The Last Dragon Chronicles: Fire World: Fire World (26 page)

involved with the mapping of this area. Are you a scientist as well? Did you work for the Geo:grafical Institute?”

“Not exactly,” Lefarr replied. “I used to make t:coms for the broadcast networks. I

had a promising career, a reputation for being thorough. One day, I was assigned to a top secret project whose object was to quash an uncomfortable belief that was gaining strength amongst the citizens of Co:pern:ica.”

“Something to do with Agawin?”

“No. It ended here, with Agawin, but it began with the Grand Design.” Lefarr extended a hand to help Harlan over a crumbling rock. “A covert poll, arranged by the Aunts, indicated that over sixty per cent of the citizens of Central felt their

lives were ‘missing’ something. I was

given the job of finding out what. During my research, I heard the name Agawin for the first time. It ignited something in me that I never knew existed: a crushing desire to step into the past, to understand where I had come from. This feeling of insecurity, for want of a better phrase, was the root of the problem in Central. So I began to ask questions I wasn’t supposed to   ask.   All   of  them   turned   my investigations here. I’d heard rumours that the Dead Lands were very far from dead and were beginning to spontaneously regenerate. But when I sought permission to   explore  beyond  Central,  to   my amazement the Aunts denied it. So I went

to the Geo:grafical Institute – which, as you know, is controlled by the Aunts – looking for evidence.”

“You broke in?”

“At the time, it seemed like a worthy thing to do.”

“They caught you.”

“Yes, and sent me here, to a region where they send all the worst – or depending how you look at it, the best – offenders. This party of men are some of the finest minds to come out of Central.

You may not think so yet, but you’re inexcellent company.” He crested the ridgeand pointed with his torch, releasing ashower of cinders from its tip. “Welcometo the Dead Lands’ best-kept secret. Thisis the Isle of Alavon.”

Some way ahead, about three timesfurther than the distance they’d walked, asmall and almost symmetrical hill wasrising from the base of a natural valley.

“That’s amazing,” said Harlan, shaking his head in wonder. “I always thought the Dead Lands were flat. Do you live on the hill?”

One of the approaching men said, “Wekeep to the lowlands, around it.”

But on the peak, Harlan could see asmall tower – or maybe the ruins of one. Pointing to it he asked, “Is that inhabited?”

“No,” said Lefarr. “Not any more.”

Bernard drew alongside. Out of breath,but equally transfixed, he panted, “Wind.” He laughed. “Actual wind, in my hair.”

“What there is of it,” one of the tribejoked.

They all laughed, including Bernard. “Ihaven’t felt this for years,” he said. “Realair blowing through my lungs.” He openedhis mouth and took a deep breath in.

“And it’s fresh,” said Mathew. “Not

like the filtered environments in Central.”

“It’s beautiful,” said Harlan, “in a rather grotesque kind of way. How do you men survive here?”

The six Followers looked at oneanother as if they weren’t entirely willingto give up the answer. Once again, it wasleft to Lefarr. “Look carefully at the hill. Tell me what you see.”

Harlan studied it in detail. Dawn was

beginning to break across the valley. In the gathering light it was possible to see that the mound was composed of three or four tiers of earth, defined by upwardlyspiralling terraces. At first there seemed nothing remarkable about them. But as the light began to flood the lower slopes, Harlan’s gaze was drawn to a shoulder of

land near the foot of the hill – and something rather peculiar on it. He stepped forward to be sure his eyes weren’t deceiving him. “Colour,” he said.

“Crops,” said Mathew. The men around him placed a hand across their hearts.

In amongst the blackness lay a field of

green.

2

“Firebird!” one of the men shouted suddenly.

Harlan let his gaze run across the skyline and quickly picked out the familiar shape. The bird was circling towards the valley floor, barely moving its bright orange wings. It tipped a little as it caught the sunlight, resembling a soaring ball of flame.

Two of the Followers dropped theirtorches and began to sprint down the hill. The other three looked to Lefarr for

guidance.

“What’s happening?” asked Harlan.

Lefarr, who’d been carrying a small

backpack, made from the same rough cloth

as his robe, let it fall to the ground. He threw his torch aside. “Do you run, Harlan?”

Bernard looked at Lefarr in horror.

“You’re not hunting it, surely? It’s illegal

to take the life of a firebird.”

Mathew Lefarr grunted quietly. “In the Dead Lands, Bernard, we make our ownrules.” He nodded at two of the remainingmen, who quickly went in pursuit of theirfriends. To the other man he said, “Roderic, will you stay and guide Bernardto the Shelter?”

“I will,” said Roderic. He was the man

with the cheekbones. The oldest of the

group by far.

“Harlan?” said Lefarr, inviting him to

come.

Harlan took a deep breath. He had no

idea what was being asked of him, but there was only one way to find out. New world, new rules, as Lefarr had said. “I need to see this,” he said to his worriedlooking colleague. And kicking off his sandals as the other men had done, he charged down the hill after Mathew and the others.

By the time they were all on level ground, with the Isle of Alavon standing huge beside them, the men had spread out and each was turning their face to the sky. The bird was coming down, but it was hard to say where. Several times it changed direction, which had the men pointing, predicting new landings, and running towards their next best guess.

Lefarr had a different strategy. As a puffing Harlan Merriman appeared at his

side, he said, “Conserve your energy, Professor. This one intends to play with us a while. My advice: pick an area and stick to it.”

Harlan spoke, doubled over, with hishands on his knees. “What happens whenit comes down?”

“The first one to catch it, claims it.”

“And then?”

Lefarr didn’t answer. He was engagedin a dialogue with another group of menwho’d come sprinting towards him, keento join the hunt. Harlan heard his namereported to the newcomers, but noted noanimosity   amongst   them.   Curiosityafforded them each a single glance, buttheir clear priority was the bird. Harlancould still just see it, a dark slit againstthe glaring orange sunrise. “How many of

you – in the tribe?” he panted.

“Twenty-two,”   Lefarr   answered.

“Including you and Bernard.”

“All men?”

“In this area, yes.”

To Harlan’s left, a wild shout went up.

“It’s dropping,” said Lefarr. “Now we must be swift. Good luck, Harlan. From this moment on, it’s every man for himself.”

“Wait,” Harlan cried. “What exactly am I supposed to do?” But Lefarr was already heading back towards the ridge, where he and any one of four other men were the likeliest candidates to catch the bird. It was flying at little more than twice head height, but still leading them a merry dance. Just when it looked as if it might come down in favour of a man with bright

red hair, it swerved away and plummeted to earth out of Harlan’s sight. He heard a chorus of brief, excited cries, before the group of men came abruptly to a halt. Their collective stillness was a clear

indication that the creature had been captured. But even Harlan was surprised when he saw the victor.

The bird was in the arms of Bernard

Brotherton.

“Get back!” Bernard shouted to theassembled gathering. “You’re not going tokill it! I won’t let you harm it!”

Mathew Lefarr spread his hands wideto tell the other men to be silent and calm. He stepped towards Bernard in a non-aggressive manner. “Bernard,” he said, “the bird came here to die. None of us

ever intended to kill it.”

“Then why did you chase it?”

“Friend, you must not let it struggle,” said a man.

Bernard gulped and eased the tightness of his grip. The bird laid its orange head against his chest, letting its dark red ear tufts fold.

“Kneel with it,” Lefarr said. “Let it face

the earth.”

“Why?”

“Bernard,”   said   Harlan,   stepping forward. “This is their way. Do as he says.”

“The bird has only moments to live,” said Lefarr. “Hold it, Bernard. As its captor, that is your honour and your privilege. But it needs to face the land.”

And so Bernard Brotherton dropped to his knees with the heartbeat of a firebird

fading against his trembling palm. He arranged its head in the crook of his arm and let it see the dead soil all around it. The bird blinked and gave up a grateful
 
rrrh
 
. And as it closed its hooded eyes for the very last time, it shuddered and produced a single tear. Inside the tear burned a violet flame. The tear ran down the firebird’s beak and dripped onto the blackened earth.

Instantly, as if a pebble had been dropped into a pool of water, a great burst of energy swept across the dirt. The ground Harlan was standing on was purged with a strange white fire, before its colour settled back to a rich shade of

brown. But that was not the end of it. Suddenly, a host of bright green shoots began to push up from the energised soil.

One of the men knelt down to examinethem. “Corn,” he said. He looked joyouslyat Lefarr.

Mathew went up and touched Bernardon the shoulder. “It’s done,” he saidquietly. “Lay the bird down.”

Shaking and confused, Bernard did ashe was told and nestled the body amongthe new plants. In a matter of moments, thebird’s molecular structure had collapsedand it had faded from view to become one

with the soil it had brought to life.

“This field of crops now belongs to you,” said Lefarr. “All we ask is that you tend it wisely and be aware of the needs of the men around you.” He stood aside and invited the other men closer. One by one they shook Bernard’s hand and thanked him for what he had done.

Last to approach was Harlan Merriman.

He crouched down and looked his

tech:nician in the eye. “Well, Bernard. Welcome to the tribe.”

“What   is   this   place?”   Bernard whispered. He was still kneeling, still

overcome.

Harlan extended a hand to help him up.

“This is Alavon,” he said. “Our new life.”

3

It was at least half a day before Harlanand Bernard were ready to speak with Lefarr again. At the suggestion of a seniorman, Hugo Abbot, the newcomers wereescorted to a suitable dwelling placewhere they were encouraged to rest. ‘The Shelter’, as the tribe described theirsettlement, was little more than a smallcollection of huts on one side of the hill,put together from dried earth and wovengrasses. When Harlan set eyes upon hisnew accommodation, the luxury of a self-adjusting pneumatic bed was soon adistant fantasy for him, but after the tiringslog across the marsh it wasn’t difficult tofind several hours of welcome sleep on

the rough bedding provided.

He woke to the warmth of a crackling fire and the humid atmosphere of steam rising from a bubbling pot. Every joint in his back ached, more so as he pushed himself upright. Roderic, the man who had stayed with Bernard on the summit of the ridge, handed him a ceramic dish filled with a pale, uninviting broth.

“I’m sorry, it’s the best there is.”

Harlan manufactured a grateful smile. He glanced at the broth. There was some kind of loose peel floating on the surface.

“Potato,” Roderic said, guessing at the coming question. He pressed a clutch of bread into Harlan’s hand and encouraged him to try it. It clung to the teeth and was completely   saltless,   but   otherwise palatable.

“You have flour?” Harlan asked.

Roderic turned away to stir the pot. “A bird gifted us a field of wheat. So, yes, we make bread when we’re able to.”

“How do you bake it?”

“We found we could construct a tolerable oven by cutting a rectangular hole into an earthen embankment. We heat it with hot rocks. It’s an art, getting the timings right. I’ve been cursed more than once for giving the tribe a bad gut. The small flecks of dark material you can taste are wild berries. They are coated in natural yeast, which helps the bread to rise and gives it flavour.”

“And the water?”

“From a spring in the hillside.”

Harlan brought the spring water broth to

his mouth. One sip nearly took away the

back of his throat. He wretched a little and had to spit out.

“Don’t worry, you get used to it,” a familiar voice said. Lefarr swept in and sat cross-legged on a pile of loose cloths, the same material the robes and blankets were made from. “What we lack in