Ruler of the Realm

Eighty-one

The heat hit him like a wall. Then came the smell. ‘Whooo!’ Pyrgus exclaimed, and began to cough helplessly as some acrid fume caught in the back of his throat. Nymph, who was hard on his heels, began to cough too. Only Woodfordi, bringing up the rear, seemed unaffected.

Pyrgus looked around, still coughing. This was his first visit to the Eastern Desert and, if he had anything to do with it, it would be his last. He’d heard about this area, but nothing prepared him for the reality. A barren, rocky pavement stretched as far as the eye could see, broken at intervals by plumes of smoke and dust. A criss-cross of cracks glowed dull red from the lava flows beneath, casting a peculiar glow across the entire scene. Not a hundred yards from where they landed, he could see a softly bubbling mud lake.

Woodfordi handed him a flask. ‘Try this, sir, begging your pardon, sir. And the lady too.’

‘What is it?’ Pyrgus asked between coughs.

‘Little something for the throat. Army issue. They tell you it lines the passages and prevents permanent damage. Don’t know about that, sir, but it does help.’

Pyrgus took a brief swallow and handed the flask to Nymph. The liquid was viscous and tasted foul, but his coughing eased at once. He turned to lock the flyer – no sense in taking unnecessary chances – then said, ‘North-east, wasn’t it?’ He glanced up at the sky.

Woodfordi smiled slightly. ‘’Fraid I don’t remember, sir. Part of the training.’

Nymph confirmed, ‘Yes, north-east.’

‘I’ll lead the way,’ said Pyrgus and strode off.

It proved heavy going, even on the flat, and after half an hour he began to wonder about Madame Cardui’s estimate of their timing. The trouble was the fumes. Although Woodfordi’s liquid stopped the coughing, there was no way of avoiding noxious gases getting into your lungs. He’d read somewhere that if you stayed a little too long in this wasteland you started to hallucinate. (And if you stayed a lot too long, you died.) But even before that happened, the desert sapped your strength.

The irritating thing was that neither Nymph nor the little soldier Woodfordi seemed to be as badly affected as he was, so he had to push himself to the limit to keep up the stupid pace he’d set. The two of them walked after him easily. They even had breath for a chatty conversation.

‘How did you get to be a CC?’ Nymph asked.

‘Born to it, I think, Miss,’ Woodfordi told her. ‘Parents found me chatting to my nan when I was a kid. Only trouble was the old girl died before I was born. Well, they didn’t know what to do with that, did they? Simple people, my folks – Dad worked on an ordle farm, Light rest him. So they sent me off to a special school: I think they were a bit scared, to tell the truth.’

‘Was this some sort of training school?’

‘Not really, Miss. But one of the teachers realised what I was and raised enough funds to get me a year in the Psychic’s Academy – you know, the one off Flannelmaker’s Square. That’s where the military found me. Only way a titch like me could get into the army. My wife says I need to stand on a box to kiss her anywhere above the knee. So you couldn’t imagine me in combat, could you?’

‘Can you still talk to dead people?’ Nymph asked curiously; and Pyrgus’s ears pricked up, even though he was pretending not to listen.

‘Heavens no, Miss. Army knocked that out of me. No use to them, see? Troops would waste their time chatting to their fallen comrades. They trained me to contact the Military Guide instead – some sort of angel, I think he is, although you’d never believe it when you hear him swear – and he showed me how to do the messages. Receiving was easy, right from the start, but sending’s a bit tricky until you get the hang of it.’

‘Can you send a message to anybody?’

Woodfordi shook his head. ‘Oh, no, Miss – only another channel. We make up a sort of network, you might say. When the Painted Lady called you before, she was talking in the ear of a mate of mine called Weiskei.’

Pyrgus stopped dead. They had entered a boulder-strewn area and he was certain there was something moving behind a rock.

‘Quiet!’ he hissed.

Nymph responded at once and unslung her bow. Pyrgus pointed silently to the rock and she began to circle behind it. As much for a diversion as anything else, Pyrgus said, ‘Better take cover, Mr Woodfordi.’

‘Sir!’ Woodfordi acknowledged briskly.

Then Pyrgus abruptly realised Nymph might be moving into danger and started to run towards the rock, reaching for his trusted Halek knife.

And then suddenly, incredibly, they were surrounded.