ã€ŠDictionary of Skillsã€‹


 Chapter 1: Wonders never cease

    Most weeks, Malcolm only managed to get into the arena once all eyes were on the action rather than the entrance. In all his months of trying, he¡¯d only ever got to see one fight right from the start. Today made it two. He wriggled further under the bench and peered down. On the sandy floor below, Ganoir the Gifted gave the nod and lifted his sword. Sunlight skittered across the blade, sending swathes of flickering rainbows cascading over the arena. Oooh! Every mouth in the audience formed a perfect, synchronised O. An answering roar from the monster¡¯s den rumbled through the floorboards. It was a big ¡®un alright. Ganoir planted his feet in the sand and dropped into his fighting stance. As one, a thousand eyes turned to watch the den open.

    ¡°Now, Bill! Ger-it-up, yer great lummox!¡± On a platform above the den, a guard strained against the door¡¯s mechanism, sweat soaked palms slipping on the frayed rope. A huge vein in his neck threatened to pop at any second. ¡°Hurry up, yer lazy git! The last suckers who din¡¯t get the door open sharpish got told to nip down and use th¡¯andle!¡±

    His fellow guard paled. Malcolm grinned. It was true too! One of the unlucky guards had lost a forearm in the encounter. Of course, Mal hadn¡¯t been there to see it, but damn, he wished he had. With a final groan, the huge, iron door relinquished its hold. The arena held its breath.

    In an act sitting somewhere along the border of divine confidence and supreme stupidity, Ganoir turned his back on the open den and sheathed his sword. He lifted the grill over his eyes, tipped the crowd a rakish wink, then whipped off his helmet. A golden mane of hair, rumoured to be more god-grown than man, tumbled about his shoulders. Another equally adoring ¡°Ooooh!¡± rattled the rafters. Ganoir shrugged, and in one smooth move, he tossed the helmet into the stands. The crowd went wild.

    Apart from Malcolm ¨C Malcolm stayed put. He was too far back anyway. A souvenir wasn¡¯t worth breaking cover for, no matter what reward it might bring at the finders¡¯ market. He wedged his fingers between the slats in the underside of the bench and fought to stay down. His masterful show of self-control paid off, for while the loyal fans were scrapping tooth and nail over safety gear, Ganoir approached the den.

    Malcolm craned his neck. In most fights, as soon as the gate was open wider than a gnat¡¯s chuff, the monster hurled itself out of its hidey hole and leapt for the fighter in a storm of hellish fury. Today¡¯s monster was different. This beast appeared to be experiencing a touch of stage fright. It was certainly in no hurry to meet its audience.

    Growing murmurs of unrest circled the benches.

    ¡°I¡¯m telling you now,¡± shouted Benson the butcher, two rows over. ¡°Somebody needs to get their-selves down to that den and tell that monster it needs to get a bloody move on! I¡¯ve shut up shop for this!¡±

    ¡°Good thinking! Off you go then, love,¡± said his wife. She leaned to let him pass, fingers crossed behind her back. On the sandy floor below, Ganoir folded his arms and tapped one foot. The crowd sniggered. The fighter scratched his head. He strolled away from the den, rubbing his chin as if deep in thought. Halfway across the arena, he stopped and turned to the audience with a spreading smile. Malcolm near swallowed his fist in excitement. Ganoir had a plan up his sleeve.

    The fighter crouched low to the ground, his hands weaving intricate, circular patterns in the air. Any monster fighter worth their salt could call up a skill without batting an eyelid, but the loopy stuff tended to add to the overall effect. Ganoir was preparing to use a stone, but which one? Malcolm struggled under the bench, feeling for the dogeared dictionary he always kept somewhere about his person. He flipped through the pages ¨C one of the sword skills maybe? For all his showmanship, the fighter was an unknown quantity. Word in town said he had so many active stones he rattled.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    In one magnificent burst, Ganoir¡¯s hands thrust towards the den. The gateway shuddered, and something large heaved itself out of the darkness. A crocodilian monster, at least thirty feet long, grey osteoderms glowing in the midday sun. Non magical weapons wouldn¡¯t put a dent in that hide. The monster lumbered into the arena on its stubby legs. All the croc types were slow movers. They also all had claws like scythes that could gut a man with one swipe ¨C swings and roundabouts. The croc followed Ganoir¡¯s dancing hands. It paid no heed to the boos and taunts of the crowd. A mouth twice the length of Malcolm¡¯s arm hung agape, lined with row upon row of serrated teeth.

    Hold up! In a suicidal move out of nowhere, Ganoir broke off from his finger fiddling and launched himself full pelt at the beast. Surely, he wasn¡¯t going to jump into its mouth? It only looked like he was!

    The crowd gasped. Ganoir¡¯s feet left the ground. He slid through the air like a ballerina on soap and landed in a crouch behind the croc. A relieved titter rippled the stands.

    Ganoir beamed ¨C all shiny white teeth and home in time for tea. ¡°HERE, KITTY-KITTY!¡± he roared.

    The croc blinked stupidly. The fighter straightened and slapped his thighs. A thrill leapt deep in Malcolm¡¯s chest. Here we go! The croc paused as Ganoir neared. It lifted a long, grey snout to sniff the air. Thick strings of saliva swung from the corners of its slitted mouth.

    Ganoir stopped within sword¡¯s reach of the monster¡¯s tail, yet he didn¡¯t strike. Instead, he lifted a hand and twisted one finger. A fiery whirlwind appeared above his fingertip, filling the arena with its keening screech. An air skill! Malcolm scrambled for his dictionary again. Air, air¡­ His index finger flew across the pages. Hot air! Ganoir had a hot air lance!

    The fighter jumped again. This time, as he sailed over the croc¡¯s head, he stabbed down with the spinning column of air. The keening screech intensified, joined by the croc¡¯s gurgling groan as the hot air lance drilled out its right eye.

    The monster tossed its head. Blood spurted from its ruined eyehole. One more strike like that and it would be Ganoir the Greatest yet again. The fighter turned to the crowd. ¡°Head or tail?¡± he roared. ¡°Tail?¡± He waved at the croc. A scattering of silver coins tumbled down from the benches. ¡°Or head?¡± More coins rained down. ¡°Sure about that?¡±

    Malcolm tucked his head back under the bench as the coins fell. Taunt ¡®em and flaunt ¡®em ¨C the age-old monster fighters¡¯ motto.

    ¡°Or how about¡­¡± Ganoir swiped a hand over his torso. The air before him blurred, and the fighter stepped up like he was climbing a flight of stairs. Malcolm clapped a hand to his mouth to stop the squeal of delight in his own deduction skills. Walking on air! It had to be. Only the best paid fighters could afford to specialise.

    One by one, Ganoir mounted invisible steps until he stood thirty feet above the ground. He hovered there, nodding regally and throwing out the occasional cheery wave. Below him, the monster turned in slow, confused circles. The crowd surged to their feet, stamping and cheering. Malcolm wriggled. It was hard enough to get a decent view when everyone was sitting down, never mind when they all stood up. Well, he wasn¡¯t about to miss the big finale. Some people said Ganoir had an air of mystery skill too, except nobody knew what it did ¨C including Ganoir. Imagine getting to see that in action!

    A sudden flurry sounded from the centre of the arena. Malcolm¡¯s head shot out from under the bench and up through the nearest pair of legs. Then, three things happened at once: a woman screamed; a firm hand latched onto Malcolm¡¯s left ear; and the monster reared onto the very tip of its tail, pulled off a perfect pirouette and neatly tore Ganoir the¡­ Gutsy in two.

 Chapter 2: Hobs sons choice

    Malcolm yelped. It was a miracle his ear was still attached to his head since Guard Blake seemed hell-bent on pulling it off on their march across town. Fancy getting dragged out of the arena at the best bit! He peered hopefully down at his shirt. The fighter¡¯s blood had spurted for miles, and the look on Ganoir¡¯s face as he watched his own legs disappear was like¡­ Well, Malcolm didn¡¯t know exactly what it was like because Blakey yanked him out before he got a proper chance to see, but he didn¡¯t look happy.  Hardly surprising, mind. It wasn¡¯t every day that a monster got the better of a fighter, especially not by ripping him in half.

    At the end of the street, the guard hauled hard to the right. Malcolm¡¯s feet parted company with the ground, and Mona¡¯s inn swung into view. He had precisely two minutes to come up with an excuse fit for his brother. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he mouthed, practising. ¡°I swear on your life I¡¯ll never go there again.¡± He had planned to go straight to the town hall, but an unguarded arena entrance? They practically invited - no, no, they forced him in! He groaned. Declan wouldn¡¯t buy it. Malcolm renewed his pleas. Of all the days in all his fifteen years, he could not afford to mess up on this one. ¡°I need to go back!¡± he wailed. ¡°Please, Mr Blake! Let me go!¡±

    Blakey sighed and tightened his grip. Malcolm was a decent lad, but he was far too interested in all that new-fangled monster fighter nonsense. It was about time Declan found his kid brother a new hobby or more chores, or both, at the same time, and the sooner the better. If he didn¡¯t, the boy was going to end up dead, and Blakey certainly didn¡¯t relish being the one to deliver the news. The old guard shuddered. It had been bad enough telling him about Hob.

    Malcolm gritted his teeth. If he was going to make a run for it, he needed to do it now. He took one last breath for luck, yanked his head away and dived for the grass. He needn¡¯t have bothered. Blakey had his feet back on the path so fast he glimpsed daylight through his nostrils. ¡°Please, Mr Blake!¡± he begged. The door was in sight. More importantly, so was his brother. ¡°Please, Mr Blake, I need to go back! Take me back!¡±

    ¡°Take him back.¡± Declan shifted from foot to foot under the guard¡¯s solemn gaze. Of all the days for Mal to bring trouble to the door, he had to go and pick Choosing Day! ¡°Malcolm needs to go back, Mr Blake, b-but I assure you I will be dealing very strictly with him just as soon as he returns home with his stone. You can count on me, and, of course, er, thank you for your time.¡± Declan patted his pockets then bit his lip.

    ¡°Don¡¯t you worry yourself,¡± said Blakey. As if he¡¯d take money off a couple of kids! They both looked like they¡¯d not seen a square meal in months. Everyone knew Mona had an inn to run, but the older lad made her a fortune with that baking skill of his. No doubt, she hardly paid him either. In fact, he wouldn¡¯t be surprised if the kid was paying her! Half the town said Mona had an irresistible bargaining skill. Mind you, the other half called her mother and supped their evening ale with the branch off a rowan tree shoved down their trouser leg. He shook his head, casting an eye around the sparsely furnished hut. ¡°You two managing alright, are you?¡±

    ¡°Yes, thank you, Mr Blake,¡± chorused the brothers.

    ¡°It¡¯ll be easier now too, you know, once Malcolm gets his stone.¡± Declan threw a pointed look over the guard¡¯s shoulder.

    Blakey blinked. Stone? It wasn¡¯t Choosing Day again so soon, was it? He¡¯d have to get the healers to give his head another wobble. Choosing Day was make or break for a kid. Young Declan had the right of it. Punishment would have to wait. The old guard raised a hand in salute. ¡°Right you are, lad. Back to the town hall it is then! About turn, Malcolm! Quick march!¡±

    Mal didn¡¯t need telling twice. He hit the path at a sprint. ¡°By the way,¡± Mr Blake called back, panting already. ¡°Mrs Blake says to tell you, er¡­ What was it again? Er - we¡¯ve been let down. Yeah, that¡¯s right. Her sister can¡¯t make Sunday lunch after all. You boys would be doing us a favour.¡± Declan grinned and closed the door.

    Once they were out of view of the inn, Blakey slowed the pace. A fast walk covered just as much ground as some crazy run. Even better, a fast walk with a couple of nice little breaks in between. Slow and steady wins the race. Old Jenks had that skill, and he was the fastest mailman in town. Mr Blake sank onto the nearest step. ¡°Hurry up!¡± he yelled to Malcolm¡¯s fast disappearing back. ¡°You need to get a shift on, you know! You don¡¯t want to be missing out on all the best ones, do you?¡±

    ¡°Yes. No. Thank you, Mr Blake!¡± Malcolm managed to wave without breaking stride. The old guard smiled and leaned back against the sun-warmed wall. Choosing Day, hey. He remembered his own like it was yesterday. By the time Malcolm was out of sight, Mr Blake was fifty years behind.

    Mal skidded to a stop outside the town hall, his hand poised above the handle of the huge oak door. This was it then, but he needed to calm down first. Decisions to last a lifetime were being made in there. The urge to hurry nagged at him. He squashed it down and focused his thoughts inwards. For about the millionth time since it appeared that morning, the scroll behind his eyes unfurled: Skill-stone. The swirling green letters sent a thrill through his core. He''d never get tired of seeing that word ¨C never. Except maybe he would if it was the only word his scroll ever held, and the chances of that happening were getting higher with every second he spent staring at the door instead of opening it.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

    He was late. The room held almost a hundred people. The choosers stood around the edges. The centre was filled with waiting family members and those elders who couldn¡¯t let anything happen in their town without their noses being firmly in it. The prospective sponsors stood at the back - less than usual this year. Some held signs declaring their profession and the skills they sought. Others wandered the hall, closely followed by the floating orbs of yellow light that came courtesy of the Luminates. Mr L himself stood below the biggest orb. The strain of keeping it afloat told at the edges of his fixed grin. The illumineer had never made a secret of his disappointment in the stone he chose. Even so, he¡¯d made the best of it. Last month, he opened a shop on the main street. Every time Mal went past, it was packed. Mr L was keeping his balls in the air. Malcolm needed to do the same, no matter how late he was.

    In one corner, wooden stairs led up to a platform ringed by a string of green flags where the officials waited ¨C the choosing area. Mayor Hardwick paced in tight circles, throwing longing looks at the door and diligently avoiding his wife¡¯s glare. Next to him, Wordsmith Mathers, the representative of the menagerie, stood with his eyes closed and his head bowed ¨C a picture of saintliness, unless he¡¯d nodded off again. The other man on the platform had been the talk of the town for days. He was the representative of Fowk Island. They sent one every year because - according to Benson the butcher -  Fowk didn¡¯t trust Feor to organise a piss-up in a barrel. This year, they hadn¡¯t sent just any old official. They¡¯d only gone and sent the chief archivist himself! Malcolm was standing in the very same room as the man in charge of the whole archive hunt. Now was the time to make a good impression.

    The queue to choose a stone stretched the full length of the hall¡¯s perimeter. Malcolm rubbed his ear. Regretting his life choices was getting to be a habit. If he¡¯d stayed at the town hall in the first place, he wouldn¡¯t be the last in the queue. No, not the last. He cast a consoling look at the slight, dark-haired girl slipping into line behind him. Funny, he¡¯d never seen her around before. He smiled kindly. Suspicion flared in her eyes. Malcolm gulped and turned to carefully examining the bottom of his shoe.

    At least, the line moved quick enough. No sooner had a chooser picked a stone out of the bag, than they were escorted by a waiting guard straight to the sponsors ¨C a picture of smooth efficiency! The mayor¡¯s wife smiled to herself. Word of Feor¡¯s excellent new mayoress must have travelled far for them to send the chief archivist. Well, it was about time their tiny island finally did something impressive. She shifted slightly to check exactly how impressed the archivist was with her smoothly efficient Choosing D-

    ¡°YESSSS!! GET IN THERE!¡± Albert, the blacksmith¡¯s son, jumped the string of flags and careened off the platform, arms in the air. ¡°YESSS! I GOT SHOOT! I GOT SHmmmf!¡±

    A guard¡¯s meaty hand slid over his mouth. Nobody was supposed to find out what was written on someone¡¯s stone until after they¡¯d told the potential sponsors. It looked like no one had bothered to let Albert in on that. Unless blurting out his stone was a ploy? Malcolm stood on tiptoe, craning his neck.  If it was a ploy, it was a good one. A crowd of wannabe sponsors flocked towards Albert.  Even the chief archivist had a glint in his grey eyes. He gathered up his silver cloak and marched down from the platform. The last Mal saw of Albert was his wild grin vanishing beneath a wave of the most powerful organisations on the island, all vying to make the blacksmith¡¯s son their newest recruit.

    Malcolm sighed. The word etched on a chooser¡¯s stone wasn¡¯t guaranteed to get them a combat skill, but when that word was shoot... He reached for his dictionary. It fell open at the extra pages he¡¯d stuck in at the back. His list. Six hundred and fifty-three words. All the words he thought would give him a good chance of triggering either a combat skill or a monster related skill. Next to each word, Mal had painstakingly written out a list of skills including that word. They were all combat skills of course. In tiny letters, he¡¯d even added notes on how he could use each skill to fight the greys. Granted, some of his ideas were a bit out there. He¡¯d had to get creative. The best ones he¡¯d learned by heart. It wouldn¡¯t look good if he fumbled his spiel, not with the chief archivist around. He looked like a man with no time for fools.

    Right on cue, the archivist emerged from the crowd of sponsors, ushering Albert ahead of him like a prize pig. He neatly swerved the blacksmith¡¯s handshake and strode back up to take his place on the platform. Mal sighed. Bang went his chances of winning the chief¡¯s favour! He returned to his list, lips moving as he silently chanted. It seemed like no time at all before a small hand nudged him. Strewth, he¡¯d been so wrapped up in his list, he¡¯d almost missed the damn choosing! He grinned his thanks to the girl behind, who was now casting suspicious looks at the ceiling, and hurried up the steps.

    The archivist¡¯s stare was like a physical force, cold and insistent. The man must have activated a scroll seeing skill - clear as daylight maybe. Malcolm opened his eyes so trustworthily wide they stung. It made no difference. The stare pinned him in place. Eventually, the archivist sniffed and waggled his head in a vague approximation of a nod. At last!

    Mayor Hardwick thrust out the bag. It was deeper than it looked. Malcolm¡¯s arm was in up to the elbow before his fingers even brushed the bottom. On Choosing Day last year, by the time the boy at the end of the line got to the front of the line, the only stone left was a tiny chip with the word ¡®of¡¯ on it. The boy¡¯s family disowned him the very next day. Mal swallowed hard. His fingers danced over the remaining stones. None felt big enough to hold decent words. Only two felt whole! Imagine Declan¡¯s face if he came home with half a word ¨C like that would keep Mona off their back.

    ¡°Time!¡± snapped the archivist, snatching the mayor¡¯s arm away.

    ¡°Hang on! I haven¡¯t -¡± Malcolm¡¯s protest died on his lips. The decision was made.

    He didn¡¯t want to look at his stone in front of everyone. He¡¯d waited fifteen years for it. This was something private, not a thing to share with strangers. At least, the sponsors weren¡¯t paying him any attention. No one seemed remotely interested in what the poor, scruffy kid had chosen. They were all too busy making sure they secured themselves a worthy prot¨¦g¨¦. Malcolm uncurled his fingers. He gazed down at the tiny grey stone with its two engraved letters.

 Chapter 3: Like a lead balloon

    Up! It was almost as bad as of! Mal didn¡¯t need to look at his list. He wasn¡¯t daft. Of all the six hundred and fifty-three words that might give him a chance of triggering a skill valued by the menagerie, he knew without a doubt none of them were the word up. He groaned.

    On Dec¡¯s Choosing Day, his brother had pulled out a stone engraved with bake. The skill was dead easy to unlock because only about half a dozen spells used the word bake. All Declan had to do was trigger the right one. The bake from scratch skill he finally triggered was a dream come true ¨C at least it was for Mona. She sponsored him straight off. The queue snaking from the inn¡¯s door every morning was her reward ¨C that and the rent for the hut that took most of Dec¡¯s wages. She hadn¡¯t even let him take part in the archive hunt. She just stuck him straight in her kitchen, and he was still there six years later. Did Declan even want to be a baker? If the bake stone had destroyed his brother¡¯s dreams of glory, then he kept it well hidden. Baking paid the bills. Desperately trying to trigger the skills needed to fight monsters without a clue where to start didn¡¯t.

    The wordsmiths were already leaving. Malcolm hurried to catch them before they reached the door. Most big organisations employed at least one wordsmith. The menagerie had dozens of them. They were his best chance of getting in.

    ¡°Please, ma¡¯am!¡± he called, waving the tiny stone that the rest of his life depended on. The woman hadn¡¯t heard him. Hardly surprising with all the noise in the hall. He was going to lose his chance. ¡°PLEASE, SIR!¡± By the grace of the gods, the last person in the group paused. Malcolm leaped to put himself in front of the man. ¡°Please, Sir! I¡¯ve got a stone!¡±

    ¡°Really.¡± The man looked past Malcolm, his piercing, grey eyes searching the room.

    ¡°What I mean is, erm, I¡¯ve got a good stone that¡¯ll trigger a good skill¡­ You know, from a spell like -¡± Mal fumbled for his dictionary. He¡¯d fantasised about triggering skills from spells that would serve the menagerie and its wordsmiths since he was six years old. Now, he couldn¡¯t remember one of them. No, that wasn¡¯t true. He could remember a million spells. What he couldn¡¯t remember was a single spell with the stupid word up in it. He gripped the tiny stone so tight it threatened to crumble.  The wordsmith marched straight past like he didn¡¯t exist. The man made a beeline for his quarry - the girl with the suspicious eyes, the last person to choose. She hovered near the platform, deep in conversation with an older woman. The wordsmith paused. There was a brief murmuring then the three of them swept across the hall and out of the door.

    Malcolm bit down so hard on his lip, he tasted metal. No! He was not about to give up that easily. Just because the wordsmiths had left the hall, didn¡¯t mean he had to let go of his dream. If the menagerie wouldn¡¯t take him directly, then he needed a sponsor who at least had contact with the menagerie. The back of the hall was still full.

    The menagerie didn¡¯t only employ wordsmiths. They employed guards too. Malcolm stood on tiptoe, searching the hall for a familiar shock of white hair. No sign. Knowing Blakey, he was probably still sitting on that step. There was nothing for it. He¡¯d have to try one of the others.

    ¡°We ain¡¯t that desperate, kid.¡± The biggest guard folded his arms and surveyed the room over Malcolm¡¯s head. The rest of the group barely gave him a glance. Malcolm held his stone up higher. ¡°Makes no difference. The answer¡¯s still no,¡± said the guard.

    ¡°But couldn¡¯t you just check it?¡± Mal urged, waving his stone under the man¡¯s nose. ¡°It might be an extra powerful one or something.¡± He wasn¡¯t sure if more powerful stones even existed. He knew that all the stones inside the choosing bag on Choosing Day were guaranteed live and ready to trigger. After all, they were a town¡¯s investment in its future. It¡¯d be bad form to bring dead stones, but more powerful stones?

    The guard sniffed. The illumineer was still around. It would only take a second to check the lad¡¯s stone. What harm could it do? He reached out to take it, then hesitated. If he took to checking random stones left, right and centre, he¡¯d never get back to the guardhouse. It was his turn to run the pot tonight. The lads reckoned the mayor was coming along, again. No, best not give the kid false hopes. He turned his reach into a stretch. ¡°Yeah, well, what it is¡­ We¡¯re wrapping up now, see. Duty calls and all, so ¡­¡± Malcolm stopped listening. Time to move on.The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    What about ship work? Ship work paid well. Sometimes monsters for the menagerie were transported by boat. It could be the answer to all his prayers. Malcolm¡¯s heart thudded in his chest. He was walking before he lost his nerve, straight for the nearest figure wearing dock workers¡¯ overalls. He thrust out his stone. The man jumped back.

    ¡°Give it ¡®ere, kid. Let the expert ¡®ave a ganders!¡± The voice sounded like its owner gargled gravel on a daily basis. ¡°Jolly Jacko there don¡¯t know a decent skill stone from a liability.¡± A gnarled hand grabbed Malcolm¡¯s stone, twisting and turning it under the yellow light. ¡°You¡¯ve got a live ¡®un alright,¡± he growled.

    Malcolm beamed.

    ¡°I said it¡¯s live.¡± The old sailor rolled the stone across his palm. ¡°I didn¡¯t say it were any good, now, did I?¡± He rummaged in his overcoat pocket and pulled out a stained notebook. ¡°Up,¡± he mumbled. ¡°Up, up, up¡­Ah, ¡®ere we goes!¡± He tapped the open page. Mal leaned forward eagerly. The sailor¡¯s finger underlined the words as he read. ¡°Coo-king-up-a-storm! Oh aye, that¡¯ll be perfeck, won¡¯t it lads!¡± he cackled. ¡°Just what we needs in the middle of the ocean.¡±

    ¡°Never mind, sir. It doesn¡¯t matter.¡± Malcolm reached to take his stone back. ¡°Sorry to have bothered you.¡±

    ¡°No, no,¡± said the old seaman, closing his fist over the stone. ¡°I ain¡¯t done yet, lad. There¡¯s a lot more where that came from! Don¡¯t you worry. Looks like you¡¯ve only gone and got yourself an extra powerful stone! Fancy that! Now, ¡®owsabout this for a sea spell? Up-to-your-neck-in-it,¡± he read. ¡°Hmmm, I wonder what we¡¯d all be up to the neck in?¡± He paused. Malcolm groaned inside. ¡°Shark probbly,¡± said the sailor. ¡°Or kraken. What¡¯s you reckon, Jacko? Fancy being up to your neck in sea monster?¡± The men fought to keep their faces straight.

    ¡°Ehm, I, ah, I sus¡¯pose it does sound a tad risky.¡± Jacko made a gulping noise in the back of his throat.

    ¡°Too right it sounds risky,¡± growled the old sailor. ¡°And I¡¯m tellin¡¯ you now, we¡¯ll all be shafted if the lad triggers a fuck up!¡± The sailors dissolved into laughter. Malcolm snatched his stone and stalked to the opposite side of the hall, his face burning. The old sailor waved.

    ¡°Bit mean that, Cap,¡± muttered Jacko. The boy wasn¡¯t much older than his youngest. He had that same earnest look about him too.

    ¡°Well, what else we ¡®spected to do. We come all this way to be told they don¡¯t want us taking on no one new.¡± He nodded towards the black-cloaked guards in front of the door. ¡°I¡¯ve never known owt like it.¡± The old captain looked at the departing archivist and shuddered. Summat not right ¡®bout a man who can¡¯t do his own dirty work.

    Malcolm held his cheek against the cool plaster of the wall. Now he was away from all that damn noise, he could think of loads of good sailing spells he might be able to trigger. Wake up call for a start! He bet the skills off that would be brilliant for sailors, or how about All bunged up? Perfect for a sinking ship! He tried to picture what such a skill might involve. The trouble with the ancient spells was that a lot of the time the skills they triggered didn¡¯t exactly turn out how you might expect. Malcolm rubbed at his eyes. Why the elders stuffed their magic in a load of stones and nonsense words was beyond him.  He looked back at the dwindling sponsors. Trying to trigger a word like up could take years without a clue which spell it came from. Who was going to support him for that long?

    Most people had left. The mayor and his entourage were long gone. Even Mr L¡¯s floating orbs had bobbed home after him, leaving the hall in flickering candlelight. Malcolm prowled the room, worry eating at his insides. He needed a sponsor. As much as it sickened him, fighting monsters for the menagerie would have to wait. He¡¯d worry about it later. Later when Declan hadn¡¯t wiped the floor with him for coming home without any sponsor at all.

    The couple from the dairy shook their heads in unison. They appreciated him asking, but money was tighter than ever this year. They needed someone who would trigger their skill quickly. It was the same story at the stables. None of the healers were interested.

    Verging on desperate, Mal hurried over to the only group left in the room. Three burly men stood in the doorway, heads together, talking softly. He wasn¡¯t sure what profession they represented, but they were his last chance.

    ¡°Sorry, lad,¡± said the man. ¡°We¡¯re only hanging on to make sure everyone gets off alright. Got word earlier a couple of chancers were trying to persuade the youngsters to swap stones.¡± He shook his head. ¡°Now, you make sure to get yourself straight home.¡±

    Malcolm gave him a weak smile. The men raised a hand in farewell.

    Once they were out of sight, he slid down the wall, head in hands. He¡¯d failed. Choosing Day was over, and he had no sponsor. Not that he blamed people for not sponsoring him. No one in their right mind would take a chance on a word like up. He held his stone up to the night sky. Anger gnawed at the back of his throat. ¡°I put all my stupid hopes into you!¡± he yelled, fighting back the tears.

    Behind him, someone coughed. ¡°Ditto.¡±

 Chapter 4: The gift that keeps giving

    People called her Zippo. It had to be a joke. Malcolm had never seen anyone walk so slowly or so awkwardly. It wasn¡¯t cold, but the old woman wore layers of tightly wrapped, bright-coloured shawls. In one hand, she held a roughly carved stick. She stopped toe to toe with him, her head cocked to one side, pinning him in place with pale, almost white eyes. ¡°Cat got your tongue, boy?¡± She spat. ¡°Come on! Out with it!¡±

    Malcolm¡¯s mouth flapped. What was he supposed to say? He¡¯d only seen the woman once before ¨C in the gardens when he and Dec were out foraging. She obviously worked at the hall, and she was mad at him for hanging around so late, but the last of the sponsors had only just left. He wasn¡¯t that far behind them. Zippo¡¯s eyes darted to his hand, the hand that held his stone. ¡°Your word?¡± she said. Malcolm handed it over.

    Zippo felt the stone, taking its weight. ¡°Eight o¡¯clock sharp,¡± she said. Her voice rang through the hall, almost musical. ¡°I¡¯ve no time for tardiness, mind.¡± She handed back the stone and turned for the door.

    Malcolm returned his dictionary to his pocket. Did she just offer to sponsor him? Zippo had examined his stone and then told him what time to turn up. If that wasn¡¯t a sponsorship deal, then he didn¡¯t know what was. ¡°Thank you!¡± he called to the old woman¡¯s departing back. ¡°You won¡¯t regret it, ma¡¯am. I¡¯ll do you proud, you¡¯ll see!¡±

    Zippo paused. She smiled ¨Ca sad smile that made Malcolm¡¯s heart jolt in his chest. Surely, she wasn¡¯t regretting taking him on already. ¡°Do me proud, eh?¡± the woman mused. ¡°Leave me in ruins more like.¡±

    What was that supposed to mean?

    By the time Mal had decided that even a crazy sponsor was better than no sponsor at all, the old woman was limping out into the darkness. ¡°Where?¡± he shouted. ¡°Eight o¡¯clock where?¡± Zippo didn¡¯t bother to stop. Once forward motion was achieved, she¡¯d long since found it was best for old bones to make the most of it.

    If his spell had involved something to do with speed, Malcolm would have triggered it there and then. He ran for home like all hell was after him, questions hounding him all the way. What if the old woman was a seamstress? Was that where her name came from? Could he really apply himself to fastenings for the rest of his life? No. He needed to stick to the facts. She was a caretaker at the town hall, or maybe a cleaner. What was important was he had a skill stone. He had a sponsor. He started first thing tomorrow morning. It was very important not to be late¡­ But late where?

    Malcolm skidded around the side of the inn and charged through the paddock, his feet pounding over the wet grass. Under the alder tree, the old donkey pricked his ears and threw back his head. There¡¯d be no wolf attacks tonight ¨C not on his watch!

    ¡°HHEEEEEEEE-HAAAAW!¡± The dead stirred. A light flashed on in the inn.

    ¡°Sssshhhh! Assy! Shhhhh!¡±  Mal dove to the ground, ripping out huge handfuls of dock leaves. ¡°Shhh, Assy! Here, boy. Come get ¡®em.¡±

    Assmodeus stopped mid the next magnificent bray and tossed his great, shaggy head. What a coincidence! All wolves well and truly banished just in time for nibbles. He trotted over to collect his reward. The young boy¡¯s hands were as firm and warm as ever, though he smelled more like the bigger boy tonight with that peppery tang of stone magic all over him.

    Declan¡¯s face appeared at the door. ¡°Get in, won¡¯t you! If she hears us!¡± His eyes flashed to the inn. He made a cutting sign across his throat.

    ¡°Good guarding, Assy.¡± Mal thrust the last of the leaves at the old donkey and followed Declan into the hut.

    It smelled glorious inside. Mal peered about him hopefully. No fire of course, but the oven still glowed. Declan stood by the table, digging his nails under splinters of wood.

    ¡°I got a sponsor! Mal blurted. Declan let out the breath he didn¡¯t realise he held.

    ¡°I knew you would. Good job, Mal! Let¡¯s see it, then.¡± He took the stone, handing his brother a biscuit in return. Malcolm¡¯s eyes widened. The bakes were eye-wateringly expensive. He¡¯d never had a whole one all to himself. He snapped the treasure in half.  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    ¡°No, no.¡± Declan waved his hand away. ¡°You got yourself a sponsor. If you¡¯re good enough, and they like you, you¡¯ll be triggered in no time, and then there¡¯s whatever you find in the archives.¡± Mal watched the worry lines fade from his brother¡¯s face. It might not be the menagerie, but he¡¯d not seen Declan this relaxed in¡­ ever. Mal savoured the sharp sweetness of burst blackberries on his tongue.

    ¡°Up, hey,¡± said Declan reading the tiny stone. ¡°Could be part of anything I guess, but you got a sponsor ¨C that¡¯s what matters, so spill.¡± He settled back against the wall. ¡°Every detail, mind, no skimping.¡±

    ***

    ¡°Did he really say you might trigger a feck up?¡±

    Mal nodded, chasing the last sliver of crystallised hazelnut into his mouth where it dissolved with a satisfying sizzle. ¡°I agreed with him an¡¯ all,¡± he laughed. ¡°I thought I¡¯d messed up big time. Especially at the end when everyone had gone.¡±

    Declan looked up from the piece of cord he was working on. ¡°What d¡¯you mean ¡®everyone had gone¡¯? You did get a sponsor, didn¡¯t you? You said you had a sponsor.¡± His eyes drilled into Malcolm¡¯s.

    ¡°I did. I did!¡± Mal flinched. The intensity in Declan¡¯s gaze unnerved him. He hesitated, sprats shoaling in his stomach. What if he¡¯d got it wrong and misread the entire conversation with the old woman? Thank the gods he¡¯d finished his biscuit. Now, Zippo never actually used the word ¡®sponsor¡¯. What was it she¡¯d said? ¡°I have to be there at eight o¡¯clock sharp.¡±

    ¡°Where?¡± snapped Declan.

    Malcolm screwed up his eyes. He ought to have tested this out first. Now, he was in for it.  ¡°They call her Zippo,¡± he hedged.

    ¡°Zippo? Whoa! Maly boy!¡± Declan sprang to his feet. His voice shook. ¡°You¡¯ve only gone and done it!¡±

    Malcolm was fast losing track of the situation. ¡°Yeah. Go me! I¡¯ve done it, alright.¡± Oh Gods, what had he done?

    ¡°Six years! Six years I¡¯ve listened to you going on and on and on. Day in day out - I¡¯m going to work for the menagerie. I¡¯m going to work for the menagerie.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m going to work for the menagerie?¡± breathed Malcolm.

    ¡°You¡¯re going to work for the menagerie,¡± said Declan and pulled him into a rough hug, his face wet against Malcolm¡¯s.

    Zippo worked as some sort of healer at the menagerie. She¡¯d been there for years. It was all Declan knew. Well, healing wasn¡¯t exactly the same as fighting monsters, but it was a good start. It was in the right place at least. Malcolm watched Dec pull a piece of cord from his pocket and lie it along his arm. Seemingly satisfied, his brother held it out. ¡°This is for you,¡± he muttered. He waved the cord. ¡°For the stone.¡±

    ¡°I know what it¡¯s for but¡­¡± Malcolm swallowed. The string of purple leather was as much a part of his brother as his stubbly black hair and quick temper. ¡°It¡¯s yours.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t worry. I¡¯ve kept a piece for me.¡± Declan lifted his shirt sleeve. The purple string was so tight around his wrist that the skin had swollen.

    ¡°But it¡¯s not safe there,¡± Mal whispered. Ever since he could remember, Declan had worn the same purple cord around his waist, where no one could see it, where no one could take it.

    ¡°If someone wants a stone of mine bad enough, they¡¯ll take it whether I wear it around my arm or my waist. Anyhow it¡¯s not like I¡¯ve got stones lined up waiting to trigger, is it? This thing¡¯ll be empty for a long time yet. Now, wait here!¡± He jumped to his feet and hurried out of the door.

    Malcolm picked up the cord. A skill stone only became part of the holder¡¯s core once it was triggered. Until then, people wore their stones against their skin, waiting. He twisted the string through his fingers, marvelling at its softness and the gentle pull of magic. Not all stone strings had magic in them. The purple cord came from the hide of a creature of magical purity. It was the only thing of value they had left. The door banged.

    ¡°That string took some snapping, I can tell you, so you needn¡¯t be worrying about anyone stealing either of them.¡± Declan thrust out a fist. ¡°Now, before you start, all¡¯s I know is that it¡¯s yours. It¡¯s been yours since before you were born.¡± He uncurled his hand. In the centre of his palm sat a slim grey stone, a little bigger than the up stone. ¡°I don¡¯t want none of your questions ¡®cause I¡¯ve no answers to give. Got it?¡± Declan had that intense look about him again. His eyes shone. Malcolm nodded. This was about their mother. ¡°Tie both the stones on. You don¡¯t want to lose them already!¡± Declan forced out a laugh and dropped the second stone into Malcolm¡¯s hand. Then, he faked a yawn and flopped down on the narrow bunk. ¡°Early start again.¡± He pulled a thin blanket up over his head and turned away.

    Malcolm played along. The only time his brother ever came near to tears was when something involved their mother. Mal barely remembered her. Even so, while he waited for Dec to fall asleep, he imagined her pressing the stone into Declan¡¯s hand, and whispering with her dying breath, ¡°For Malcolm, so that he may become¡­¡± No, hang on. ¡°For Malcolm, so he will become¡­¡± Nope. ¡°For Malcolm, the greatest monster fighter who ever¡­¡± He shot up. He hadn¡¯t even looked at the second stone! What if it said fight! What if it said¡­ Six hundred and fifty-three possibilities marched across his brain. He held his inheritance up to the window.

    K-I-T-T-E-N.

    He didn¡¯t need the dictionary to know what spell it came from.

 Chapter 5: A jump to conclusions

    ¡°I¡¯m off to light the ovens. Don¡¯t you dare be late! And don¡¯t worry - anyone at the menagerie¡¯ll show you Zippo¡¯s place.¡± Declan ruffled his brother¡¯s hair and made for the door. ¡°And for the gods¡¯ sakes do not go back to sleep!¡±

    No sooner had the door shut than Malcolm was scrabbling at the cord around his waist, feeling for the tiny up stone ¨C still there. As for the other stone, the one Declan gave him. Mal had pored over his dictionary well into the night. Nothing else used the word kitten. The stone had to be linked to the weak as a kitten spell. In an uncomfortable corner of his mind, he wondered if the kitten stone had really been meant for Declan instead. It made total sense. His brother had no combat skills, no strength attributes. He was skinny as a rake, weak as a¡­ Yeah. It fitted alright.

    Mal felt around for the loose knot of wood under his bed, then retrieved the kitten stone from his shoe and sealed it into the hole. He certainly wouldn¡¯t be wearing the thing next to his skin. Imagine if he triggered it by accident! No, the only hope was to try and sell the offending stone at the finders¡¯ market. Maybe he could use the coin to buy something better. He shivered into his pants and made for the door. He had a little visit to pay before he headed to the menagerie. Just because he¡¯d chosen a stone didn¡¯t mean he had to stop chasing down opportunities for more.

    Outside, only a narrow crack of grey light said it was morning. Mal¡¯s breath steamed in the cold air. Assmodeus left off his grazing and trotted out of the shadows, a distinctly optimistic look in his rheumy eyes.

    ¡°You nearly got me shot last night, you daft ass. Never mind nuzzling for snacks. If you¡¯d woken Mona up, she¡¯d have our Dec baking donkey pie by now!¡± He tossed Assy a handful of peelings and jumped his way across the wet grass.

    Part of him still couldn¡¯t believe he was headed to the menagerie. There he¡¯d be surrounded by equipment and books that would put his pocket dictionary to shame. Not to mention all those wordsmiths. They¡¯d need to make sure at least some of their new stone holders triggered before the archive hunt began.

    Mal ran through a series of jumps as he went ¨C jump up, jump high, star jump, tuck jump, straddle jump¡­.. Long jump, short jump, big jump, little jump, even littler jump. People said a new stone holder couldn¡¯t miss triggering their skill, but he flicked his scroll down every few seconds just to be on the safe side. Nothing! No matter, he shouldn¡¯t expect miracles. Last year, Half-Job-Bob still hadn¡¯t triggered his skill long after the archive hunt was over and done with. Imagine if Mal managed to trigger before his sponsor even introduced him to the other new stone holders.

    Sideways jump, straight leg jump, one leg jump.

    ¡°What the hell?¡± Todd stepped out from the shadows. ¡°Is there something up with you?¡±

    ¡°I wish there was.¡± Malcolm grinned then tensed. Too much information. Todd and secrets were like Benson¡¯s bull and a herd of heifers. He could smell ¡®em a mile off.

    Todd leaned against the streetlamp and held out a hand. The dark rings around his eyes stood out stark against his red hair and too pale skin. He must have worked straight through the night again. Malcolm didn¡¯t know what stone skills Todd had, but whatever they were, they¡¯d earned him enough coin to support his whole family since his dad had to give up work. Todd¡¯s da¡¯ used to be the best pennyweighter on all the islands. None of the fancy shopkeepers ever worked out how he did it. These days, it was down to Todd to keep the family going, as well as paying for a top doctor from Neah whenever his da¡¯s hollow legs played up.Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

    Mal had tailed Todd more than a few times, and as far as he could tell, most of Todd¡¯s jobs involved him standing on his own in the dark outside the well-to-do houses, but he wasn¡¯t a thief, and he wasn¡¯t a guard. Malcolm had tested out both theories extensively. Whatever Todd did, one of the fringe benefits was that he knew more about what went on in town than anyone else.

    ¡°I can¡¯t pay right now,¡± said Malcolm. ¡°I¡¯ve got nothing, but I will have tomorrow,¡±

    ¡°Pity that. Tomorrow¡¯s too late.¡± Todd¡¯s eyes took on a calculating look out of place with the casual manner ¨C his bring out your secrets stare. Malcolm knew it well, and this time, he wasn¡¯t going to give in. He wasn¡¯t even sure it was a skill, but somehow, whenever Todd brought out that look, Mal ended up spilling. Well, this time he wasn¡¯t going to break. Todd yawned and pushed himself off the post. ¡°If you want to know about the thing before the thing happens, then you¡¯ll have to tell me what word you got at the choosing and that¡¯s my final off-¡±

    ¡°Up,¡± said Malcolm. ¡°I chose up.¡±

    ¡°Three o¡¯clock on west bank dunes ¨C grey with an egg,¡± said Todd. ¡°You¡¯ll want to be there.¡± He tapped the side of his nose. ¡°Don¡¯t forget to let us know what skill you trigger an¡¯ all. You know, keep me up to speed.¡± He winked and strolled back into the shadows, humming softly. Malcolm gritted his teeth. He didn¡¯t know how the boy did it, but he resolved to stay well out Todd¡¯s way until he did. At least guessing his spell wouldn¡¯t be easy. Jump up fast. Jump up even faster.

    ***

    Magic leather is safe. Magic leather does not snap. Magic leather is safe. Magic leather does not snap. Malcolm resisted the urge to check his stone again and stared up at the tall, gilded gates. It still hadn¡¯t sunk in. He was at the menagerie. He was standing in the place real magical creatures called home, the place where the monstrous greys met their grisly end. Finally, after so many years of wishing and hoping, he could walk straight into the menagerie like he belon-

    ¡°Halt!¡± An outstretched arm knocked him out of his reverie.

    ¡°What the?¡± Mal peered up into the familiar face and broke into a grin. ¡°Alright there, Roly!¡±

    Roland Rowland¡¯s family yard backed on to Assy¡¯s paddock. Roly had chosen his stone two years ago. The skill he triggered led him to the guards - the perfect career path for the boy who¡¯d spent his whole childhood playing jailer in games of Capture the Flag. Malcolm winked. ¡°How¡¯s it going, mate?¡±

    ¡°You must slate your givenful name and its business in there,¡± snapped Roland. He blinked. The confident expression wavered. His eyes grew round. ¡°No, not in there. That¡¯s not it. It¡¯s in here. In here what¡¯s business?¡± No, that didn¡¯t sound right either.

    ¡°Roly. It¡¯s me, Mal! Dec¡¯s brother. You know who I am! I saw you this morning! You were on your way to the privy! You waved!¡±

    Roland ran a finger under his ill-fitting collar and gave a strangled cough. There hadn¡¯t even been an official visitor¡¯s greeting till that damn archivist and his hangers on had stepped foot off the boat. Blakey had said something about the chief archivist weren¡¯t very happy with the level of security on the island, said Feor was fouling their own nest egg.

    ¡°That¡¯s not what you¡¯re s¡¯posed to say!¡± Roland tapped the piece of card that Mr Blake had written the words on for him. There was nothing on the card about waving or pri¡­ ¡°You haven¡¯t said it proper. It¡¯s..¡± He stared at the card. All this pressure made the words hard to read, letters jiggling about all over the show. ¡°You need to say it here where we are now your name and your business in it.¡± He threw Malcolm a desperate look and gulped, white-faced. His eyes darted to the sentry box. Malcolm followed his gaze.

    ¡°Malcolm, my name¡¯s Malcolm Hob and I¡¯m here by request of Zippo the healer. She told me to report to the menagerie at eight o¡¯clock sharp.¡± He paused. ¡°Mr Rowland, Sir.¡±

    Relief flooded the young guardsman¡¯s face. He sagged. ¡°That¡¯s very good, er, str -straight ahead, then. Off you go with you.¡±

    Malcolm turned and walked away in the direction of Roland¡¯s trembling arm. Halfway down the path, he could still feel the weight of the dead-eyed stare from the archivist in the sentry box.

 Chapter 6: One for the team

    Zippo bent into the rise and gritted her teeth. The new boy was incompetent. He didn¡¯t have a clue. Wanting to be a monster fighter be damned! He needed to find out who the bloody monsters were first. ¡°You an¡¯t got time to lollygag,¡± she snapped.

    Malcolm jumped. He was only standing still to give the old woman time to catch her breath. All the way up the slope, he¡¯d held himself back, walking as slow as he could, waiting for the count of three before he put a foot down for fear of treading on one of her ever-trailing shawls. It was like being chief mourner at the funeral for a washing line.

    Malcolm turned a slow circle, taking in the landscape. They¡¯d passed the fancy house with the flowery gardens and the healer sign in the window ages ago. Now, it was all hill and trees and hill. Where were the wordsmiths? The equipment? Surely, he ought to be in a workshop or something, dissecting spells, honing skills, devising battle strategies? Instead, he was up the arse end of nowhere in the pissing down rain with a crazy old woman. The ground was steeper here than it had been, crisscrossed with tree roots and creeping greenery. Above, a wisp of smoke curled through the branches. Zippo stopped walking. She pushed her way off the rough path into a clump of vines and vanished. Malcom¡¯s gut fizzed with excitement. A hidden workshop! Now we¡¯re talking!

    It was cave, like something a gang of kids might cobble together and call a clubhouse. Three stools arranged around a large, stained cushion of indiscriminate colour. Some makeshift shelves stuffed with dusty bottles and whatnot. The brief hope that the smoke he¡¯d seen curling invitingly through the trees meant fire was dashed by the mouldering pile of rotting seaweed steaming in the corner. This should be a workshop!

    Zippo lowered herself gingerly onto one of the stools. She pursed her lips. How did those hoity-toity mentor folk do it again? She cleared her throat. ¡°What I ham habout to tell you is hextremely himportant, so you need to listen¡­ To me, boy ¨C not to the shouldbe¡¯s!¡±

    How did she? Malcolm shook himself. He moved nearer.

    ¡°The first himportant thing.¡± She leaned forward. Something in the vicinity of her spine cracked, and they both winced. ¡°Sod it!¡± she said. ¡°Look, number one, at the end of each day, you¡¯re going to explain to me whatever you¡¯ve learned on your travels. Number two ¨C the pouffe is mine.¡± She hooked a foot around the stained cushion.

    ¡°Thank you, er, ma¡¯am,¡± said Mal. ¡°Umm, might I ask where it is that I¡¯m travelling to?¡± He bit his lip. Workshop, please let it be a workshop¡­ or a library. Libraries are good.

    ¡°Wherever you will go.¡±

    Malcolm stared. ¡°But what? How?¡±

    ¡°Carefully, that¡¯s how.¡± Zippo tutted.

    ¡°I will try to be careful, ma¡¯am, but I¡¯ll need to join the other new stone holders of the menagerie, won¡¯t I? You know, for the training, the books, the workshop? Where do I?¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t.¡± Zippo made a sound like wind whistling. ¡°You don¡¯t train. You don¡¯t meet anyone.¡± She enunciated each word as if he¡¯d suddenly become hard of hearing. ¡°And absolutely, no workshops.¡± She paused to let the information sink in.

    ¡°No, wor- but I thought you, er, I mean, I thought the sponsors paid for their p-prot¨¦g¨¦s to take part in the wor-¡±

    ¡°Well, you know what thought did, don¡¯t you?¡±

    Malcolm thought he knew what thought did, but that was according to Declan in one of his moods, and it involved farting and following through, so he deemed it best not to say. Not that Zippo was waiting anyway. She was far too busy telling him another important thing, and he wasn¡¯t sure he¡¯d quite understood the first important thing. Now, she was numbering important things off one by one on her fingers. There weren¡¯t many fingers left.

    ¡°You may go wherever you like in the grounds. You may watch whomever you wish.¡±

    Disappointment settled in his stomach. He looked at the ground.

    ¡°Malcolm, do you think the elders needed to attend training to work out how to use their own magic?¡±

    Malcolm hesitated. If the old woman¡¯s lips got any tighter, they¡¯d disappear. ¡°No,¡± he muttered, fingers crossed.

    ¡°Exactly!¡± Zippo smiled, head cocked to one side. ¡°Make your own way, Malcolm. I can¡¯t abide a follower. In any case,¡± She laughed. ¡°Fancy training costs fancy coin.¡± She waved a hand in the direction of the vines and closed her eyes.

    *   *   *

    Malcolm chose the narrowest of the paths down the hill. It ran so wild that he practically had to crawl. Many of the plants were familiar: borage for bellyache, horsetail for ulcers, the bearsfoot that Mona demanded every month. He had no idea where he was headed, but surely a path had to head somewhere. His first day as a new stone holder certainly wasn¡¯t going how it was supposed to. His mentor wasn¡¯t doing anything she was supposed to do either. He should have tried harder with the wordsmiths. He was an -

    ¡°IDIOT BOY.¡±

    Malcolm stopped walking. He slid into the undergrowth.

    ¡°ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!¡± Further down the hill, a man¡¯s voice floated out from a large rhododendron bush. ¡°This whole morning has been nothing but a charade! These, these¡­¡± The chief archivist emerged from the bush. He batted away the last of the branches and took a shuddering breath. His sticking up hair and the twigs in it shuddered with him. ¡°These incompetent idiots have been pretending to fight greys for nigh on two hours, and to be perfectly frank, they are not proving to be very good at it.¡± He peered at the old wordsmith who accompanied him. ¡°Do they actually know what spells they are attempting to trigger?¡± He sniffed. ¡°You do have a library, I presume.¡±

    Wordsmith Mathers shifted uncomfortably. Had they really been out here for two whole hours? And no one had triggered? No one at all? Deep down, it didn¡¯t surprise him. There was something about the chief archivist that made his own skills desert him, and he was a stone holder with¡­ well, a lot of years under his cloak. The archivist made him feel incompetent, that¡¯s what it was. No wonder the youngsters hadn¡¯t managed to trigger, with him leaning over their shoulders. The man had an uncanny knack of turning up exactly where he wasn¡¯t wanted and¡­ and he had funny eyes too. Whenever the archivist so much as glanced his way, Mathers felt his sensibilities get up and vacate the area. He schooled his expression into one of polite deference. ¡°I must say, Sir. Each year, I generally have several youngsters who trigger their skills during the first morning¡¯s combat practice.¡±

    Seconds passed. In the undergrowth, a caterpillar coughed. The archivist nodded to one of the black-cloaked guards, the clingy one who¡¯d barely left his side since he stepped off the ship. The guard grinned and reached for his sword.

    Mathers swallowed ¡°My apologies, S- your G-gracious-est. You are of course quite correct. It is indeed high time that we abandon this, ah, charade, and proceed forthwith to the library.¡± He wiped his palms down his cloak. Grovelling enough? The guard¡¯s hand still rested lightly against his scabbard. A touch more then. He turned to the gathered new stone holders. ¡°Yes, off to the library with us all! A grand suggestion from our learned visitor - yet again,¡± he added, just to be on the safe side. The archivist smiled.Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    Malcolm followed, moving from tree to tree, making sure he stayed close enough to hear, but far enough away not to be seen. If anyone was about to start spouting handy hints for triggering skills, then he did not intend to miss out.

    ¡°Sir! Sir! I¡¯ve triggered. Sir! I¡¯ve triggered. Sir!¡± Ahead, Albert, the blacksmith¡¯s son, hopped from foot to foot, his hands clasped as if in prayer. His eyes ranged from side to side, reading something only he could see. ¡°I¡¯ve done it! I got a skill¡­on my scroll. It says¡­¡±

    A gloved hand slid around Albert¡¯s shoulder and up over his mouth.

    ¡°Whoops! I wouldn¡¯t do that again if I was you. Albert, isn¡¯t it?¡± The boy with the gloves looked older, moneyed too, judging by the silver-trimmed jodhpurs and riding crop at his side.

    Malcolm shook his head. He couldn¡¯t remember the last time he''d even seen a horse on Feor. The dragons ate the last one years ago.

    Glove boy¡¯s arm tightened round Albert¡¯s shoulders.

    ¡°Al for short, is it? I bet they all call you Big Al. Well, Big Al, I¡¯ve got a little proposition for you. I need someone extra powerful like you on my team for the archive hunt. What d¡¯you say?¡± He rubbed his gloved hands together.

    Albert grinned.

    Under his tree, Malcolm gasped. No teams allowed in the archive hunt! Wordsmith Mathers was famous for going rabid if anyone so much as suggested it. He said it went against the spirit of the hunt. The new boy was headed for big trouble. They¡¯d heard him.

    Wordsmith Mathers picked his way back up the path. Someone planning to form a team? They¡¯d need a team to wipe their own bottom by the time he¡¯d finished with them. He dabbed his brow ¨C perspiring again. It didn¡¯t help with that black-cloaked guard breathing down his neck and fiddling with his scabbard every two steps. He¡¯d never known an official visit like it. Last year, Fowk sent a wet-eared shelf stacker who¡¯d spent most of his time recovering from the mayor¡¯s hospitality and trying to buy back his own briefcase. This year ¨C this year was different. At some point, the archivist¡¯s arrival had started to feel like less of a visit and more of an inquisition. Perhaps, there¡¯d been a complaint. Neah probably! They¡¯d been jealous of the menagerie for years ¨C always putting in official recommendations to the council, declaring their island would be a much better site. They¡¯d love it if Feor was found lacking. Of course, that wasn¡¯t going to happen. There were no flies to find on WS Mathers (senior).

    ¡°A-hem.¡± The wordsmith stepped off the path and drew himself up to his full height. ¡°Allow me to remind you, Master¡­¡± He paused in front of Albert and the other lad. What was the boy¡¯s damn name again? Come to think of it¡­ What stone did he even choose? He¡¯d obviously picked something out at the Choosing. Afterall, he was here, wasn¡¯t he?

    Mathers blinked the sheen away from his eyes. Yes, he was here alright¡­. slouching against the tree, twirling that silly riding crop around his wrist, in front of a senior to boot. Was the lad raised by wolves?

    ¡°Slater, my name¡¯s Slater.¡± The boy¡¯s lip curled.

    Not an ounce of respect. Young Slater obviously hadn¡¯t experienced the wrath of a wordsmith (senior), yet. Mathers smiled with his lips. ¡°Well, boy. You appear to have forgotten something very important. Your, aha, little team idea contravenes the rules¡­ My rule no less! The no teams rule! Section 33! Mathers Mutual Mandate! The most important -¡±

    Slater laughed.

    Mathers nodded. He was proud of that rule. It was a good rule, very succinct, catchy even. He¡¯d had it engraved on a plaque and everythi¨C ¡°SHOW SOME RESPECT, BOY!¡±

    The old wordsmith had forgotten quite how loud he could shout when his dander was up, but Slater didn¡¯t look fazed. There was a glint in the boy¡¯s cold stare. He smiled! Mathers followed his gaze. The chief archivist stalked towards them. A sword whispered in the wordsmith¡¯s ear. He clutched his cloak tight to his neck. ¡°The library, a wonderful idea, ha-ha-ha. Wish I¡¯d thought of it myself. Can¡¯t wait to get there!¡± He set off down the hill at a brisk jog, throwing the occasional ¡°Tally-ho!¡± over his shoulder for good measure.

    Malcolm stayed put, peering through a curtain of branches. The newly triggered Albert hadn¡¯t moved, neither had Slater, and they weren¡¯t the only ones who¡¯d not set off for the library. A hulk of a boy loomed next to them. Malcolm knew him mostly by reputation. Bentley lived in the shacks. His dad ran them. Anything Bentley involved himself in was bad news. He was currently involving himself in twisting the shirt collar of a boy who barely came up to his waist. The boy¡¯s feet scrabbled for the ground, his face purple.

    ¡°Where d¡¯you want this kid, Boss?¡± drawled Bentley.

    Slater reached for the purple boy¡¯s shoulder and shoved him against the nearest tree.

    ¡°Right then, Big Al. Show us this amazing skill of yours.¡± Slater jabbed his crop at the small boy. ¡°You can do it on Ernie.¡±

    Albert looked uncertain. ¡°But I¡¯m s¡¯posed to keep it a secret! You said I have to keep my skill a secret!¡± He folded his arms, pouting.

    ¡°I said you¡¯ve to keep your skill a secret from the opposition,¡± purred Slater. ¡°Not from me. You don¡¯t keep your skill secret from your team captain. I have to know what you can do. Don¡¯t I, Ernie?¡± He dug his crop into Ernie¡¯s side. ¡°I said, don¡¯t I, Ernie!¡± Ernie nodded miserably.

    ¡°See, even he agrees! Now, show me! What can you do? I know it¡¯s something to do with shoot. The whole town knows you¡¯ve got a shooting skill! Come on, Big Al.¡± He paused. ¡°You¡¯re our top-secret weapon.¡±

    That did it. Albert¡¯s face glowed with pleasure. Not only was he suddenly part of a team, but he was also his team¡¯s special secret weapon to boot.

    Malcolm cringed. Al was going to spill his guts. This was far too much potential glory for the kid who always played ¡®coat minder¡¯ in Capture the Flag. He sighed. The childhood street game was fast turning into a bloody oracle.

    Ernie dragged a grubby fist across his nose.

    ¡°Stand still!¡± snapped Slater.

    Ernie¡¯s hand dropped to his side. He gulped. ¡°But I don¡¯t wanna die, Slate!¡±

    ¡°Oh, stop snivelling! Ready, Big Al! Fire on three,¡± ordered Slater. He stepped away from Ernie and braced himself. ¡°THREE!¡±

    Albert froze. ¡°But, but..¡±

    ¡°THREE!¡± Slater yelled again. ¡°THREE, THREE, THREE!¡±

    Albert still didn¡¯t move. He stared wide eyed through the gaps in his bowl cut fringe. It seemed the blacksmith¡¯s son had enough sense to realise that you don¡¯t go unleashing untried skills on innocent little kids.

    Slater clenched his fists and blew out a long breath. He looked over his shoulder. ¡°Oh, Bentley!¡± he called in a sing-song voice. ¡°You¡¯re gonna love this, you are. Big Al here is about to show us a brilliant skill, best ever.¡±

    At best ever, Ernie¡¯s knees buckled; Bentley quit questing up his nose; and Albert turned his back on his last scrap of sense. He squared up to the sagging Ernie.

    Malcolm sighed and got to his feet. If his up skill was thinking of triggering, now would be a really good time for it. Three against one. He could hardly count on Ernie. The poor kid could barely stand.

    ¡°FIRE!¡± roared Slater.

    Mal stepped out from the bush. She was faster. The suspicious-eyed girl from the Choosing Day queue sprang from the branches of the oak tree and landed in a crouch, facing Albert. Her eyes didn¡¯t look suspicious anymore. If anything, they looked kind of demonic ¨C wild around the edges, with a glimmer of something stirring in the blackness ¨C recognition. She¡¯d seen him!

    The girl shook her head his way. Malcolm paused.

    ¡°I too would like to see this secret skill of yours, Albert,¡± Her voice wasn¡¯t much more than a whisper. ¡°You¡¯ll show it to me?¡±

    Albert jumped back. He stuttered.

    Slater huffed out a sharp-edged laugh. He twirled his crop. ¡°Go on then, Big Al. Show her your skill!¡±

    ¡°But..¡± Albert¡¯s eyes darted between Slater and the girl.

    ¡°She¡¯s snooping, Al. Trying to get ahead of us for the archive hunt,¡± said Slater. ¡°Show her!¡±

    ¡°But if she sees it, she might guess what spell I¡¯ve got!¡±

    ¡°She won¡¯t even have heard of it, Al. Like I said, it¡¯s a one off, top-secret.¡±

    Albert¡¯s forehead wrinkled in concentration. He leaned towards the girl and hugged himself, both arms tight around his own chest. He coughed. Something shot from his open mouth. The girl¡¯s arm blurred. Ernie¡¯s head jerked to the left. Something blasted into the tree trunk. Whatever it was left a gently smoking, head sized hole. Malcolm could see the rest of the woods straight through it.

    ¡°Gosh,¡± said the girl. She batted her eye lashes at the now also gently smoking Albert. ¡°What a brilliant skill you have!¡±

    Albert blushed. ¡°Th-¡±

    The girl put a finger to her lips. ¡°Well, this has been nice boys but¡­ Come along, Ernie. Wordsmith Mathers will have a search party out if we don¡¯t hurry.¡± She hauled the unresisting Ernie up with one hand and frogmarched him into the trees.

    The boys watched them go, open mouths mirroring the still smoking hole. The girl didn¡¯t stop walking until she reached the treeline where the manicured lawns began. She cupped both hands around her mouth. ¡°It was nice meeting you, Albert! When you¡¯ve worked out how to aim, let me know and we¡¯ll get together again to shoot the breeze!¡±

    Albert¡¯s round face paled. ¡°She knows my¡­¡±

    Slater was already running.

 Chapter 7: A terrible Beauty

    ¡°I¡¯ve told you. If you¡¯re not on the list, you¡¯re not coming in.¡± The guard folded the slip of paper down the middle and tucked it into his chest pocket.

    ¡°I¡¯m sure I must be on there somewhere, Sir,¡± said Mal. ¡°Maybe if you just have another check¡­ It¡¯s er Albert¡­ Albert Thingy.¡± He couldn¡¯t for the life of him remember the blacksmith¡¯s surname, and the longer he took, the more of the chief archivist¡¯s helpful hints he was missing. The new stone holders were probably in the restricted section already. They¡¯d be making notes by now, huddled over shedloads of books and esoteric stuff while he was out here trying to get in.

    ¡°There¡¯s no Albert Thingy on this list.¡± The guard patted his pocket. ¡°Nor any list by my reckoning.¡± He narrowed his eyes.

    ¡°Okay, look, I¡¯m sorry, Sir. I¡¯m not Albert Thingy at all see. I should have known an experienced guard like you would see straight through my little uh, ploy.¡± Mal stumbled. His legs felt weak all of a sudden. Something flashed green across his vision. He blinked.

    The library guard sniffed. ¡°And don¡¯t be thinking you can swoon your way in either. The very foundations o¡¯ magic are secured inside this building. We ain¡¯t gonna be givin ¡®em away to any Tom, Dick - or Albert.¡± The man grinned to himself.

    ¡°The truth is my name¡¯s Malcolm,¡± said Malcolm. His mouth had gone all dry and the strange sensation pulsing through his head made his stomach heave. ¡°I¡¯m a new stone holder. My sponsor is the healer, Zipp-ohhh.¡± He trailed off, woozy.

    The guard raised his eyes. ¡°And my name¡¯s the Chief Archivist Potat-ohhhhhhh. Get out of here with you. Zippo¡¯s ne¡¯er taken a stone holder on in ever. Go pull someone else¡¯s leg. I¡¯m done with it.¡±

    The door slammed. Of course, Zippo hadn¡¯t bothered to tell the guards she¡¯d taken on a prot¨¦g¨¦. Any hopes Malcolm had of the menagerie helping him trigger were fast becoming a dead loss. He leaned against the door and flicked down his scroll. Nothing had changed, and he could still feel the up stone digging into his side. Maybe he¡¯d almost triggered his spell. How though? He hadn¡¯t even been moving, never mind jumping. He¡¯d just been standing there.

    Back in the woods, Albert had known straight off when he triggered his spell ¨C shoot the breeze, and now, he really could! What a skill! Mal had never heard of it before, but damn, it sounded amazing. How come the girl knew it? Despite himself, he smiled. He hoped the others hadn¡¯t caught up with her. Somehow, he doubted it.

    He pulled out his dictionary and flicked through the pages. The trouble is¡­ He sighed, running his finger over the tiny, indented word under the book¡¯s title. ¨C CONCISE. The same as every other skill dictionary he''d ever seen. He gazed up at the ornate filigree on the stone walls. What if somewhere in there was the unconcise dictionary ¨C the original? His spell would be in it, printed in black and white. He needed to get into the library. He kicked the door in frustration, then set off at a jog around the walls.

    Three times, he circled the outside of the building. There were loads of doors but they were all closed and half of them looked fake.

    Somewhere up amongst the gargoyles, a bell tolled. Hanging around in bushes was more time consuming than he¡¯d thought. He sprinted for the gates.

    * * *

    Malcolm made two hollows in the sand and wriggled his elbows into them. It was impossible to lie still. Everything itched, and if it didn¡¯t itch, it stung. It had to be well past three o¡¯clock. He¡¯d never known Todd to be wrong, but there was no sign of anyone on the shore, save for an old couple casting nets into the shallows. If someone really was planning to relieve a grey of its egg, this place ought to be heaving with folk wanting to take a shot at it. The only way greys got eggs was by finding them unguarded, or by killing the creature that birthed them. The eggs held magic, and the greys craved it.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

    Below, the old couple pulled in their net, teeming with tiny silver fish, and dragged it away down the shore. Something felt off. The idea niggled Malcolm¡¯s brain. Magic creatures were safe on Feor. If one intended to nest on the island, then it would head straight for the safety of the menagerie ¨C not the wilds where a grey could attack at any time. It made no sense.

    Something flickered at the corner of his eye.  Two figures rounded the dune, one broad-shouldered and lumbering, the other tall and slim, striding easily along the sand. Something glittered at the slim boy¡¯s wrist, flashing silver as it spun. Malcolm¡¯s stomach lurched. Damn Todd! This was supposed to be secret information. He glanced over his shoulder, half expecting to find the rest of the new stone holders behind him. No. Just these two losers, then.

    Slater walked with the easy confidence of someone who knew exactly where he was going. Malcolm stayed low to the ground, upwind of the two boys and hopefully hidden by the scrubby bushes. He counted to thirty then moved, cringing at the shower of sand behind him. He waited to another count of thirty, then chanced a quick peek.

    The pair walked with their heads down like they were searching for something in the sand. A gap had opened between them. Bentley puffed at the back, stopping to wipe his face with a red, spotted handkerchief. Slater spun on his heel. He yelled, brandishing his crop. Whatever he said was enough to get Bentley moving again. He ran, the huge bag on his shoulder clanging with every step. He slung the bag at Slater¡¯s feet and dropped to his knees.

    ¡°Get it then!¡± shouted Slater.

    This ought to be good. Their equipment was probably in that bag. A boy who had the coin to buy top-tier, underhand information and silly riding gear must easily be able to afford the latest seeking relics.

    Bentley pulled his arm out of the bag and handed something over to Slater ¨C an old silver goblet by the looks of it ¨C hardly earth shattering. Was that all? No, Bentley was shoulder deep in the bag again. Now what? A decanter of fine wine? Mal groaned ¨C half with disgust at the pair for wasting valuable egg searching time, half with pure envy at the thought of refreshments. He blinked the sweat from his eyes, and the side of the dune exploded.

    Malcolm threw himself to the ground under a hail of stone and sand. He curled into a ball, hugging his knees, his exposed skin peppered by stinging missiles. What the hell just happened? He cracked one eye open. Halfway up the dune, something roared.

    The dragon stood on her hind legs, wings outstretched. Her golden underbelly proclaimed her a creature of magical purity ¨C an extremely angry one at that. Another roar rent the air, so loud it sent shockwaves through his brain. Ripples danced across the sand. He threw his hands over his ears and rocked.

    Malcolm waited until his vision swirled and his heart hammered in his throat. He eased in a breath as deep as he could without choking on sand. Breathing secured. He lifted his head. If the dragon saw him, she paid him no heed. Her attention was entirely focused on the threat in front of her.

    The Bentley half of the threat in front of her wiped vomit from his mouth and ran for the water, hands flapping above his head, stains creeping down his too tight trousers.

    And his partner in crime? Malcolm scrabbled onto his side and stared. Slater stood on what was left of the dune, large as life, not a scratch on him, the stupid goblet still in his hand. The she-dragon screamed, trying to drive the boy away from her precious cargo, a shining egg tucked beneath the swell of her belly.

    She¡¯s beautiful. It was a feeling more than a thought. Mal had never seen a true dragon in the flesh before. He¡¯d seen the dragon type greys, but compared to the beauty in front of him, they were simply dragon shaped. No one could confuse this magnificent creature with a grey, but it seemed Slater had, and now the idiot needed to get out of her range. This ought to be good.

    The air wavered. Malcolm blinked. The mother dragon¡¯s belly pulsed with a soft golden glow. Excitement leaped in his throat. The dragon was affecting the space around her. He¡¯d heard of this happening before. When a creature of magical purity experienced deep emotion, a little of their power escaped the confines of their body. For the first time in his fifteen years, a tiny trickle of mana flowed into Mal¡¯s core. All he needed now was a stone skill to use it with. Did Slater get mana too? Hang about¡­ Why wasn¡¯t he running?

    Slater hadn¡¯t moved. He stood facing the dragon. She shrieked and beat her huge wings, sending clouds of sand churning into the air. Slater laughed. He raised his hand in a mock toast, then hurled the stupid goblet, sending it tumbling end over end in an arc headed straight for the dragon. ¡°CHEERS!¡± he yelled.

    In a flash of silver light, the mother dragon¡¯s chest burst open.

 Chapter 8: Between the devil and the deep blue sea

    Time stopped. Malcolm lay in the sand, unable to tear his eyes from the cloud of glittering ruby droplets above. He blinked. Hot blood spattered his cheek, and something inside of him cracked. The mother dragon was dead.

    Slater sauntered over to the she-dragon¡¯s body. He picked his way around the blood-soaked patches of sand, lip curled in disgust, one hand smoothing down his hair. ¡°BENTLEY! Get your snivelling, heroic arse back here, right now!¡±

    Bentley was still busy running away to sea, thirty feet out. Slater¡¯s shout hit him like a bullet. He stumbled in the waves, negotiated a clumsy turn and wobbled his way back to shore.

    ¡°Get it!¡± ordered Slater. He pointed to the egg.

    ¡°But, but,¡± Bentley stuttered, horror written across his chalk white face. For all his posturing in the shacks, the carnage in front of him looked to be a step too far. ¡°But it¡¯s...¡± His voice dropped to a whisper. ¡°It¡¯s bad luck to touch a dragon¡¯s egg, Slate.¡±

    ¡°It certainly was for this one.¡± Slater grinned. His foot thudded against the dragon¡¯s flesh. He paused. ¡°What was that noise?¡±

    ¡°You kicking the ¨C ¡±

    ¡°Not that, you pratt.¡± Slater waved an arm to where Malcolm still lay sprawled. ¡°I heard something. It came from over there.¡± The boys stared, open-mouthed.

    Malcolm swallowed. If that pair had another one of those killing goblets in their bag, he was done for. He didn¡¯t even have a skill to fight them with. He had mana¡­ Or did he? Would the dragon¡¯s magic still work if she was dead?

    Shit. They were heading his way. The least he could do was meet them on his feet, try to get a punch or two in before he exploded to smithereens. If his fist happened to have a dose of magical power behind it, then all the better. He dragged himself onto his knees.

    ¡°RUN!¡± yelled Bentley. The two boys turned and charged away over the sand, bag thrown to one side, dragon forgotten.

    Malcolm sat back on his heels and stared after them. What the?  They were stark staring terrified of him! What the hell had Mal suddenly triggered that would make those two lowlifes turn tail and run for the hills?  He patted his face. It felt normal enough. He felt around his shoulders, half expecting to find wings, like that lad who triggered Fly by night¡­ But he could only fly in the dark. His girlfriend was married with two kids before he got the hang of a hover.This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

    No, stop. He was getting all ahead of himself again. His hands trembled with excitement. What had he triggered? He flicked down his scroll and something moved at the edge of his vision. He turned around.

    Nothing. He¡¯d triggered nothing. As Declan was all too fond of telling him, this had nothing to do with him. It had everything to do with the dirty great dragon not twenty feet behind.

    It was bigger than the she dragon but with the same golden belly. The rest of it was covered nose to tail in scales so black they swallowed the light. It stood motionless in the sand, eyes fixed on the fallen female.

    Malcolm held his breath. He lifted one knee and tried a tiny, silent shuffle. Instantly, the dragon¡¯s head jerked his way, huge nostrils flaring. Fiery amber eyes pinned him in place like a moth. The dragon lifted one foot. Glittering black claws flexed his way. Malcolm was about to become a scorch mark on the sand, unless¡­ He needed to make it immediately and irrevocably clear that he¡¯d had nothing whatsoever to do with the death of the dragon¡¯s mate.

    He cupped his hands around his mouth. ¡°IT WASN¡¯T ME!¡±

    Could the dragon hear him over its own snorting? Did dragons even understand humans? He was sure he¡¯d read somewhere that they did, but he¡¯d never asked. Why had he never asked? It was a fundamental. His legs shook ¨C that¡¯d be the shock setting in. He pointed frantically to the she-dragon¡¯s body. ¡°I didn¡¯t kill her! It wasn¡¯t me!¡±

    The dragon shrieked. In Malcolm¡¯s fear-addled brain, it sounded a lot like ¡°Liar, liar, pants on fire!¡±

    Every muscle in Mal¡¯s body screamed at him to run as fast as possible in the opposite direction to the killing machine in front of him. He stayed where he was. If he ran, the dragon would see him as prey. Creatures of magical purity, even the ones that are just about to eat you ¨C in fact, particularly the ones that are just about to eat you ¨C must be treated with the utmost respect at all times.

    Malcolm pulled himself up straight. He lowered his head, deferring to the dragon¡¯s greater power, yet making sure to keep eyes on it all the same. Respectful doesn¡¯t mean stupid.

    The dragon prowled towards him, forked tongue flickering, hunting mode activated.

    He managed to run three steps before his leg gave way in the knee-deep sand. He bit down on his lip. The slightest sign of weakness would send the dragon into a frenzy of blood lust. He scooted back on his bottom, kicking up showers of sand. The dragon kept coming. It reared over him, blocking out the sun. A clawed foot slammed into Malcolm¡¯s chest. His back hit the sand. The dragon¡¯s snout loomed over his face, its breath searing.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t do it. It wasn¡¯t me. I didn¡¯t do it. It wasn¡¯t me.¡± Mal was crying now, the same words falling from his mouth over and over again. ¡°She was beautiful.¡± He pointed to the female. ¡°She is beautiful. I would never have hurt her. I didn¡¯t do it. It wasn¡¯t me.¡± He tasted blood. Snot trickled down the back of his throat. The dragon¡¯s head moved nearer, mouth gaping. The forked tongue flickered out as if to sample a taste of the puny human dish in front of him. A bird screamed in the sky. Without a thought in his head, Malcolm grabbed the dragon¡¯s tongue with both hands and pulled.

 Chapter 9: Trigger Happy

    Malcolm pushed the up stone hard into his navel, willing it to sink through his flesh. He knew the magic didn¡¯t work that way, but even so he¡¯d repeated the movement so many times over the past week that the skin on his stomach bore a permanent red mark in the shape of his stone.

    What was wrong with it? Was it broken? Or was it him? Was he the broken one? Why hadn¡¯t he triggered his skill yet?

    In his more desperate moments, the kitten stone Declan had given him slid into his mind like a bad omen. Weak as a kitten. Mal had moved the stone from under his bed, so his brother wouldn¡¯t come across it during one of his mad cleaning sprees. Now, he kept it tucked inside the cover of his dictionary, where no one was likely to find it since it rarely left his trousers. He¡¯d wrapped the stone in a scrap of baking parchment to make doubly sure it wouldn¡¯t touch his skin. Imagine accidentally triggering the thing! He shuddered. The sooner he took that stone to the finders¡¯ market, the better.

    He yanked up a handful of grass and closed the huge tome in front of him. After a litany of warnings about spines and corners and finger marks, Zippo had grudgingly allowed Malcolm access to her hoard of precious books, all three of them. The first was a falling-apart recipe collection come almanac. A gift if Malcolm wanted to know when to speckle eggs, pickle corn or relish the moment. The second looked like an old journal, a pile of loosely bound pages filled with a spidery script that proved impossible to decipher. The third, Figurations, was an age-old encyclopaedia of magic that promised the answer to all his prayers! Page upon page of surefire ways to link stone words with their original spells. The methods involved everything from burying the stone in a fallow field to throwing it down a well at midnight. Malcolm gave up entirely when he reached the bit that said all he had to do was to choose the spell he wanted his word to be in and imagine that it was! Apparently, the author had no more idea how the damn magic worked than he did.

    Malcolm ran a finger over the book¡¯s cracked spine. He was officially out of ideas. He¡¯d pestered Zippo for help so often that she¡¯d banished him from the cave three days ago and forbade him to return until he had a skill ¨C signed, sealed and delivered.

    He poked a stalk of grass into the soft, dark soil. If only he could get the up stone into his core as easily. The archive hunt was due to start at the end of the month. How many of his peers had already triggered? Albert could probably shoot the head off a grey at fifty paces by now. Who else? The suspicious-eyed girl? Little Ernie? Was Slater still recruiting the best skills for his archive team? Not enough for him to kill a dragon and steal her magic? Malcolm sprang to his feet in a shower of shredded grass. It was time to find out.

    * * *

    All he had to do was follow the noise. It was Saturday - nothing like the promise of a fight to the death to bring the good citizens of Feor out in their droves. Malcolm had never seen the grounds so crowded.Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.

    ¡°Muuuum! Tabby hit me with her cheering stick!¡±

    ¡°Quit whinging else I¡¯ll be hitting you an¡¯ all!¡±

    ¡°Listen to your mother, Benji.¡± The man dropped his voice. ¡°Her brolly¡¯s a darn sight pointier than our Tabitha¡¯s cheering stick.¡± He rubbed a bloodshot eye. Malcolm sidled past. A family was no good. They¡¯d notice him straight away.

    He wove his way through the crowds, considering and discarding potential targets as he went. Ahead, a group of men bickered loudly, coins changing hands.

    ¡°Benson reckons this week¡¯s grey is a bloody great mountain lion type. Teeth as long as Ferret¡¯s bar tab. Got a divil of a temper an¡¯ all. It¡¯ll rip Bora to pieces!¡±

    ¡°Aye, that¡¯s ¡®cause it¡¯s got the brains of a cat, see. Cunning, like. Bora won¡¯t have a chance. Who¡¯ll take ma silver?¡± The man fished around in his pocket. He waved a coin in Malcolm¡¯s face.

    ¡°Sorry ¨C I ¨C ¡±

    ¡°Ye talkin¡¯ out ya arse, mate. Bora¡¯s a force to be¡¯old. Ain¡¯t never let me down yet.¡± The weaselly- looking man next to Malcolm reached over and snatched the silver coin.

    ¡°¡¯Ere, you can have mine an¡¯ all then!¡± said the first. ¡°My missus reckons she could hear that monster from our bedroom window - roarin¡¯ and carryin¡¯ on all night long!¡±

    ¡°Nah, that was Ferret and his girl so it was!¡±

    The weaselly man blushed.

    They were under the gate now. The barrier was raised, and a constant stream of people pushed their way through, eager to find the best seats. The two guards on either side of the gateway barely had chance to check tickets, let alone count how many were in each group. Malcolm hung back a few steps, then slotted into place behind the still bickering men. Too easy!

    ¡°Oi, you!¡± Mal¡¯s heart sank. He stared up into a hand the size of a dinner plate, blocking his way. He peered around it. ¡°Hey, guys! Wait for me!¡±

    The men took no notice. They rolled into the arena, still laughing. Only Ferret bothered to look back and flash Malcolm a sly grin.

    Mal dug through his pockets, frantically searching for the non-existent ticket.

    ¡°Come on, kid! Either you¡¯ve got a ticket, or you haven¡¯t.¡± The guard loomed over him. ¡°We don¡¯t have all day, you know.¡± He tapped a foot. ¡°Hang on a minute! Don¡¯t I know you from somewhere?¡±

    ¡°Yes!¡± shouted Malcolm. ¡°Yes. You do. You do know me.¡± He did as well! It was only the other day the guard had refused him entry to the library.

    The man frowned. ¡°What¡¯s your story, this time then?¡±

    ¡°Ha-ha-ha, erm¡­¡± Malcolm trailed off and wished his brain godspeed. The crowd behind made a determined surge forward. Come on, come on, think of something! ¡°We-e-ell, you¡¯re never going to believe this,¡± said Malcolm. Something tingled at the back of his throat. ¡°I¡¯ve got this problem, see.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll have two of them if you don¡¯t hurry it up.¡±

    ¡°I am! I am! No. What it is, see, the archivist, you know, the chief one¡­¡±

    At the word ¡®archivist¡¯, the guard puffed out his chest. He straightened his name badge and gave it a quick rub with his sleeve.

    ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s him." Mal nodded. "Well, the archivist told me I have to find a clever guard.¡± There was an awkward pause. Even the crowd stopped pushing.

    ¡°And now,¡± said Malcolm. ¡°I¡¯ve found one.¡±

    The guard blinked owlishly.

    ¡°It¡¯s you! You¡¯re the one I¡¯ve found!¡± said Mal. ¡°You¡¯re the clever guard! You saw right through my little ruse at the library. None of the other guards did. Not one of them! They¡¯re not clever enough, see. I couldn¡¯t fool you though, er -¡± He leaned forward. ¡°Mr Cockett, Sir.¡±

    The guard nodded. He stepped to one side and waved Malcolm into the arena.

    Mal stumbled past, carried by the momentum of the crowd, his whole attention fixed on the glowing, green words floating in front of his eyes.

 Chapter 10: Stats where its at

    Rune:  up

    Figuration: Butter Up

    Skill: Charisma boost/ Charm - Increased effect of verbal persuasion?

    Frequency: Now and then

    *Restrictions apply

    ¡°WE LOVE YOU, BORA, WE DO!¡± The audience roared. Malcolm¡¯s heart hammered in his chest. He climbed over bench after bench, ignoring the urge to fling himself under the nearest one. His skulking days were over.

    A few rows from the top, he sank down, tucked his knees up to his chin and finally allowed himself to read his scroll. Butter Up. It didn¡¯t look like a combat skill, not at first glance, but he was resourceful. Maybe with a bit of wriggle room. He focused on the glowing green asterisk, then the list of notes it led to ¨C Terms and conditions. The noise of the crowd faded into the background.

    He skimmed the scroll, trying to pick out the important bits. Okay, so his most powerful method of charm was complimentary, though others may develop with practise. His skill was only effective when he was within arm¡¯s length of his target, and they had to be without an active counter charm. His charm was species specific ¨C human. His heart sank. Visions of politely suggesting to a rampaging monster that it might like to impale itself on the end of his sword vanished. He had a skill alright, but it didn¡¯t sound like anything that would give him the advantage in a monster fight.

    The audience broke into roof-lifting song.                                                                                                                                                                  ¡°DEAD LION IN THE DIRT                                                                                                                                                                                         BORA¡¯S STAFF STILL GLEAMING¡±

    Malcolm¡¯s thoughts raced. He was destined to fight monsters. There had to be some way his butter up skill could help. Hang on¡­ How about if he used it to persuade someone else to give him one of their stones! It was a crazy idea, but it might work¡­ if his target was weak-minded enough. Did he really want his special power to be charming skill stones off people too stupid to stop him? A huge roar rattled through the seat of his pants. He stowed the idea at the back of his mind.

    ¡°THERE¡¯S ONLY ONE MARCUS BORA!¡± The crowd rose to their feet, stamping and cheering. Two rows down, a flash of silver caught Malcolm¡¯s eye. The new stone holders took up the whole row. On one end, the chief archivist lectured those who were both near enough to hear him and daft enough not to pretend they couldn¡¯t. He looked to be enjoying himself, mouth going ten to the dozen, bright dots of red blooming on his white cheeks.

    At the other end of the bench, Wordsmith Mathers slumped in a heap. The poor man looked like he¡¯d not slept for days. If he leaned any further forward, he was going to end up eating dirt. As Mal watched, a hand reached out and gently looped the end of Mather¡¯s cloak around the back of the bench. The girl sat back, glancing about her with suspicious eyes. Mal grinned.

    The man of the moment strode from the wings. ¡°BORA, BORA!¡±

    Marcus Bora climbed the fighters¡¯ platform in the centre of the arena. He kicked the ladder away, raised his arm and brandished his ebony staff. It spewed out tongues of golden flame. The crowd took their cue.

    ¡°CAN¡¯T START A FIRE. CAN¡¯T START A FIRE WITHOUT A MARC.                                                                                                                          BORA IS ON FIRE. KILLIN¡¯ THE GREYS WITH JUST A SPARK!¡±

    Malcolm had never watched Marcus Bora fight. He¡¯d heard the tales of course. The man had an accuracy skill. Whatever he threw found its mark. Distance no object. Others insisted it was the staff that was enchanted. Bora had visited the finders¡¯ market and traded in his skill stone. He dowsed the staff in demon breath before every battle. Malcolm didn¡¯t know which story to believe ¨C not that it mattered. He was about to witness his first monster fight without having to hide, and he was ramped for it.

    Something screeched below. Metal wailed against metal. The gate to the den swung open. The crowd hushed. On the fighters¡¯ platform, Bora bounced from toe to toe, wiggling his fingers.

    A blur of grey fur surged from the den. The crowd erupted.

    ¡°YOU¡¯RE GOIN¡¯ ¡®OME IN BENSON¡¯S BUTCHER CART!¡±

    Malcolm wasn¡¯t so sure. The gambling men from earlier were right. The grey was roughly lion-shaped, but that was where the similarities ended. The thing was huge, easily as tall as the man who faced it. Muscles bulged under coarse, grey fur. The monster¡¯s mane glistened with strands of grey gristle, ugly tentacles writhing towards the fighter. Malcolm tasted bile in the back of his throat. ¡°KILL IT, BORA!¡± he yelled. A face in the audience turned his way. For a second, he could have sworn she looked disappointed.

    Malcolm shrugged the thought away. This was his very first fight as a skilled stone holder. He ought to be trying to pick up tips, strategies he might be able to use.This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

    Unfortunately, most of Bora¡¯s skill appeared to involve twirling his staff in ever more flamboyant patterns then throwing it up in the air and catching it with a flourish, sometimes one-handed and, once, behind his back! The crowd were lapping it up. The monster not so much. It watched from the foot of the platform with dull, grey eyes.

    Half an hour later, and Malcolm knew how the beast felt. Though it pained him to admit, the battle was rubbish. Even after all the interminable twirly stuff was done with, Bora made no move to leave the safety of the platform and instead started a limbo demonstration with his staff.

    Mal sighed. The fighter appeared to have no intention of engaging the grey in combat. The monster circled the platform, wearing a trough in the sand. Eventually, it stopped pacing, stretched out its two front feet and crouched, for all the world like Benson the butcher¡¯s ginger tom ¨C but twenty times bigger and with added tentacles.

    On the platform, Bora sashayed under the staff with a rose between his teeth.

    ¡°Dad, what¡¯s he -¡±

    The man next to Malcolm ruffled his son¡¯s hair. ¡°Upping the difficulty level, see.¡±

    The crowd cheered. Bora bowed then coughed. He coughed again, waited a beat, then coughed again. Louder this time. He shook his head, strode to the front of the platform and leaned out.  ¡°Ahnowh¡± he coughed.

    A great lump of rock sailed from the wings and thudded into the sand only feet from the monster¡¯s swishing tail. The grey turned and growled.

    Bora seized the moment. He swiped down with his staff. Flame licked a long, raw slice across the beast¡¯s nose. It reared onto its back legs. Bora aimed. The staff spat fire, and the grey¡¯s head exploded.

    ¡°WHEN YOU¡¯RE SAT IN ROW ZED                                                                                                                                                                                 AND THE FLESH HITS YOUR HEAD                                                                                                                                                                         THAT¡¯S OUR BORA!¡±

    The first few rows of the crowd stormed the barriers. The triumphant fighter disappeared beneath a sea of guards. Malcolm stayed sitting, buffeted by the crowds as enthusiastic fans raced past, hoping to snag what was left of the furry souvenirs ¨C hot property indeed. Marcus Bora reappeared on the shoulders of two burly guards. He raised his glowing staff in celebration. The guards set off at a jog, swerving adoring fans, and disappeared into the wings.

    ¡°Bora¡¯s signing stuff round the back.¡± A face grinned down at Malcolm. It was one of the gambling men, the one with the insomniac wife. ¡°You wanna get yourself round there,¡± he said. ¡°Get him to sign your¡­¡± He paused, looking Malcolm up and down. ¡°Get him to sign your shoe or summat. You¡¯ll make a fortune at the finders¡¯ market. Might even be able to buy your own ticket next time.¡± The man winked. Malcolm nodded his thanks. He¡¯d pass on it, but the man was right, the exit was heaving. Might as well wait.

    ***

    The stands were almost empty. The row of new stone holders had long gone. Only the suspicious-eyed girl still sat. Mal stood up. He clambered over the benches and coughed to announce his presence.

    ¡°Alright?¡± he said. ¡°I, uh, I saw what you did there for old Mathers. The poor bloke¡¯s having a hard time of it.¡± He swiped a sweaty hand down his pants and held it out. ¡°I¡¯m Malcolm.¡±

    ¡°Nev,¡± said the girl. She didn¡¯t move, just sat, glaring up at him.

    ¡°Nev. Riiiight. Only I¡¯ve been calling you the, um, suspicious-eyed girl¡­ in my head. You know, from the Choosing. You¡¯re not mind, but you did look kind of suspicious then¡­ You do now, a bit.¡± He paused. ¡°So¡­ Yeah, Nev.¡± He put his hand away.

    Nev glared.

    ¡°Yeah, so¡­ Bora played a blinder out there today, hey,¡± he said. ¡°You can always count on Marcus to give a grey what it deserves.¡±

    Nev¡¯s head shot up so fast that strands of her dark hair whipped against his arm. ¡°And what did the grey deserve, Malcolm?¡± Dark brown eyes bored into his.

    ¡°Sorry?¡±

    ¡°The grey!¡± she spat. ¡°What did it deserve? Did something to you, did it? I HEARD YOU BAYING FOR ITS BLOOD!¡± Her voice rose alarmingly.

    Malcolm patted at the air. That escalated fast. ¡°Greys crave magic,¡± he said.

    ¡°So do you,¡± said Nev.

    ¡°But¡­¡±

    She faced him, her hands curled into fists, eyes flashing dangerously. Malcolm groped for a retort. The greys crave magic. What else do they do? There must be something else! ¡°They crave magic, and, and they¡¯re all grey!¡±

    ¡°Really? That¡¯s it? That¡¯s all you¡¯ve got? The gods, Malcolm! For once in your life, think!¡±

    Malcolm rubbed at his temples. Think, man, think. She was pressurising him. He never did well under pressure. Hang on a minute? Why was he the one doing the thinking? She was the one with the loony ideas. She was the monster lover. He peered down, set to put her straight.

    ¡°We don¡¯t even kill them for food!¡± Nev yelled.

    Malcolm nodded. She was right. ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± he said. No human would ever put the flesh of a grey anywhere near their mouth, never mind in it. There, argument over. He licked the sweat from his lip.

    By the time he caught her up, they were outside the gates. Nev stood alone, dwarfed by the huge wall of the enclosure. She was reading a sign pinned halfway up.

    ¡°I¡¯ve not seen that before. What¡¯s it mean?¡± he asked.

    ¡°It¡¯s the chief archivist¡¯s little joke ¨C CraP, you know.¡±

    Malcolm shook his head.

    ¡°Creatures Regarded as Pests ¨C CraP. They don¡¯t just keep the greys in there anymore...¡± She tailed off and started walking. Malcolm followed, fumbling for his dictionary. He kept his thumb over the flap where he¡¯d hidden the kitten stone and flicked to the glossary. Noth-

    ¡°MAKE WAY! MAKE WAY!¡± A chorus of voices echoed down the passageway. Nev flattened herself to the wall and pulled him back. A convoy of guards rounded the corner. Whatever they were transporting was so tightly bound with ropes, Mal couldn¡¯t make it out. He leaned closer.

    They¡¯d caught a grey. Its body slumped in the net, flesh bulging around the gaps in the rope. The beast was a reptilian type, slanted nostrils, dark, bottomless pupils, flickering tongue. As the group drew level, one shining black claw lunged through the net. Nev gasped. Something flashed past her. The smiling guard recoiled his whip, and the claw clattered to the ground.

    The procession lumbered on past. Malcolm and Nev moved at the same time. She was faster, scooping up the shining claw and darting into the shadows before Mal could even react. He stared after her, his thoughts churning: the black eyes, the forked tongue, the claw! They may have been wrapped in dull, monster grey, but Malcolm knew them.

 Chapter 11: By order of the phoenix

    ¡°Animals have twins,¡± said Malcolm. It was hardly a revelation, but it was part of his question, and his question was important. Important enough to send Zippo into full on ¡®ignore Malcolm¡¯ mode. She attacked the hill in front of her like she was attempting to walk through it rather than up it.

    ¡°TWINS ¨C animals have them,¡± he said again. Malcolm used to think his mentor was hard of hearing, being as she never acknowledged a word he said, but Zippo could hear the corner of a spell book bend, or as she put it, ¡®spoil¡¯, at fifty paces. She certainly wasn¡¯t deaf. She just didn¡¯t value anyone else¡¯s opinion.

    ¡°Two animals can be born identical if their parents are the same species,¡± he tried again, addressing her back, warming to his theme. ¡°The twins can be ordinary animals, or they can be creatures of magical purity, or they can be monsters, but can they be one of each? One magical twin and one grey twin.¡± He broke off.

    It sounded ridiculous, but it all depended on whether greys were born greys or whether they turned into greys, and he couldn¡¯t find an answer to that anywhere. Zippo¡¯s books were useless. The library wasn¡¯t much better. It was great if you wanted books about ordinary creatures or magical creatures, greys not so much. He¡¯d even tried using his Butter up skill on the librarian. It earned him one slim, black book, A Bestiary of the Islands. It wasn¡¯t dated, but it was old, every page illustrated with beautifully detailed, hand-drawn animals. All the creatures depicted were strictly either magical or non-magical. No grey monsters.

    Mal stopped and stared up at the view in front of them - four brilliant white towers piercing a cloudless, blue sky.  He¡¯d never get tired of the thrill each time he saw the magnificent building the magical creatures called home. Malcolm allowed himself a moment to revel in the -

    ¡°Stop fly catching and get a move on!¡±

    ¡°You haven¡¯t answered my question,¡± said Malcolm. He paused. ¡°Did you not hear me? Do you need me to SPEAK LOUDER?¡±

    Zippo sniffed. At last, the lad was showing a bit of initiative. Not enough though, nowhere near enough.

    ¡°I¡¯ve spent ages trying to find out if the greys are born the way they are ¨C no magic, no colour, evil.¡± said Malcolm. He dropped his voice for the word evil. There was something about his mentor that reminded him of Nev. He¡¯d never heard Zippo say anything bad about the greys either. It¡¯d be just his luck to cross paths with the only two monster lovers on the whole island!  ¡°Or do creatures turn into greys? You know, like they start off as a normal cow or a magical cow and then get a disease that takes away their colour and turns them into monsters. There¡¯s nothing about it anywhere. There¡¯s nothing about them anywhere.¡±

    It was bugging him. The grey he¡¯d watched being taken into the CRaP enclosure was the double of the dragon he¡¯d encountered at the shore. Granted, the grey had been hunched up in the bottom of the net, but Malcolm had a clear view of its face. The long snout. The too flared nostrils. The arrogant tilt to its mouth, and the claw. It was exactly the same claw! He shuddered. He wouldn¡¯t say he was the type who never forgot a face, but he was the type who never forgot a face that had almost ate him. Maybe he should ask Nev. She obviously considered herself a monster expert. Would it make him look stupid if he asked? Maybe he could ask all casual, like.

    Once they got inside the towers, it was impossible to think about anything. Their sheer beauty demanded to be seen and chased all attempts at thought into dusty corners. Malcolm turned a slow circle, gazing up to where blue sky reflected off polished stone walls. Halfway up the tower, the biggest skill stone he¡¯d ever laid eyes on vibrated gently. He¡¯d give anything to know what was engraved on it ¨C something to do with flying for it to be free-floating like that? Maybe it was more than one word? A whole spell even? Now, if he had a friend with a seeing skill he could¡­

    ¡°It¡¯s veiled,¡± snapped Zippo, her white eyes following his gaze.

    ¡°Yeah, I know, I know,¡± said Mal, dragging his eyes away from the powerful stone and joining his mentor in front of one of the archways in the circular wall. Each archway led to a stone recess. Each recess belonged to one of the creatures of magical purity who used the menagerie as their base. ¡°Why do they come here anyway?¡± he whispered. All naturally magical creatures hailed from Fowk, the farthest flung of the five islands. It was rumoured to be a paradise.

    ¡°They come to rest,¡± said Zippo. She patted the carved stone branch that curved its way around the wall. Malcolm ran his hand along the stone.Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

    Zippo sniffed. ¡°One day, you¡¯ll reach out to touch something, and it¡¯ll touch you back.¡±

    ¡°You touched it!¡± Malcolm lifted his fingers, then put them back on the stone. Would it be so bad if something touched him back? Guess it all depends on what the something is. He stretched.

    Zippo stifled a smile. ¡°We¡¯re the first to arrive,¡± she said. ¡°She¡¯ll like that.¡±

    ¡°Who¡¯ll like it?¡± He followed Zippo¡¯s pointing finger. A shadow, right at the top of the tower. Small but growing fast - too fast. If whatever it was hit the ground at that speed, it¡¯d be reduced to a puddle of whatever it had been. He looked away.

    The great bird landed with barely a whisper and stood on the branch in front of them. Zippo stepped forward, her face shining with pleasure. Mal moved away. He had to. Heat rolled off the bird¡¯s golden plumage in waves, searing his cheeks, stinging his eyes. He pulled his collar up and his sleeves down.

    ¡°Greetings, Endeleas.¡± Zippo swept a deep, wobbling curtsey. Malcolm reached out to steady her, but Endeleas was quicker. The phoenix¡¯s wing curled protectively over the old woman¡¯s back. Zippo slapped at the wing like a mother at a child stealing a lick of the mixing bowl. Malcolm gaped. The phoenix let out a whispering sigh and withdrew her wing.

    ¡°The day I need help to greet a friend, is the day I won¡¯t,¡± said Zippo. She pulled herself upright in a ruffle of shawls and glanced at the tower doors. Malcolm cleared his throat. At least one of them could show this magical creature the respect it deserved.

    ¡°Here!¡± said Zippo. She threw him a soft white cloth. ¡°Look busy!¡±

    A door thudded. Wordsmith Mathers marched to the centre of the room, pointing out the arches arrayed around him like the spokes of a wheel. He coughed. ¡°This place is home to creatures of immense magical power. I advise caution in the ranks.¡± His eyes darted around the group and zeroed in on the three figures at the back. Slater held his nose and pretended to wretch. Bentley did likewise. Slater raised an eyebrow, holding Mather¡¯s gaze until he looked away.

    ¡°Now, where was I?¡± Mathers patted at his pockets with trembling hands. He pulled out a square of paper. ¡°Ah yes, as I was saying¡­ These towers hold great power, much of it. You would be wise to follow my instructions to the letter,¡± he said. As one, the group of new stone holders turned to look at the two black-cloaked guards who accompanied them. The biggest of the guards nodded. The group turned back to the wordsmith and nodded.

    ¡°I should think so,¡± said Mathers, but the fire had gone from his voice. Malcolm bit his tongue.

    Slater laughed. A few of the others joined in. Ernie grinned then stopped when Nev widened her eyes at him.

    ¡°Yes, indeed,¡± said Mathers. He looked down at his paper again. ¡°The place we are now entering is home to creatures of immense magical power.¡± He pointed a wavering hand into Endeleas¡¯ recess. Mal dropped to his knees and began furiously polishing the stone branch with a soft, white cloth.

    ¡°Inside of these towers,¡± read Mathers. ¡°You are expected to behave with the utmost respect. You are to treat this place as you would an honoured home, nay, a place of worship.¡± He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. Slater scraped the underside of his shoe against the softly glowing stone. Anger fizzed in Malcolm¡¯s throat. He looked at the phoenix¡¯s razor sharp talons. If she knew what he¡¯d done to the female dragon. ¡°Ow!¡± Malcolm rubbed his ankle. ¡°What was that for?¡±

    Zippo ignored him. She held out a hand to the phoenix. ¡°Please, allow me to tend your wound, oh gracious one.¡± Endeleas shifted on her perch, a stoic look in her yellow eyes. She lifted her foot. Zippo cupped it in one hand, gently prodding each toe. Endeleas looked away. Mal had never seen such huge talons, each toe long and leathery. From somewhere inside her shawls, Zippo pulled out a small glass jar and daubed each toe with a thick, foul-smelling ointment. Feet shuffled behind them.

    ¡°Greetings oh gracious one, I trust the dawn of the morn finds you in good health,¡± said Mathers, his head bowed to the phoenix, or his notes; it was hard to tell. Endeleas delicately sniffed the cloth Zippo wound around her injured toe. ¡°Ah yes, pray forgive me. I¡¯m afraid my eyes are not what they once were. I see now that you have sustained injury.¡±

    Malcolm gave up on the pretend polishing. Mathers could blather for Feor. ¡°We appreciate your hospitality,¡± he droned on. ¡°And that despite the inconvenience, oh gracious one. T¡¯was merely my intention to introduce our recent Choosing Day proteges.¡± He waved the group of new stone holders forward. The phoenix straightened. Her neck arched. ¡°Fryrrrr!¡± she screamed. Her golden eyes flashed straight towards Slater lounging at the back. He jumped. Endeleas stretched out her flame-covered wings. Slater backed away, cowering. He made it to the centre of the room, then turned and fled. Bentley and Albert scurried after him.

    ¡°Oh dear, oh dear,¡± said Mathers. He bent a deep, sweeping bow to the phoenix. ¡°My gratitude as ever, oh gracious one.¡± He scowled at the black-cloaked guards and ushered the remaining stone holders towards the door. Malcolm could hear him humming as he passed. Maybe the old man wasn¡¯t so defeated after all.

    ¡°Don¡¯t be so silly, boy!¡± snapped Zippo. Wordsmith Mathers¡¯ feet left the ground, but she didn¡¯t mean him. Zippo leaned towards Ernie. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t leave that behind if you value your skin whole.¡± The edge of her shawl whipped out.

    ¡°S-sorry, ma¡¯am. I didn¡¯t¡­¡± Ernie¡¯s hand fell from the wall, and something clattered to the ground. The small boy blushed and bent to retrieve it. Then, he followed the group from the tower, hastily shoving his ear in his pocket before anyone else got chance to see it.