Page 8 of The Neverfear

‘More ropes!’ Nighthand called. A dozen ropes flew, and six men together began to pull the beast away. ‘Take it to the walled garden!’

‘Christopher!’ Irian ran to him and pulled him close to her like a mother. ‘You could have died!’ She inspected him, taking his hands in hers. ‘Are you hurt?’

He shook his head. He could not speak. The idea of words seemed strange and foreign.

‘You took a terrible risk, Christopher.’ Irian’s voice was furious, but she did not hide her awe. She was a scholar, a scientist who had studied many phenomena, and she knew a marvel when she saw one. ‘Behemoths can tear apart whole ships, you know that.’

‘It wasn’t a risk,’ he muttered. ‘I knew. The unicorn—’

Anya came hurtling towards them. ‘Christopher! What was that? What did you do? One minute it was charging at Professor Vane, and the next it was looking at you like you were talking!’

‘It’s injured,’ he muttered. ‘Somewhere in the flank. I felt …’ But the words were slurred and his body was beginning to shake. Irian put her arm around him and held him steady.

‘Don’t try to talk,’ said Irian. ‘Catch your breath.’

But Anya was insistent. ‘What happened, Christopher?’

‘A flash,’ he said. ‘Gold.’ And then he turned sideways and was sick on the grass.

Astor Morax

Most islands of Glimouria are shared by humans and creatures: sea-bulls pull human boats, firebirds sing on – and occasionally set fire to – windowsills. But on the Island of Manticores, nothing lives except manticores, and the small fat deer they prey upon. Or so it is widely believed.

Manticores feast on the shore at sunset, and fly low over the red rock mountains that form the island. The island smells of rotting meat. The very trees look like predators, stretching leafless branches as if they would strike the sky.

It was not always so. Cut into the rock on the western peninsula are three great pillars and a vast door. Inside, a red stone fortress.

The fortress was built thousands of years ago, long before the Glimouria Archipelago was separated from the rest of the world and hidden away by magic. The fortress had eventually been abandoned, and the manticores had taken over the island.

No human had tried to reclaim it. What good is a fortress to you if a lion-toothed, human-eyed beast is feasting on your face while making acerbic comments about the weather? No – the humans of the Archipelago left the Island of Manticores alone.

Until, that is, a man arrived who could control the manticores; a man who could bring them to heel like a pack of dogs.

Had there been any observers of the island, they would have seen that in the last months three great ships came and went often to the shore on the western peninsula, as well as a number of smaller boats and a flock of bronze birds. The manticores circled overhead, shrieking, but did not attack.

One such ship was drawing up now to the shore. The masked crew drew back respectfully as a tall woman, her face shrouded, stepped on to the stone landing block.

The woman walked past the crew, and her lip curled as she looked at them.

Vigo Nex, when he had seen these same men carrying torches on Arvatana, had seen only their masks, and that they all wore the same snake bracelet wound about the wrist.

But Carla Venasque, who knew them each by name, noticed other things. They were largely in early middle age, largely thick-necked, largely large. They were not friends, for none of them was capable of friendship – which does require a fundamental belief in the importance of another person – but they were allies. Half were sullen and half quick to rage, and many were both. The bandits differentiated among themselves – this one excelled at murder, that one at looting, a third at fire, which requires more nuance and skill than you’d think – but to outsiders they looked like what they were: men and women who had ceased long ago, deliberately or otherwise, to believe in the value of human life.

‘My lady.’ At the great stone archway cut into the rock, a muscular, red-haired man saluted her. His eyes were the colour of an unlit light bulb. ‘He’s been waiting.’

‘Darius Alkov. I am not late.’ She checked her watch; one minute before the hour. There was a bracelet tight on her wrist: the snake with its tail in its mouth.

‘As you say, my lady. But if Astor Morax feels you are late, it makes no difference.’

Wordlessly, upright as a sword, the woman followed him through red-stone passages to a room where a man stood at a high window. He did not turn round. A black dog with ears of flame lay at his feet.

She looked at him, and was unable to keep back the flicker of fear and fury that passed across her face. ‘Magister,’ she said. Then the emotion was gone, and she was in control again.

‘Carla Venasque,’ he said.

At the sound of the man’s voice the bracelet on her wrist flickered into sudden life. Its tail tight in its mouth, it writhed in a full circle around the bones of her wrist. She flinched.

‘Yes, Magister. I am your servant.’