preparation for. As a result, his reflexes were not what they had once been.
Windamore was skewered by the captain's sword.
‘Oh!’ croaked the mage, staring blankly at the captain's astonished eyes.
The captain hurriedly withdrew his sword.
Never one to dally, Tark grabbed the only opportunity he saw — the mage's sword. He pulled it from its scabbard as the mage fell dead to the ground and almost dropped it in surprise.
Blinding light burst from the sword's blade. It was a sword o’ light!
Tark shielded his eyes with one hand as he tried to hold on with the other. It felt as if the sword was alive — alive and trying to escape. It moved about in his grip, first pulling one way and then another, as if unsure as to its intended direction.
The captain fell to his knees. His soldiers dropped their swords and did likewise. The palanquin bearers lowered their vehicle and hid behind it.
The sword made a definite movement, over the heads of the soldiers, to where Princeling Galbrath stood. The princeling's face went white.
‘Oh crap!’ gasped the princeling, realisation dawning on him. Without Windamore to keep it in check, the sword o’ light would follow its own instincts. And the princeling wasn't the sword's favourite person at the moment, for the blade knew where he had been heading and to whom he had intended to sell it. The princeling turned and fled into the undergrowth.
The sword tried to follow. Tark closed his eyes and used both hands, and still he could only barely keep hold of it. But hold onto it he did, for he knew the rarity and worth of a sword o’ light.
After much struggling, the sword appeared to give up, relinquishing control to its holder. Tark pointed it towards the mage. The sword started moving towards the scabbard. Tark let it. Once it was sheathed, he removed the belt from the dead mage, and put it around his own waist.
The soldiers still cowered on the ground. Well, thought Tark, no sense in wasting an opportunity.
‘Rights!’ he called, pulling a small burlap pouch from under his cloak. ‘All of ya are gonna puts yar valuables in this ’ere bag.’
2: Princeling Galbrath
Princeling Galbrath ran through the undergrowth of the Forest. He ran and ran and ran, until he could run no further. He fell to his knees, panting like a dog, sweating like a pig and groaning like the unfit person he was.
‘Blast!’ he yelled. Startled by the noise, a flock of birds took to the air from one of the trees. A small furry creature with round, watery eyes hopped out from a nearby bush, its curiosity getting the better of it. Galbrath backhanded it, sending it flying into the trunk of a large tree.
‘Ow!’ whined the princeling, rubbing at his hand, tears threatening his eyes. He felt like hitting something again. He looked around, but if there were any more small furry animals around, they were staying hidden. He shouted instead. ‘Ahhh!’
He was furious! More furious than he had ever been in his short but eventful life. His grandfather's sword o’ light was lost, before he could sell it. And after all the trouble he had gone through to get it. He had poisoned three siblings and a parent in order to inherit that damn sword, and had been set to sell it for a king's ransom in gold — enough gold to buy him years in Designers Paradise. He slammed his fist onto the grassy earth.
‘Damn the Designers,’ he screamed, as tears finally welled up in his eyes. Then in a quieter voice, as the tears cascaded down, he sobbed, ‘Why is my life always so difficult?’ He raised his face skywards. ‘Designers have pity on me. Give me some sign that you have not forsaken me.’
And then he remembered! He remembered something important. He had not lost everything, after all. Yes, his mage was dead, his sword o’ light stolen, his soldiers and retinue gone. But he still had something. He still had the item that he had used the sword o’ light to obtain.
He carefully put a hand into his pocket and pulled out the key. Images of a better life floated through his mind, broken up by sizzling grey emptiness. The key shone with an inner light. The princeling raised it skywards and called out at the top of his voice:
‘Praise be to the Designers!’
3: Zyra
Zyra watched from the bushes as a perimeter drone whizzed by, microwaves scorching the ground below it. A low-swooping swallow burst into flame as it passed below the grey, flying, metal box.
‘Stupid bird!’ whispered Zyra, as she noted that it had been exactly three minutes and four seconds since the drone last passed.
Zyra wore gloves, boots and a neck-to-ankle, plasti-alloy, microfibre jumpsuit. A balaclava with mirrored lenses completed the ensemble. It wouldn't do much to stop a bullet, but it was perfect protection from the razor- sharp leaves that surrounded her. These fancy houses on the Hill had all manner of weird security, but razor bushes were easy enough to get through if wearing the right clothing. And Zyra prided herself on always wearing the right outfit for the occasion.
She peered up at the perimeter wall through the leaves. It was a metre in from the surrounding bushes and looked like traditional bluestone. The sort of wall you'd find surrounding a prison or an orphanage. But in her line of work, Zyra knew never to simply accept the obvious. That's why she was taking the time to reconnoitre the property before planning the break-in. For all she knew, the wall could be encased in an electro-static barrier, or criss-crossed with invisible laser beams, or even -
Not a real bluestone wall at all!
As Zyra watched, a portion of the wall shimmered.
Damn! she thought. Some beggar's workin’ me turf.
The stones seemed to bulge and distend, then they dispersed in a burst of static as someone walked through. As that someone stepped out onto the scorched gravel between the wall and the razor-bush surround, the stones reformed behind him.
The Cracker chuckled to himself as his shifty eyes looked from right to left. Dressed in a drab grey suit and overcoat, he looked very much like he was on the way to some boring office job. But, of course, he wasn't. In one hand he held a pencil-shaped device. He adjusted the settings on the device and then waved it at the section of razor-bush directly in front of him. The leaves and branches went limp.
‘Toys,’ spat Zyra under her breath. ‘That filthy toe-rag always gots ’em toys.’
Zyra reached into her boot and pulled out a throwing star. It was the last one that she had with her and she didn't want to waste it. Carefully, she used the sharp star to cut three leaves from the bush she was hiding in, then returned it to her boot. She sprang, flicking one of the leaves as she emerged from the bushes.
The Cracker hardly had time to gasp before the sonic override device he was holding was sliced in two by the spinning leaf. He turned angrily to see Zyra poised before him, a leaf held gracefully between the index and middle finger of each outstretched hand. She knew she had struck a perfect pose. Any old sewer-rat could commit acts of violence. But wherever possible, she attempted to do so with style and flair.
‘What?’ screeched the Cracker, dropping what remained of his toy and slowly shaking his weasellike head. ‘No, no, no, no, no, nooooo. Back off! My job! My score! You is tooooo late.’
‘Hands it over,’ demanded Zyra.
‘Zzzzzyra, my pretty,’ said the Cracker, recognising her voice and smiling an oily, gap-toothed smile. ‘I shoulds ’ave known it was you. All covered up, but still such a pretty-pretty thiever.’ His tongue darted out to wet his lower lip as his eyes worked their way up and down Zyra's tall, sleek frame. Slowly, he cracked the knuckles on his right hand, one by one, as he continued speaking. ‘I could gets you lots and lots of coinage for one of your talents. Coppers. Silvers. Even golds! All you've gots to do is speak the word.’
Zyra threw one of the razor leaves. It whizzed past the Cracker's ear, nicking it as it went.
