“The night was warm, though not as warm as it had been in Warren’s bedroom. The way they followed narrowed, more sand and dust and debris encroaching on the track, until suddenly the dunes fell away to reveal a dried-out moat. On the other side of it, a couple of lights shone in a dark, massive edifice.
“Castle Deserte,” Bors said. “Are you scared?”
Some of the boy’s bravado seemed to have leaked out of him, leaving a pale, resigned child alone in the dark.
“Should we be?” George whispered.
“You must be wary of the tyrant’s men.”
“Tyrant?”
Bors placed a cautious hand on Warren’s arm. “Yes. His name is Claudus and he calls himself King. If Phar finds us, we won’t be in so much trouble. If any of the others find us… well… I don’t like the others. Once we get over the drawbridge, don’t go up to the doors. Duck behind those sacks, over there. See them?”
Warren faintly discerned a shadowy hummock to the left. “I think so.”
“Run. Quietly.”
They ran on tiptoe. Warren and Bors ran noiselessly, their feet still being small and light, but George could not help thudding as he sprinted over the planks. There was no cry of alarm and soon they were hidden amongst the smell of sawdust and the feel of damp Hessian. Bors joined their hands together, took hold of Warren’s free hand, and lead them through a dank hole in the ground, along a meandering tunnel, and up through a loose stone in the floor of a store-room.
“Where are we?” George said.
“You can talk freely now,” Bors said. “Claudus’s men don’t come in here unless they’re hungry or just greedy. This is the servant’s pantry.”
A wooden, battered-looking door at the top of three shallow steps opened to admit another, taller boy with a shock of black hair and a scowl. His eyes were similar to Bors’s.
“You tried to do it without me again?” he demanded.
“Wasn’t.” Bors stuck out his lip. “I was practising.”
“Yes, of course.” The older boy’s voice was sarcastic. “I bet you couldn’t wait to get out of here.”
“I’d never leave without you, Lionel. I promise.”
The boy named Lionel managed to shake off his sulk enough to notice George and Warren. “You brought others?”
“This is George and Warren. They come from… er… somewhere else.”
“How much do they know?”
“Not much.”
“That means ‘everything’ in your language.”
Bors ignored him. “This is my brother Lionel,” he said. “He is miserable.”
“Miserable,” Lionel agreed.
“Because of Claudus?” Warren checked.
Lionel sighed. “Everything is because of Claudus. I don’t understand why my dad decided to trust him in the first instance. Claudus was one of his dukes, or maybe he was a baron, I forget which type, and he wanted to marry our mum, but our mum wasn’t having any of that and neither were we, then they went to war, and here we are. Ten years ago that was, and I’m sick of it. We’re supposed to be royalty but we aren’t even allowed outside. We have to stay locked up in the servant’s quarters while Claudus and whoever else gets his muddy great feet all over the furniture upstairs, he’s got –”
Here, he paused to cover Bors’s ears with his hands.
“– He’s got our mum locked in the bedroom. I did try to help her, I keep trying but I can’t get her out. Too many adults with weapons. I can’t risk taking Bors up there with me, the men are so… well, I don’t want him to see something he shouldn’t.”
Bors twisted himself out of Lionel’s grip and laughed.
“So, where is your dad?” George asked. “And where am I?”
“I told you, you’re in the pantry,” Bors said. “Are you absent-minded?”
“No, I mean where am I? This can’t be real. I must have banged my head or something.”
“This is the land of Gall, George.” Lionel frowned. “Our father and uncle are out fighting the soldiers, trying to get back over the border. Claudus made up a task for them to do which would take them away from our lands, and he settled in during their absence. I was one years old and Bors wasn’t even born when it happened.”
IN OTHER NEWS:
One of my poems “Terminal” will be appearing in a volume of Abridged journal.
I have been diagnosed with Painful Bladder Syndrome, another manifestation of my hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, for which there is no cure. It is a devastating condition to have, and the only drug that is proven to help repair the bladder lining is likely to make me go blind. I need my eyes for writing and reading, so I am having to make difficult life decisions at the moment. (I am only 30. Couldn’t this have waited until I was in my 70s, God?)
Nightwalks 