Kinsel Rukanis longed for his old life. He craved the sanity of Bhealfa.
Somewhere in the backwoods of western Bhealfa, Prince Melyobar was attempting to eat a raw chicken.
He sat at a small dining table in the spacious wheelhouse of his palace, wearing a look of distaste as he chewed unyielding, rubbery flesh.
‘Urgh!’ He spat out the meat, grimacing. ‘This is disgusting! Whose idea was it to serve me such muck?’
An alarmed manservant hurried forward, bowing low. ‘Begging your pardon, Your Highness, but…you ordered it that way.’
‘What?’ He blinked at the man, perplexed.
‘You said…that is, Your Royal Highness commanded that your food be served uncooked in future. In order to foil poisoners.’
‘When?’
‘You were gracious enough to issue the order to your chef yesterday, Highness.’
‘Nonsense!’
‘But, Your Eminence-’
‘Claptrap, I say! The fool misheard me. Or somebody’s being deliberately wayward.’ His plate and cutlery went flying. ‘Take it away!’
The servant bent to retrieve the debris, then scurried off, trying to bolt and fawn simultaneously.
‘Flog the cook!’ Melyobar shouted after him. ‘And have yourself flogged for insolence!’ Contemplating the empty table, a suspicion dawned. ‘Gods,’ the Prince muttered. ‘Guards! Guards!’
A pair of sentinels rushed to him, drawing their swords.
‘Sire?’ the sergeant enquired.
‘I’ve reason to believe he could be on board.’ They had no need to ask who their monarch referred to. ‘I think he’s using his shape-changing powers. Sound the alert. Comb the palace for someone impersonating me.’ The guards seemed confused, then stared quizzically at him. ‘Well it’s not me, obviously! Dolts. Now get on with it!’
The duo retreated. Further instructions were unnecessary. They were called on to search for Death at least once a day.
Tense at the best of times, the incident did nothing to steady Melyobar’s nerves. Although barely into middle- age, he looked much older, and his thinning hair had greyed early. His shaved face was bulbous, with a sallow complexion; his body was flabby, running to stout.
‘Your Highness!’ the steersman hailed from the wheel. ‘We’re approaching the valley!’
Melyobar rose and went to join him, the episode of just seconds before forgotten. The brevity of the Prince’s attention span was legendary.
The upper half of the wheelhouse consisted of an expanse of precious clear glass. Melyobar took in the scene. Ahead lay the mouth of a deep valley, though it was hard to see in the driving snow. A trail could just be made out snaking through the valley’s floor, edged with snow-laden trees.
Had an observer been stationed on top of either cliff-like wall, enduring the blizzard, they would have witnessed an awesome sight.
The Prince’s floating palace was enormous, beyond ostentatious in its embellishments, and now the whole prickly confection bore a coat of sparkling white. Moved by magic whose cost took a sizeable bite out of Bhealfa’s gross national product, the palace glided under the direction of a team of top-grade wizards.
Equally impressive was the court’s entourage. Several dozen lesser castles and mansions, owned by leading courtiers, and similarly powered, followed in its wake. ‘Lesser’ in comparison to Melyobar’s gigantic folly, that is. They would still appear remarkable if seen without the contrast.
As it drifted regally, the whole procession was bathed in a crackling discharge of magical energy. Dazzling tendrils leapt from one structure to another, like blue lightning, connecting them in a glittery, ever changing web.
Down below, on mere ground, an army kept pace. In fact, two armies; one a military force deserving the name, the other a ragbag of civilian camp followers, tens of thousands strong. They travelled in a multitude of every conceivable wheeled transport, or rode herds of horses. The lowliest plodded on foot. All were stung by driven snow and cut by icy winds.
‘Why are we moving so slowly?’ Melyobar demanded, slumping into his throne.
‘The weather, sire,’ the steersman explained nervously. ‘This is about as fast as we can go in these conditions.’ He pointed to the glass. ‘And that valley is very narrow, Highness. Getting us through will be like threading a needle.’
Melyobar snorted.
The steersman, along with his superiors and all their subordinates, would much rather have gone another way, but the Prince insisted on this route; and to fly above the gorge would have taken a ruinous amount of magic.
They entered the valley’s entrance carefully, well above the treetops. On both sides the sheer cliffs seemed to press in. Beads of sweat appeared on the burly steersman’s brow as he gently manoeuvred his titanic charge. The navigation took every ounce of his skill, not least because his commands had to anticipate the great bulk he was trying to control. It was like steering a mighty ship at sea; there was a lag of some seconds before its phenomenal weight sluggishly responded.
They lost a little height and the base of the palace brushed across the tops of some particularly tall trees. The dislodged snow plummeted onto the camp followers travelling beneath, adding to their discomfort and vexation. They sent up an anguished roar of protest. The steersman gingerly began to regain altitude.
‘Oh, do get a move on!’ Melyobar grumbled. ‘We’ve no time to waste!’
The startled handler’s concentration was fractured. His hand jerked on the wheel, just enough to move the leviathan a degree off course. He struggled to right it.
Inexorably, the palace slowly glided towards the right-hand cliff wall. There was a series of loud crashes, followed by an intense grinding noise as it scraped along the cliff face. Everyone in the wheelhouse, a score at least of functionaries and guards, had their teeth set on edge. The room shuddered. Glassware and china crashed to the floor.
The Prince seemed supremely unaffected, or curiously unaware of what was happening.
Gradually the palace corrected itself and resumed its stately trajectory, but no more than half a minute of relative calm ensued. A sharp bend in the valley loomed ahead, and in order to negotiate it safely the palace’s speed had to be further reduced. It was a delicate operation. If the speed dropped too low it could cut off the magical supply, and their means of support.
Taking what felt like an age, with Melyobar’s obvious impatience a constant background presence, the steersman took them round the serpentine curve. He was aided by two assistants now, working a bank of levers that operated a complicated system of rudders.
When at last they were back on the straight, to many suppressed sighs of relief, Melyobar again urged more haste. As the valley opened out at that point, the palace could increase its pace.
At the rear, the entourage followed, a line of drones trailing their mammoth queen. They swarmed at the bend in a hovering queue, each slowing as much as they dared to traverse the turn. But one of the last, a multi- turreted affair faced with alabaster, approached a grandiose castle that lay in its path too fast. The speeding structure resorted to braking and swerving at the same time. It clipped the castle, sending it wobbling aside, and careered towards a cliff wall. The speeds involved were relative, so to onlookers it was like watching a clumsy underwater ballet.
The ricocheting palace struck the cliff and literally compressed, a good third of its mass compacting in on itself. Chunks of masonry dislodged and fell. For a drawn out moment the building hung in the air, cerulean lightning playing all over its surface. Then the light went out and its compact with gravity was cancelled.
It plunged like a rock.
That part of the horde unlucky enough to be directly below stood no chance. The palace, disintegrating as it fell, shedding screaming occupants, came down as an avalanche. Its impact was thunderous, and released huge billows of dust that even the heavy snowfall was hard put to dampen.
Melyobar stood to get a better view of the chaos visited on the gorge. ‘I believe that was Count Barazell’s residence,’ he observed, addressing no one in particular. ‘Damned bad luck.’ He sank back into his throne, sighing.
