The Four Realms (26 page)

The eastern flood lands were the home to the numerous farms that supplied New Salisbury. Flat as the eye could see, they were punctuated by the occasional tree or farm building.
 
The land was segregated into fields by the numerous streams that spilled out of the river delta New Salisbury sat upon, or by irrigation channels that had been built over the years. Seagulls congregated on freshly ploughed fields, flying en masse squawking into the air.

Mullens Farm was set back from the road, down a rutted track way that proved difficult enough to walk along.
 
Maureen thought that it would be practically impassable when it rained.

The farmhouse itself seemed to be in quite a state.
 
A large Tudor building, it stood two stories high.
 
As they approached Maureen could see the front door hanging off its hinges.
 
The thatch on the roof had seen better days.

Maureen looked at the broken windows and wondered if anyone could live there.
 
"Are you sure this is the right place?"
 

Joseph shrugged.
 
"That's what the sign at the head of the track said."

The troll seemed less concerned, as if his mind was elsewhere.
 
He was viewing the house with suspicion and Maureen was sure he was crouching slightly as he walked.

"Are you all right, Joseph?"

The troll pointed to the broken windows.
 
"The elves are very good archers."

"Oh," replied Maureen and she too started to crouch a little.

They reached the farm without incident.
 
Around the back of the farmhouse was a small concrete yard and a set of dilapidated stables.
 
It seemed deserted, and from the state of it, for a very long time.
 
The only hint of activity was the presence of fresh straw and a stack of casks by the stable door.

"I reckon whoever was here is long gone," Joseph said examining the casks.

Maureen wasn't so sure.
 
They hadn't searched the place and already Joseph wanted to go.
 
She looked back down the track they come up.
 
She couldn't even see the main road.
 
She often walked the couple of miles from her house into Puttenham and it definitely felt further than that.
 
And therefore, she thought it would be a shame to now abandon their search.

Something was spooking Joseph that was for sure, but she wasn't certain that she wanted to know what.
 
Better that she was ignorant, lest she too felt the sudden urge to leave.
 
She'd not come this far in trying to find Ernest's killer only to turn around and go home.
 
No fear, she told herself.

"Have a good look around," she said as she entered the farmhouse.
 

She found she was in the kitchen, or what was once a kitchen.
 
The floor was covered with dirt and old straw that had blown in from the yard outside.
 
The kitchen surfaces seemed dirty and unused.
 
She tried the tap.
 
The pipes clunked and gurgled but only a dribble of brown water came out.
 

What was unusual though was the kitchen table and chairs set up in the middle of the room.
 
They seemed new, or at least newer than the rest of the surrounds.
 
On the table sat a mug.
 
She picked it up and looked in it.
 
There was something, either tea, coffee or some similar beverage inside it.
 
Whatever it was, it hadn't been here long enough to evaporate or fester into something much nastier.
 
No, not long gone at all
, Maureen thought.

She walked round the rest of the house to find it almost bereft of furniture.
 
The bathroom seemed comparatively clean and the taps worked even if the water was still brown.
 
But it was in one of the bedrooms that she seemed to strike gold.
 
There, five dirty mattresses lay on the floor, a small gas-power camping stove in the middle of them.
 
She felt the kettle on top of the stove, it was still warm.
 
That meant whoever had been here couldn't have gone far.
 
She went to the window and looked out.
 
It looked out over the track they had come up, and it actually surprised Maureen just how far down it you could see from up here.
 
You could even see the main road, a white line in the distance.

She suddenly felt worried.
 
There were no personal effects.
 
Surely if they were just squatters, they would have some clutter.
 
And if they were professionals who'd long left, wouldn't they have taken the time to ensure they left no trace of them having been here.

This made her feel uneasy; very uneasy.
 
A clarity of what she was getting herself into descended onto her, determination replaced with a cold realisation.
 
Perhaps they would be best to go.
 
This was clearly out of their league.
 
What was she thinking in coming here?

She made her way down the stairs and emerged out into the yard only to have a shotgun pointed at her face.

It was held by a centaur, who eyed her with suspicion.
 
His curly brown hair and beard framed slightly blurry eyes, and there was the unmistakable smell of alcohol.
 
Behind him she could see Joseph with his hands up in the air.

Maureen was surprised how calm she felt with the end of a gun inches from her face.
 
There was something certain about it.
 
As if she had been chasing ghosts and now had found something concrete.
 
She was surprised she felt relieved.

The centaur was slurring.
 
"Another one. How many of you lot are there?"

"Oh, you'd be surprised,” said Maureen, pushing the end of the gun to one side with the back of her hand.

A voice echoed from the other side of the yard.
 
"She's lying.
 
It's just the two of them."

She turned to see two elves, bows and quivers at their back, swords drawn.

"I caught this one snooping around my stable."
 
The centaur nodded his head toward Joseph.

"We'll take care of it, Xenig," said the lead elf.
 
"Get them inside!"
 
He was quite short, with black hair slicked to the side.
 
The high waistline of his jeans together with the T-Shirt he’d tucked into them made Maureen think he was not used to dressing in such fashions.
 

Maureen and Joseph were taken into the farmhouse and made to sit at the kitchen table.
 
Joseph looked almost comical sitting on such a comparatively small chair.

"What are you doing here?" the elf asked, pacing the room.

"We're walkers," lied Maureen.
 
"Must have taken the wrong footpath."

"For someone so frail, you have a very loose tongue.
 
Perhaps I can loosen it some more?"

"Oh I seriously doubt that.
 
It doesn't need any assistance."
 
That wasn't strictly true but despite the danger, she didn't feel like letting her captors feel they'd gotten the upper hand on her.
 
There's every chance they're going to kill you
, she thought to herself, but if that was the case, anything she did now was unlikely to worsen the situation.
 
She wasn't entirely sure why she felt so brave all of a sudden, tackling Larry McNally, answering the elves back, but she'd somehow come to the conclusion that she wasn't going to put up with other people's stupidity any more.
 
Either people were there to help her find Ernest's killers or they were against her, and right now the elves were against her.

Joseph obviously didn't share her conviction.
 
He seemed very quiet sat there on his little chair, and when the elves asked him questions, he just whimpered.

"This is another trick by them, Gardpoul," the second elf said, running a hand through his blonde spiky hair.
 
"We should kill them now."

"Psyninius, do you really think they would have made quite so much noise coming down the track?
 
Would they have even used the track?"

"I still think we shouldn't take any chances," Psyninius muttered.
 
"Either way they are heathens.
 
The Four Creators would not hold it against us."

"We wait for Lavaria," Gardpoul said.
 
"She can decide."

The centaur stood in the doorway swigging on a bottle.
 
"Well, if they're who they say they are, then the bigger worry is how they managed to find you."

"That's a very good question, Xenig,” Gardpoul said.
 
"Maybe someone let something slip whilst drunk?"
 
He gave the centaur a knowing look.

"I ain't told nobody nothing.
 
I might be a drunk, but unlike your captives, I hold my tongue."

Gardpoul considered this for a second before turning his attention back to Psyninius.
 
"We can't be sure of anything.
 
Ensure they are magically bound so to ensure there are no... unwanted changes."

Psyninius nodded, then taking a root out of his pocket, muttered some words under his breath.

Maureen was familiar with most spells.
 
They all had a certain ring about them even if she didn't know them specifically.
 
But this was unlike anything she'd ever heard.
 
More an incantation than the single word spells she was used to.
 
She watched as the root glistened and glittered as it disintegrated, turning into a million tiny stars that drifted upwards as their fire died out.

She felt a cold about her.
 
Not like the cold she felt in her own house that would chill her to the bone.
 
No, this one went further, seeping into her mind, making her feel sleepy.
 
She shook her head, as if that would stem the chill that currently felt like it was coursing through her veins.
 
She looked to Joseph.
 
His head seemed to be lolling, like he was in danger of dropping off to sleep at any time.

Maureen tried to fight it, but it felt like some invisible force holding her back.
 
All effort left her, and for the first time since walking back into Venefasia this morning, she felt weak, frail and vulnerable.

"They are subdued," Psyninius said.
 
"Xenig!
 
Go and bind their hands."

"Not sure what use that will do," the centaur scoffed, but never-the-less, he left the building to return several minutes later with rope that he used to bind Maureen's and Joseph's hands behind their backs.

Maureen wanted to chide him, tell him she was a little old lady and that she didn't think much of elven hospitality right now, but the cold that made her lethargic, made the very act of opening her mouth to speak a Herculean task.

Clever
, thought Maureen.
 
Silence your opponent, and they can't cast any counter-spells.
 
Not that it made much sense to cast it on her or Joseph.
 
She could only assume that it was to subdue Joseph until such time as they could bind his hands.
 
Even so, Maureen tried to focus her mind.
 
Stay sharp, she told herself.
 
Don't worry about hands or feet, just focus on stopping the spell from clouding your mind.
 
It gathered in the corners, like a freezing fog, encroaching more and more on her brain.

"You've overdone it," she heard Gardpoul tell Psyninius.
 
"If that thing..." Maureen thought he said
charges
but wasn't sure.

No, she told herself, returning her attention back onto herself.
 
If you focus on anything other than yourself then the spell will consume you.
 
She didn't know what would happen if it did, but she was sure it wasn't good.

She focused in on herself, at the centre of whatever it was that was her; her conscience, her soul.
 
It didn't matter, it was all symbolic anyway.
 
She imagined it was like a golf ball that glowed red, surrounded by pulsing sinew and flesh.
 
As the spell encroached, it turned the flesh blue, replaced the pulsing with ice.
 
It was coming in from all directions, and she knew that if it reached the golf ball like object it would be bad.

Fire
, she thought.
 
I want fire
.
 
As if in response, the golf ball burst into flames.
 
She continued to focus.
 
Several times it looked like the ice might put the fire out, but keeping that fire going was her only concern.
 
And slowly, the frost began to retreat, the flesh returning to red, the sinew starting to once again pulse, slowly at first, accelerating with the retreat of the ice that threatened to cloud her mind.

She slowly began to become aware of her surroundings.
 
Although her eyes were closed, she began to hear once again, could smell the dust of the farmhouse, could feel someone shaking her.

Maureen could hear a woman's voice. "You've probably killed her, Psyninius."
 

"You'd rather risk that thing attacking us?"

"I'd rather find out who they are and what they are doing, before you decide to kill them."