breath through pursed lips.

“We-ee-ll…. Of course it’s quite modern work, this. It’s only gilded over pewter, not real gold… you can tell by the smell of it. Mass-produced for the Wight market, where they want shiny and flamboyant, not real craftsmanship.” Goibniu put the plate down on top of the heap, “Given the trashy nature of the stuff, you know, it’ll take practically an eighteen-place set in full order to cover the bill.”

They looked at each other, blinking in the gloom.

“But that’s what we’ve got! A full-up eighteen-place set! Serving dishes and all!”

“Well, you’ll get about three spoons as change from that lot.” Goibniu declared, firmly, and as Peter unloaded his armful onto the bar and emptied the cutlery out of his pockets, Bully slouched in behind them. Goibniu separated out three gold spoons and pushed them back towards Peter, the rest of the set vanishing under the bar swiftly.

“Huh, that’s my pay.” Bully growled, a hand the size of a shovel scooping the spoons deftly from under Peter’s descending fingers, and for a moment Peter felt a very unwizardly urge to fold up on the floor and weep. Len and Dmitri looked at Bully’s swaggering bulk, then decided not to argue.

“There should be enough in that lot to cover our room and board until the work’s done!” Dmitri tried to bargain, somewhat late in the day, and Goibniu looked them over, then made a noise redolent of condescension.

“You can share the upstairs back room. And the washing up needs doing of an evening.” He told them, and watched as they trailed mournfully up to the indicated room. At least while they were there he knew where they were and could put his hand on them – and the sooner he had that wreck of a car in his workshop and the wheels off it, the sooner the countryside would be safe! He jerked a thumb at Bully.

“Hoppit, you! If you’re looking for work, there’s a bridge dragon down the valley a few miles looking for someone to give her the news.”

Bully obediently hopped – but inwardly crowed. A bridge dragon! Perfect. All these dragons were related to each other, he’d be able to get himself some more gold when he told them where the baby dragon was!

“Drat and bugger it!” a small and very irritated voice spoke from nearby. Sparky turned around to stare, then recognised the pixie, sitting on its backside in the heather scowling furiously, “I meant Benidorm! I didn’t mean Bennachie! Why did I have to be dyslexic?”

“What’s dyslexic?” Sparky asked, still so confused by the sudden change in location that she forgot the events in the bathroom for the moment.

“Means I can’t spell things straight. Right pain in the behind that is! Try doing a pixie-spell when you can’t spell! How’d you spell Benidorm?” the pixie asked, and Sparky sat down, folding her wings in absently, but spelled Benidorm, rather carefully and hesitantly. The pixie got to its feet and brushed itself down, raising a small cloud of talc and the faint smell of cucumber. Sparky’s stomach rumbled.

“Where can I find someone to feed me here?” Sparky asked, plaintively, and the pixie gave her a long stare, then pointed up the hill behind her,

“Try up there. Wizard’s Tower. Bound to have a kitchen, wizards love their grub. And this time I will get to Benidorm! I need a month’s holiday after you…”

Sparky opened her mouth to object, outraged by this blame hurled her way, but the pixie rattled out its spell and poofed into thin air. Sparky closed her mouth again, hurt.

“Rude and ill-mannered little flittery things!” she muttered to herself, then got up and shook herself purposefully as her stomach rumbled again, turning to march up the hill determinedly. Kitchens! That was what she needed. A good kitchen and a good cook to feed her properly.

Reaching the top of the hill, she found herself on a wide plateau. At the far end, perhaps half a mile away, was a large and gracious tower with a man sitting on its roof. Closer at hand, however, was a rearing stone tower that commanded the landscape with great majesty. Sparky looked between the two, weighing up the distant certainty of someone on a roof with the very close possibility of someone being home, then turned up the path to the dark tower nearby and plodded grimly up to the door. She sat on the doormat and looked at the knocker, which was out of her reach, then sighed heavily and set off along a narrow path through the heather. It trailed around the outside of the walls, then came to a smaller door which had a catflap. Sparky lay down and stuffed her nose through the flap, inhaling. Food! She could smell bacon and eggs and mushrooms! If only she could get more than her nose through the flap…

But of course she could! She hunted hurriedly inside herself and found the furry black cat-threads, tugging them into position, then pushed through the catflap and trotted joyfully into a large, well-equipped kitchen. Cream! A bowl full of cream on a shelf in the pantry called to her nose and she jumped onto the shelf and plunged her head into the bowl, lapping delightedly.

Cream was all well and good but it had its limitations. Sparky lifted her head again, licking her nose thoroughly, then jumped back to the floor, resumed her dragon-self and began to rummage through the boxes and packets in the pantry. She was just tearing her way into a box of eggs when a step sounded on the floor behind her, then a startled voice,

“Good heavens! A dragon!”

Sparky turned round hurriedly, egg white trailing glutinously from her whiskers and yolk still dobbed yellow on her nose, and found herself staring at a tall thin man in black robes and holding a long black staff in one hand.

“Who are you?”

“I might ask the same of you, young dragon! You’re in my tower, after all!”

“I’m Sparky. I am very hungry!” she added, plaintively, though the devastation in the pantry might have suggested otherwise. The wizard surveyed the scene; two dozen eggs smashed and slobbered about; half a side of bacon left hanging on the hook, ragged around its lower hem where she’d gnawed off all she could reach; two big pots of olive oil licked to a shine; most of his bread visible only as a few sorry crumbs, and as for the biscuits…. It was better not to look.

“Come out of there and we’ll see if there’s anything in the other pantry that would be better for you.” he suggested, cunningly. Sparky cocked her tail up and trotted out, perking up. The nice man was going to feed her! Trustingly, she followed him along a passageway and down a short flight of steps into a big, echoing cellar with a high, vaulted roof. The scuff of his worn bootsoles and the pad of her paws reverberated softly in the corners until he opened a door and gestured her inside. Sparky trotted in cheerfully and found herself facing an absolute feast. Vats of lamp oil! Stacks of well-seasoned wood! Whole sacks of charcoal! She plunged hungrily into the nearest bucket of coal with a sigh of delight, gulping lumps of the stuff with relief.

“Slow down or you’ll get belly-ache!” the nice man advised, “Take your time, there’s plenty here for you to eat for months to come. And when you’ve eaten everything you want, you come back upstairs and find me; I’ve got some fires for you to light.”

Oh bliss! What more could a dragon want?

The way wound upwards amongst the green-black, lichen-covered trunks of ancient trees. Clip-clopping softly behind Owen, Magpie found herself slipping into a trance as her horse carried her up the narrow path. They had to go single file – Owen, with Corbie on his shoulder, led the way; Magpie followed then came Seabhag with Billy in front of him and the Beast behind him, Iolo and Kefn brought up the rear. A croak and Cadfan, the other raven, called her to lift him onto her shoulder.

‘Morning,’ he said. ‘Had a good night?’

‘Fine, thank you,’ Magpie tried to sound inconsequential.

Cadfan peered at her out of each eye in turn. ‘Hmmm!’ he said.

Magpie took no notice.

The way continued … dark trees … dripping lichen … red-gold bracken … they climbed and climbed. Magpie woke up with a start as her horse stopped abruptly with its nose in the kelpie’s tail; it tossed its head and backed up quickly straight into the elf-horse, who half-reared and twisted to get out of the way. Billy, also half-asleep, squawked as he nearly slid off and Seabhag grabbed him by the collar to hold him on board. The Beast stopped successfully not having been tailgating on the elf-horse and the Wyzards on the Mousies were fine too.

‘Hold up,’ Owen turned back to face them, the kelpie dance-stepping sideways in a neat half-pirouette. ‘We’re at the gate into the Enchanted Forest, we have to answer the challenge.’

‘Oh … ye gods!’ Magpie muttered. What the hell did that mean? She sat still, trying to keep her head down.

‘One of us,’ Owen went on, ‘will be chosen, will have get us through.’

‘Do you know what we’ll be asked?’ Seabhag asked.

‘No, it’s different every time.’

‘How do we know who the chosen one is?’ the Beast looked out from under her hood.

‘Each of us must go to the gate. The chosen one will be asked a question; for the rest of us nothing will happen. I’ll go first.’ He turned and rode the kelpie up to the gate.

Magpie couldn’t see anything very clearly; a white mist swirled gently across what appeared to be a gap in a bank across the path. She watched as Owen disappeared into it. A nasty feeling grew inside her, she tried to ignore it. It got worse, her stomach threatened to throw up her nice breakfast; she swallowed and tried to turn her thoughts elsewhere. Then something began to stick red hot pins into her backside.

‘Ow! Stop that!’ She jiggled about in the saddle, squeaking.

Not only did the pins not stop but the horse began to move towards the entrance to the enchanted forest. Magpie tried to dismount but her feet somehow got stuck in the stirrups. She found herself facing Owen who was just emerging.

‘It’s not me,’ he said.

‘I … Ow! Oh! Stop it! … Oh gods! The horse seems to think it must be me,’ she stammered. ‘I can’t get off!’

‘Well, good luck,’ Owen replied and patter her shoulder amiably as he went past.

‘Ouch! Hey!’ Magpie glared at his retreating back, her feet still well tangled in the stirrups and unable to run away. The horse pushed her past him into the mist.

As she entered it the red hot pins in her arse stopped.

For a moment she could see nothing but whiteness all around her then the mist cleared and she found herself alone, the mist behind her and in front of her a tall narrow gap between two high banks that stood up many feet above her head. The dark dripping trees loured over the gap, their lichen beards hanging down to almost touch her head. Her teethed clenched, this had not been her decision. What the hell was she supposed to do now?

The horse stopped. Her feet were suddenly free, she slipped down out of the saddle.

‘You were a great help!’ she told the horse. It whiffled softly, eyes glinting and gave her a hard shove further into the mist.

‘Huh! Don’t push me! Magpie growled, ‘I’m going.’ But she loosened her knife and tucked in her chin as she stepped forward.

The next three steps got darker and then, all of a sudden, light dazzled her. She blinked and put up her hands to shade her eyes; when she dropped them again the scene had changed completely. She stood now in an open place surrounded by birch trees, their white trunks brilliant in the light. Looking up, she found herself facing a very strange figure.

At first she thought it was an odd tree stump then she looked again. It was! It was a Frog. Or, at least, it was the top half of a frog, the head, with two strange antennae sticking out of the top of its head, big round eyes and a smile. She stared. The smile grew.

‘What the …?’ Magpie was quite speechless for once, her jaw even dropped a little. The frog’s smile deepened, its eyes crinkled to take up the smile and the antennae twitched slightly.

‘Good morning,’ said the frog.

‘G-g-good m-morning …’ Magpie replied. ‘What might I be able to do for you?’ she managed, keeping the question open and getting a grip on herself.

The frog grinned even more. ‘Nicely done,’ he replied. ‘That’s a question it’s fairly hard for me to catch you with.’ He paused, watching her, wrinkles formed between his eyes as he thought about how to respond to her.

Magpie’s eyes slitted, very wary, her old skill and panache had back. She had the nous to wait, not to jump in but to let the silence carry on until the frog should see fit to speak.

The frog smiled again. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that it’s maybe something I can do for you.’

Magpie held the silence for another moment, then, ‘Well, that sounds nice … what are you offering?’

The frog began to chuckle. ‘You’re a fly one, aren’t you? I suppose you don’t happen to know my old mate Morningstar?’

That caught her off guard again. He knew Morningstar? Harrumph! Well … she decided not to be drawn down that byway. ‘Maybe …’ she replied. ‘But, to get back to the point, you were saying there might be something you could do for me?’

‘Hmmph! Ye-es, it’s possible …’ the frog paused and eyed her closely. ‘Just where is it you’re off to, young lady, and for why?’

Instinct held good, as always. Magpie crossed both her forefingers with her thumbs and pulled on a couple of threads that were to hand. Morningstar would be pleased, she grinned to herself as she asked for the right words to answer the frog in the most appropriate way.

‘I … we … have a mission …’ she paused, pulled, called for the right words. ‘We’re all hunting the White Stag … for all sorts of reasons. But …’ she swallowed and took another pull. ‘But we have a group mission too. But the baby dragon’s still missing and we have to find her. The White Stag can help. We have to find him.’

‘Mmmm … OK …’ the frog frowned, pursed his lips, looked at Magpie from under his huge drooping eyelids. ‘The way to the White Stag is through the Enchanted Forest …’ he left the sentence hanging.

‘Well … great … I’ll tell the others we can get going.’

‘Not so fast! Not so fast, pretty lady. To enter the Enchanted Forest you have to pass me.’

‘So …?’

‘So … I require a gift …’

Magpie felt in her pockets … nothing. A picture rose up behind her eyes … the golden horn.

‘No!’

‘Yes,’ replied the frog. ‘I need that horn …’

Magpie glared, what? She was not giving up that horn …

‘I need that horn,’ the frog repeated.

Swallowing hard, Magpie turned back to her horse. The horn was in her saddle bag. Slowly, sooooo slowly she opened the bag. Her hand hovered over it, she glanced back over her shoulder. The frog just smiled to her. She turned back, reached in, grabbed the horn, pulled her hand out fast and shut the bag. She took it over to the frog.

‘Will I ever see it again?’ she muttered.

One of the antennae-things reached over the frog’s head and took the horn out of her hand.

‘That depends,’ he replied, tucking the horn away somewhere behind him. ‘Come back and see me some time and we’ll see.’

‘I will, believe it!’ Magpie said as she remounted, then, ‘it’s done,’ she called to the others through the mist. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

There were definitely pixies. One was busy cramming a bar of soap down the plughole of the basin, another two were sliding down the edge of the shower curtain, playing tag, and one was sitting in the bath, apparently carefully tying knots in a length of brown tubing, clearly pulled out of the open cupboard nearby.

One paw at a time, Sparky crept into the bathroom, focussing on the nearest pixie. It was the one in the basin, humming cheerfully to itself as it worked and plastered in wet soap. Carefully, Sparky edged her jaws open and shuffled her back paws inch by inch closer underneath herself. Her outstretched tail quivered with concentration, the forked tip twitching slightly as she prepared to….

Pounce!

The pixie, becoming aware of the dragon at the last moment, screamed shrilly as it catapulted out from under her nose. Sparky’s fangs clacked shut a fraction of an inch behind its feet as it zoomed into the air, wings a blur and a trail of soap bubbles drifting in its wake. Outraged, Sparky recoiled from the basin, her nose stinging from the impact with the hard cold porcelain, then launched after the pixie, her own much bigger wings instinctively outspread as she flapped furiously. Small as she was, she didn’t quite have enough space in the bathroom to get off the ground, each wild lunge of her nose accompanied by the tinkle and clatter of bathroom impedimenta flying off the shelves, impelled by either Sparky’s wings and tail or the panicked pixies frantically escaping her leaps and bounds.

Digby surveyed the scene of attempted carnage from the doorway, wincing as grievous bodily wreckage was committed by the dragon in her enthusiasm, but smartly swept up a warming pan from the armchair outside the door and foiled a pixie trying to escape past his head. With a smooth backhand stroke and a loud boing! he returned the pixie to the fray where, stunned, it fell into the toilet bowl. Maintaining his presence of mind, Digby reached in and flushed the toilet quickly, then retreated, closing the door behind him before anything else could escape. Thinking of the cleaning up that would need doing after the dragon finished and wishing that the Wights had consented to wait until the griffins could have arrived on Tuesday instead of unleashing the force of natural disaster called Sparky, he sat down in one of the armchairs and fanned himself wearily with a copy of the Shooting Times from the rack between the armchairs. A particularly loud crash! made him wince again.

Inside the bathroom, the crash had been caused by Sparky landing nose-first in the bath with Algy’s cucumber and spinach facial mask, Cedric’s salt and ammonia toothpaste and Fergus’s strawberry and camomile body scrub under her. The mingled reek offended her large and sensitive nostrils and the resulting sneeze blew her out of the bath. Landing heavily on her bottom on the bathmat, she skidded backwards into the towel rack and its assorted contents engulfed her in a small avalanche. Shaking herself clear of the obstructions, Sparky snapped wildly after a pixie that bombed her with Fergus’s cucumber fragranced medicated talcum powder, gesticulating rudely as it buzzed by and plastering her with white powder. Sneezing violently but definitively free of athlete’s foot, Sparky bounded into the air, infuriated by this dastardly move.

Snap … snap … snap … snap-snap snapsnapsnap crunch! She finally caught the pixie fair and square, crushing the creature and then spitting it out with an expression of extreme distaste on her face. Pixies tasted worse than green soup!

The two remaining pixies descended on her, wielding the mysterious brown tubing between them. Taking advantage of her fastidious lip-licking and spitting, they tried to entangle the little dragon in the tubing. Revolted, Sparky thrashed her way free, her tail flailing wildly in the air and scoring a direct hit on a shelf in the cupboard. A dozen sundry bottles with faded, illegible labels soared into the air, creating a rain of various assorted shapes, colours and sizes of pills, tablets and lozenges that pittered and bounced around the tangle of wings, tubing, pixies, dragon and Cedric’s towelling-back-scrubber-thingy that rotated in a haze of drifting talc in the middle of the floor, towels skidding out from under various feet, tails, wings, hands and heads like shrapnel. There was a faint despairing scream as Sparky succeeded in pinning another pixie under her paw, then smashed it through the air with a swipe of her tail. The pixie hit the wall and splatted, leaving a Rorschach blot imprinted in body fluids and wing membrane on the plasterwork.

Suddenly the fracas resolved into stillness. On the left, the pixie was poised, wide-eyed and wings spread. On the right, the dragon was poised, paws braced and tail lashing with rage, jaws open and dripping saliva and sparks. For just long enough to whistle the theme from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, they were motionless, glaring at each other, then Sparky inhaled.

Outside, Digby sat up, cocking his head. It had gone quiet. Oh dear -!

Sparky exhaled a blast of flame heated to incandescence by her livid passion, and the pixie screamed an incantation so fast it had no time to check spelling. Somewhere in the middle of the pause as magic focussed and before the flame seared into the other wall of the bathroom, incinerating the rack where the bathrobes hung and leaving only Algy’s slippers, the fluffy bunny ears charred delicately at the tips, a small voice could be heard, plaintive,

“Did I spell Benidorm right?”

There was a moment’s silence, then amidst the crackle of burning wood and the hiss of the broken shower fitting dripping into the inferno below, a soft poof sound indicated that, whatever it was the pixie had spelled, it had happened.

Digby flung open the door, armed with the nearest fire extinguisher, and hurriedly doused the flames. Surveying the utter devastation, he noted the absence of both pixies – and dragon.

‘Mmm-rr-mmrr-cough-choke … What?’ Magpie sat up.

Owen watched her appreciatively. Tousled and muzzy from sleep she still looked gorgeous. She blinked at him with that ‘WTF’ sort of look, then she recognised him, then she remembered, colour slid delicately up her neck to her cheeks, she began to grin.

‘That good?’ Owen quizzed her.

She just nodded, still grinning, then fumbled about to find her clothes from amongst the heap of garments at their feet. Owen passed her a shirt and wriggled his way into his own gear. Pulling on boots, he headed out then turned and stuck his head back in.

‘Eggs? Bacon? Sausage? Fried bread? Mushroom? Tomatoes?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Magpie responded in a muffled way as her head was still inside her shirt and she couldn’t find any holes for head or arms.

Owen headed off for the cook-fire. The Wyzards and Billy were in charge there; Billy really surprised at how well he could cook, admittedly it was only the bacon and sausages he was doing but he wasn’t burning them just getting them nicely browned. The smell was making his mouth water.

‘Turn them again, Billy,’ Iolo told him kindly. ‘What’ll you have? He smiled up at Owen.

‘The lot, please. Twice.’ Owen replied, squatting down beside the fire. ‘Want me to handle our eggs?’

‘Good idea, you’ll know how you like them. Here’s a spoon,’ he thrust one plus a hot frying pan to Owen.

Owen got both by the handles, scraped some fat into the pan from the large pot beside Kevn and set it to melt on the trivet over the fire while he grabbed a couple of eggs. Then he grabbed two more eggs, sensing Magpie’s hungry yowl in his head, grinned and broke them into a bowl.

Kevn eyed the four eggs. ‘Hungry work last night then?’

Owen chuckled in reply.

Platters piled high with hot food, Owen got back to the tent. Magpie was clothed and somewhat smoothed from last time he’d seen her, she’d tidied up a bit in the tent too. Owen made a mental note to check his valuables; gorgeous girl, but … kleptomania just wasn’t in it. He passed her one of the wooden platters. She took the platter and out her knife with a quick smile of thanks, and began tucking in. He sat down opposite and joined her.

Scraping every last drop of juice from the plate with the softest bit of fried bread, saved for the job, he looked up at her.

‘Ready to face the world?’

‘Mmmm …’ she nodded, stuffing the last bit of her own sausage into her mouth. She swallowed. ‘I’ll wash up,’ she took his platter and went outside.

Owen checked through everything; surprisingly, it was all still where he’d put it but he could tell from almost invisible changes that she’d had a look. He blinked on his second sight, yes, all the threads were in place but they had been moved, just a fraction. He smiled. Well, he’d just have to keep an eye on her, didn’t seem any point in hoping she’d grow out of it; she was already very well grown (in all the right departments, he recalled fondly) and stealing was just in her blood. Useful, at time, he could see that; probably one of the traits the School wanted her for and why she’d be good freelance. Morningstar was nobody’s fool. He went out of the tent, pulled all their gear out and packed the tent away. Magpie came back with the platters, stared at the small pile of gear that sat where the tent and all their clobber had been. Her pile was larger than his and his contained the tent and all.

‘Amazing what a compression stuff bag will do, isn’t it?’ she turned her dazzling smile on him.

‘Sure is,’ he agreed, his own dazzling smile beaming back at her.

The kelpie came up and nuzzled her in the back, she stumbled forward then turned.

‘Good morning, you!’ she greeted him.

‘And to you too,’ the kelpie eyed her. ‘Hmmm! Not enough sleep. Don’t fall off!’

Blushing slightly, Magpie turned away to find her own mount and get ready for the off.

‘Good?’ the kelpie asked Owen.

‘Not that it’s any of your business!’ Owen replied.

The kelpie grinned, as only horses can. ‘Come on then, let’s be off and at it!’