It was hot.
He had avoided using the Twopenny Line on the Wonderground. Too many prying eyes. People would recognise him. Instead, he had travelled north to the Tavern, where he had bought transport. Of a fashion. She was called Dolly, although she did not seem to answer to it. She had only cost him sixty qizils on account of a short leg. So far, the other three had not been much use either. Khorasans were built for fast movement over desert terrain. It would have been quicker if he had carried Dolly on his back instead. His bottom would have been less sore.
It was so hot.
He was losing faith in The Tavern landlord's directions to the Red Castle. He squinted against the extreme sun and gazed at the endless golden-yellow carpet that stretched away in every direction. He had kept the Tall Man's Watchtower on his left. Why was he not there yet?
He shaded his eyes and strained to see again. Sand blew into his eyes, up his nostrils and into his mouth. He tasted grit as it scraped against his teeth. He licked his salty lips and tried to spit. His mouth was drier than the long empty water pouch that hung limply around Dolly's neck, slapping uselessly against her mane as she hobbled onwards. There was no sign of the castle. Or any signs to guide him to the castle.
The khorasan made a gargling moan and her breathing was short and rapid. The man scrambled down to unburden her of his weight and felt shooting pains in both knees as he landed. He was getting too old for this. He laughed at his own sad joke and tried to remember the times before everything hurt or ached.
Dolly collapsed at his feet with a defeated grunt.
"Good idea," he whispered, too exhausted to carry on by himself. His vision was blurring and the sand started to spin around his scorched feet. As he slumped onto the belly of the beast, he was convinced he could see four more khorasans approaching from the East. Probably a trick of the heat. He blinked twice and tasted vomit in the back of his mouth just before he lost consciousness.
***
The ground floor living quarters in the East wing of the Red Castle were opulent and reserved for those closest to the Desert kingdom monarchy. The hulking, sweaty, underpaid and underworked castle guard laboured along the dark corridor. He had bad news and was attempting to delay informing the General. He reached an iron-plated door and rapped three times with the heel of his hand. Hearing no reply, he tentatively opened the door and poked his face through the gap.
"Forgive the interruption," whispered the guard as a charred vulture leg sailed across the chamber and struck him between the eyes.
"I am trying to eat my dinner, Gado!" screamed a voice from behind a curtain.
"Many apologies Razarac," simpered Gado, wiping thick brown juice from his forehead with the back of his hand and sucking the gravy from his fingers.
"I assume that the interruption means bad news," barked the voice. The curtain fluttered and the striking figure of Razarac appeared, his long curly hair tied behind his back. He adjusted a crimson facemask across his nose and wiped his hands on his muscular chest.
The guard cowered before the fearsome image of General Razarac, right hand man to the Red Prince Salinja. "It is Lilacbeard, he is defeated," admitted Gado. He could not see the General's expression through the mask but knew that the news would not be well received.
Razarac stood perfectly still and cracked each knuckle, one after the other as he reflected on the news. "He will head for Sunken Tooth," said the General eventually. "His sister..."
Gado stood by the door unmoving.
"Was there something else?" asked Razarac.
"We found an old man," said Gado nervously, "beyond the West Wall. His khorasan was dead and he was not long for this world. He claims to have been journeying to the castle to speak with His Imperial Majesty," explained the guard.
"Does he now?" said Razarac with intrigue. "Bring him to me."
The guard bowed repeatedly as he shuffled away from Razarac. "Right away."
***
The old man chewed and gnawed noisily as he feasted on a large plate of leftover vegetables and stale rosemary bread. He was starving. He slurped several gulps of a thick, dark, bitter wine as Razarac watched his wrinkled throat jump with each swallow. His disgusting antics echoed around the vast dining room. Razarac pushed his date pudding away. He was no longer hungry.
"Anyone who crosses the Red Desert other than by Wonderground train is an idiot," remarked the masked man. "Or they do not want the world to know of their journey..."
"I am here to offer information to His Imperial Majesty," drooled the man between bites, bowing deferentially towards his masked host at the opposite end of the long wooden table.
"To offer?" sneered the masked man. "Or to sell?"
"A man has to make a living," shrugged the geriatric.
"Do you know who I am?" asked Razarac.
"Of course," said the old man as he picked crumbs of bread from his long beard and popped them into his mouth. "Razarac of Raven Wood," he proclaimed flamboyantly, waving a carrot in the air like a sword. "The masked warrior. Right hand of His Imperial Majesty, the Red Prince."
Razarac nodded. "This is where you have me at an advantage, old man," he yielded. "For I do not know who you are."
The man took another gulp of wine and stood painfully. "Felonious Moondragon at your service." He gave his customary short bow. "Purveyor, peddler, hawker, cheap jack and..."
"Yes, yes," Razarac interrupted him with a wave of his gloved hand. "A small-time crook with delusions of grandeur. What information do you have that my master will be so desperate to hear?"
Moondragon stopped chewing. "Only a fool would give away their secrets before payment," he said defiantly.
"Indeed," replied Razarac. His chair scraped loudly on the stone floor as he stood. "Make sure to leave room for the final course."
Moondragon grunted and waved him away with a hunk of bread. He dipped it in a bowl of oil and munched heartily on the soggy dough. The oil dribbled through his beard onto his plate. Once Razarac had left, he rubbed his hands together and let out a short giggle. He was going to be rich. He quietly and deftly grabbed some of the silver cutlery from the table and pocketed it inside his coat. He emptied a small decorative ceramic bowl of its mouldy fruit and balanced the upturned dish under his hat.
By the time two castle guards entered the room, Moondragon was weighing heavy with half of the items from the Red Castle dining room.
"On your feet, Spoonwagon," instructed the fatter guard, grabbing the dealer under his damp armpits and hoisting him from his seat.
"Moondragon!" the trader yelped as he was dragged from his chair. A tarnished sugar bowl tumbled from his trouser pocket and clattered on the flagstones before rolling under the table and out of reach. Felonious looked sheepishly from the disapproving eyes to the disappearing crockery. "A gift from my late aunt," he offered unconvincingly. "I carry it always, as a reminder of her sweet personality." He offered a hangdog grin.
He was manhandled unceremoniously into a small anteroom off the main dining room. A metal chair was riveted to the floor in the centre of the chamber. He was told to sit. It was uncomfortable and his haemorrhoids grumbled in complaint. He was left, sweating and alone in the darkened room. He was convinced he was being watched. In the silence, he thought he could hear breathing. Maybe it was his own. His skin tingled with anxiety. After several minutes, Razarac entered accompanied by a tiny woman who walked with an exaggerated limp. The lenses of her glasses were filmed with grime, and she was carrying a cage under one arm that, by the screeching sound and musky animal smell, contained a rodent. She gave no greeting. She placed the cage on the floor and removed a leather roll from the front pocket of her apron. She unfurled it on a small table that was pushed against the nearest wall. It contained a series of knives and serrated tools of varying sizes and shapes. She caressed the handles lovingly, as if they were her children.
"What is going on?" asked Moondragon naively. "Where is my money?"
"I am afraid the Red Castle bank is closed today," taunted Razarac.
Moondragon started to rise. "In that case," he said disgruntledly, "I shall bid you good day."
Razarac grabbed Moondragon by the lapels of his coat and shoved him forcefully back into the chair. He grimaced in pain as his joints screamed in agony. Razarac's eyes blazed with fire behind his scarlet mask. Moondragon was scared now. He reddened with humiliation as warm liquid trickled down the inside of his legs and soaked his solitary sock.
The woman moved behind the chair. Moondragon heard her scraping one of the tools against a sharpening steel. It sent shivers down his spine and the contents of his stomach into his mouth. He barely managed to swallow the partly digested meat back down his throat before the woman grabbed his left ear and yanked his head sideways, exposing the pink flesh of his neck. She teased the long, sickle-shaped blade against his Adam's apple, drawing a tiny drop of blood as it nicked the sagging skin. His head was swimming with memories of his wretched life.
"Does Folterer have your attention?" hissed Razarac. His impatient rasping voice snapped Moondragon back into the room. He managed a weak nod and slumped in his chair.
"Whatever news you carry must be worth a great deal," suggested Razarac, "as you believed you could simply march into the Red Castle and make demands."
Moondragon no longer cared about the money.
"Worth your life?" asked the masked man with a wicked grin. Felonious felt faint again. "We shall see," contemplated Razarac, casting a short glance into the dark corner of the room.
Felonious doubled over and threw up over his shoes. The vomit spattered in a large circle and the room filled with the acidic odour of bile. His chest heaved uncontrollably twice more but nothing else came up. He wretched for a third time and spat into the puddle between his feet.
"Talk," demanded Razarac, "or Folterer removes your tongue."
Moondragon propped himself back upright and took a couple of deep breaths. "The stolen piece," he began. "I have seen it. Touched it." He rubbed his blistered fingertips together absently.
Razarac and Folterer froze. Razarac glanced again to the corner of the room. "Humour me," warned Razarac. He steadied himself before continuing. "The stolen piece...of what?"
"Of what, he asks!" giggled Moondragon deliriously to himself. "The stolen piece...of the 'Star'!"
Razarac drew up to his full height and slapped Moondragon across the cheek. "Lies!" he screamed.
Moondragon toppled from the chair and scrabbled through the vomit to the safety of the corner. He cowered in the darkness and lifted his withered hands in front of his face. He spoke quickly, spilling his story in the hope of being left alone on the floor. "The stolen piece of the Star of the Forest, missing for ten years," he blurted. "I saw it worn around the neck of an Upworlder only yesterday!"
Razarac was about to strike him again when a deep, masculine voice spoke from the shadows.
"This Upworlder," said the voice. "Describe them to me."
Moondragon peered into the shadows with a look of horror on his gaunt face. He lost control of his bladder again.
"His Imperial Majesty, the Red Prince, asked you a question," uttered Razarac as he dragged Moondragon to his knees and forced his forehead to the cold stone floor. "And you will bow before him."
Moondragon closed his eyes tightly and hugged himself around his ribs. His heart was beating out of his chest. "A boy," stuttered Moondragon from the floor. "Eleven or twelve years old. There were six of them travelling together. His friends called him Charlie."
At the mention of Charlie's name, a figure appeared from the shadows. He was a giant of a man, over two metres tall, with a muscular physique. He was wearing a simple red robe tied at his waist. His feet were bare, and each displayed a single black tattoo in the shape of a four-pointed star. The edge of another tattoo on his chest was peeping out between the lapels of the robe but the design was not visible. He rubbed his hands together. They were also branded with identical four-pointed star tattoos inked between the thumb and forefinger on each hand. Salinja, the Red Prince, nephew of the Desert King.
"Who else have you told?" demanded the Red Prince.
"No-one, your Majesty," sputtered Moondragon imploringly.
"There are others who would covet this information."
"I will not tell anyone," pleaded the old man.
"That is true," replied Salinja. "You will not." He nodded imperceptibly towards Folterer. "Take good care of Mister Moondragon," instructed the Red Prince. "He will provide suitable entertainment for my father."
Moondragon whimpered in protest. "Entertainment? What do you mean?"
Razarac shouted the two guards into the room and they hauled Moondragon up from the floor. Folterer tottered alongside him and pressed her lips softly against his left ear. "Thank you for joining us," she whispered giddily. "For the rest of your life."
The two men dragged the flailing Moondragon towards the door. He was weak and his struggles were in vain. "What?" No!" he shrieked. "We had a deal!"
Folterer gave a short bow and hobbled out of the room, hurrying after her latest guest. The door slammed shut and Moondragon's screams were silenced.
Salinja stood in quiet reflection. The dungeons were getting full, he pondered with a fleeting smile. He closed his eyes and whispered to himself. "Charlie..."
Razarac's eyes were sparkling behind his mask and his breathing was short. "She gave it to the boy!" he managed, shaking his head in disbelief. "All these years of searching, and it was around his neck the entire time!"
The Red Prince steepled his fingers across the bridge of his nose, pushing his fingertips into his eye sockets, deep in thought.
"I shall make arrangements with the Dark Monks," continued Razarac. "There will be volunteers willing to time trade and retrieve the piece from the Upworld."
Salinja opened his eyes and placed a tattooed hand reassuringly on his friend's shoulder. "No," he directed, curbing his general's enthusiasm. "The risk is too great," he mused. "He is well protected and time trades are unpredictable, unstable. An attack would be unwise and would reveal our purpose."
"But he has escaped," protested Razarac.
"Then we must ensure he does not escape a second time," retorted the Red Prince angrily. "I want to rip the piece from his throat myself."
"What do you propose?"
"I believe I can compel him to return to the Lowdown," snarled Salinja menacingly as he paced purposefully to the door. "It has been far too long. It is high time that I visited the dungeons."