the way at a jog. Even though they saw no sign of the rat-mage or its minions, the thought that they might be in pursuit was enough to speed them on. Although Zyra did insist on a brief stop when they came across a pipe gushing relatively clean water. She washed her face and hands, and did her best to clean the muck off her travelling coat. Tark considered cleaning his boots, but since they were still ankle-deep in sludge, it seemed pointless to him.
They made good time on the rest of their journey through the sewers, until finally they reached a dead end — a seamless wall of stone.
Zyra put her hand onto the stone surface. Nothing happened. She nodded to Tark, who placed his hand on the stone as well, one of his fingertips gently touching hers. The stone wall immediately lit up. They pulled back their hands and watched as the wall shimmered and then dissolved to reveal a large metal door. It was twice their height and wide enough for them and their cart to enter side by side. Despite being in a sewage tunnel, it gleamed with untarnished beauty. In its surface they saw all their hopes and dreams as untouchable reflections.
Zyra dug the keys from her coat. She handed one to Tark, and held on to the other. Then in perfect unison, they held up their keys and chanted.
‘Praise be to the Designers.’
The door swung open.
12: Confrontations
Tark and Zyra stepped into a vast, disorienting whiteness. The door slammed shut behind them. There was no discernable floor, ceiling or walls, but it was solid underfoot. The metal door through which they had stepped, and pulled their cart through, was now just one of hundreds that dotted the blank landscape in a vague pattern of expanding circles. The doors were freestanding, with simple frames but no walls supporting them. They seemed pointless. They couldn't possibly lead anywhere. And yet they did. Each door was an entry point into this white limbo. Tark circled the now closed door through which they had entered.
‘There!’ Zyra pointed to a pedestal in the distance. It protruded from the nonexistent floor in the centre of all the doors.
They walked between the doors, leaving a trail of green sludge behind them.
‘We mades it,’ Tark said, as they approached the metal plinth.
‘Not quite,’ said a familiar voice.
Tark and Zyra looked up to see Princeling Galbrath step out from behind a nearby door, where he had been waiting.
‘I believe you have something belonging to me,’ he announced. ‘I shall have it back. And I shall have your money as well, as compensation for all my troubles.’
‘Who's the annoyin’ squirt?’ asked Zyra.
‘The princeling I tooks the sword o’ light from,’ answered Tark.
‘Sods off,’ called Zyra to the princeling. ‘Or I'll breaks ya face.’
‘Oh, I think not,’ said the princeling, smiling broadly. ‘May I introduce to you my new mage, Skurgebroth the Undefeated.’
A purple-robed figure stepped from behind the door on the opposite side to the princeling. He had flowing locks of curly gold; a long, disproportioned face with a squat nose and copious pimples; round, wire-rimmed spectacles; a wand of entwined gold, silver and bronze, ending in a flurry of platinum filigree; and he looked all of about thirteen years old.
‘Lets me guess,’ said Zyra. ‘He's undefeated ’cause he's too young to have beens challenged yet?’
‘Lay down your arms and surrender,’ said the pimply-faced mage in a cracked voice, as he raised his wand. ‘Or I'll turn the both of you into toads.’
‘I didn't thinks mages used wands,’ said Zyra conversationally to Tark.
‘No,’ agreed Tark. ‘Wands is used by apprentices who don'ts has enough of their own powers.’
‘So it's kinda like trainin’ wheels, really,’ said Zyra.
Tark nodded.
‘Stop it!’ whined the young mage, the end of his wand sizzling with power as he raised it above his head.
‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ demanded Princeling Galbrath. ‘Toad them!’
Skurgebroth threw his hand forward, pointing the wand at Tark. Sparks shot from the end, elegantly flew through the air for several metres, and then dropped to the ground and fizzled out of existence.
‘Real impressive,’ Zyra said.
‘Crap!’ said the princeling.
‘Hold on, hold on,’ said Skurgebroth, holding up his hands. ‘I've done this before. I can do it. I know I can.’
He raised the wand again, concentration contorting his face.
‘Betta be safe than sorry,’ said Tark, drawing the lightless sword o’ light, and holding it over his shoulder like a club.
Skurgebroth flicked his wand. Sparks shot from the end, this time heading for Tark with greater force. Still, by the time they reached him they were slowing. Tark swung his sword like a bat, easily hitting the ball of sparks, which streaked straight back to the mage with far greater speed than they had left him.
Skurgebroth tried to duck, but alas he was too slow. With a yelp and a puff of purple smoke, he demonstrated the validity of his spell by turning into a toad.
‘Crap!’ said Princeling Galbrath.
‘Croak!’ said the mage as he hopped out from the pile of robes and over to the princeling, jumping up into his hands.
‘You have not heard the last of me,’ said Princeling Galbrath, holding up the toad and shaking it at Zyra and Tark. The toad's eyes bulged. ‘I shall return!’
And with that, he turned tail and ran.
‘Star?’ asked Tark.
‘It'd be a waste,’ answered Zyra, as the princeling ducked out of sight behind a door.
Tark nodded.
‘Well, that wuz entertainin’, but,’ said Zyra, ‘backs to the matta at hand.’ She approached the pedestal and reached out a hand.
‘I'd waits if I was you,’ said a voice from an opening door.
A figure stepped into the whiteness, slowly cracking the knuckles of his right hand.
‘Nots again.’ Zyra sighed theatrically. ‘I thought we gots rid of ya.’
‘Don'ts ya eva learns?’ said Tark.
‘Oh, I learns plenty.’ The Cracker chuckled.
Straining to see, Zyra thought she caught a glimpse of red drapes, wood-panelled elegance and glass display cabinets, before the door slammed shut behind him.
‘Seems ya gots more learnin’ to do, yet,’ said Tark in his best menacing voice.
Zyra's hands moved like lightning, producing and throwing three stars in quick succession. With equal speed, the Cracker raised his right arm. The stars froze in mid-air, a centimetre from the back of his hand.
With his other hand, the Cracker pointed to a watch-like device strapped to his wrist.
‘Magnetic field.’
With a flick of his wrist, the stars were flung aside.
‘Toys,’ Zyra said.
‘Yeah, well,’ said Tark, stamping his feet and looking down at his boots. They still had splatters of green sludge on them. ‘I coulds just kick the crap outa ’im.’
The Cracker's eyes fell on Tark.
‘Well, well, well,’ he said slowly, tongue darting across his lips. ‘Aren't we the pretty-pretty boy.’
‘Wot?’ said Tark, glancing at Zyra, who rolled her eyes upwards.
