Sacrifice
by Santa Crux

Three candles illuminate every darkness: Knowledge, Nature, Truth ~~ Irish Celtic triad

Another world, far from this one, at the instant that Zoth returned to the demon dimension in The Imposters

Brigid wept.

The goddess wept as she sat by the sacred pool. The last chance denied them. The sun moved past its zenith and the brilliant, eye-blasting reflection was suddenly gone. The throbbing grinding ceased. The birds twittered, the wind murmured in the holy oak, the standing stones stood immutable and silent. Everything was normal. And normal had never seemed so horrible to her.

Her high priest grovelled prostrate on the ground before her. Woran had failed. His third and last chance to save the world had been an utter failure. The Lord of Chaos had prevented him from penetrating the shining stone and entering the passage between worlds. The Evil Spirit had used the portal for his own demonic purposes. And the goddess Brigid, so mighty in this Celtic land, had been helpless against his power.

She heard a whisper in the oak trees; saw a ripple in her reflection in the pool. A mighty stag stepped into the clearing, its step amazingly delicate for the depth of its chest and the spread of its antlers. She could see the sun reflected in the depths of its liquid brown eyes. The sacred pool reflected its majestic silhouette then shimmered and changed. She bent to read the message in the waters.

One more opportunity – that was the message. The fickle gods that created this world had granted one last opportunity. One day in which all the worlds would be drawn together in a spinning vortex. One last chance for her and the priest who followed her command.

Two years earlier Woran had nearly succeeded the first time the portal opened. If not for those that protected Morrigan, the evil one would have been destroyed years ago. Since then others had taken over the portal for their own use. Woran had come so close… and failed. He must not fail this time.

Two years earlier… in our Lost World – just after the events of Unnatural Selection and
exactly one year before the strange alignment of light in The Outlaw.

1. A Walk in the Woods

There was nothing to single it out from any other day. Every day was a search for a way off the plateau. Roxton had chosen to explore the northern valley while the others scouted their new world. They were to make excursions of three days duration, heading out on cardinal points of the compass- north, east and west.

“Arthur, go with Malone west to the edge of the cliffs. Inspect every stream; perhaps there is one large enough take us off the plateau. We’ve certainly had enough rain recently to have them overflowing their banks. Veronica, you and I shall go east. That tribe you mentioned, the Kirabi, you said they were a nomadic people – perhaps we can glean some information that might prove useful. Roxton, take Marguerite and follow the valley rift past the northern hills. See if the higher hills further along give a vantage point for further explorations. Remember, we will all turn back at noon the second day; that will get us back at roughly the same time,” Challenger spoke decisively. The other men nodded in agreement, Veronica murmured support of Challenger’s plan. Only Marguerite found fault with the idea.

“Challenger, why the northern hills? Roxton, Malone and I investigated that area just a few weeks ago. The cliffs were impassable. Why do we need to go again?” Her reluctance was not just laziness. She had come away from that excursion with a bad feeling and an unsettling dream that offset the huge sapphires and amethysts she had dug out of the earth on that occasion. She had made it a policy to listen to her hunches and something told her that the northern valley was not a place for her to be.

Professor Summerlee had frowned at Miss Krux when she had tried to wriggle her way out of the expedition.

“Really, Miss Krux,” he’d lectured, peering over the lenses of his spectacles, “One would think you considered yourself above the needs of the group.”

She had flushed a little at that, Roxton had noticed with surprise. Anger? Guilt? He could never tell with the secretive heiress, he realized, and there wasn’t much point in guessing or even asking. She kept her own counsel and that was fine with him.

Since they had left the treehouse on their search Marguerite had been even more sarcastic than usual - if that were possible. Their first night out had been spent under a rocky overhang wrapped in a couple of blankets spread on the bare ground. She had complained about the lack of a cot and a tent, though she knew very well what a burden it was for him to cart that much baggage on their explorations. The long strenuous day had been topped off by a brief argument and a frosty silence before turning in.

He had extended his night watch to give her some extra rest. When she came out to where Roxton sat in the darkness she had no words of thanks. Not even a proper greeting.

She came up from behind him, startling him a little. “It’s only a few hours till dawn. Why didn’t you wake me?” She directed a glare down at the seated sentry.

“I thought I’d give you a little extra rest,” he replied looking up with a warm grin.

“What a foolish idea that was. Now you’ll be tired and careless on the trail tomorrow. Probably get us devoured by some wild beast.”

“You complained so much about this trip, I thought I’d make it a little easier for you,” he sputtered, taken aback by her irritable tone.

“Pity you wasted your precious rest. I couldn’t sleep anyway,” she shrugged and turned away.

“Well it’s a damned shame you couldn’t sleep – it might have improved your temperament,” he shot back at her before heading to his bedroll. The English lord drifted off to sleep grumbling that he would never understand women and that his present company was far more difficult than any other of her sex he had ever met.

***

Roxton had awakened refreshed and ready for the trail. His companion, however, looked weary; the long sleepless night had evidently left her silent and surly. They walked on with little conversation, Miss Krux leading, the hunter following behind. Their route had tended to go uphill and they had left the jungle to enter more temperate vegetation – mostly grassy meadows punctuated by groves of aspens and oaks. They were following a river that flowed faster as they rose in altitude. They stopped for a moment beside a waterfall, refilling their water bottles from the little pool at its base.

“This is a pretty place, don’t you think?’ Roxton ventured.

“Not bad. At least it’s out of the hot sun,” she allowed.

Canteens full they returned to their trek, trudging onward through the thick forest, each deep in their own thoughts.

John Roxton’s thoughts centred around the slender figure in front of him as she led him unerringly north. Her graceful ease belied the skill it took to maintain their bearing in the dense undergrowth. The machete in her hand swept in a languid arc, carving their path with smooth efficiency. But if he dared make mention of it, praise her skills, she would cut him dead with an insult or an expression of disgust.

One might think her sarcasm which often infuriated him would eventually convince him to avoid her. On the contrary it had become abundantly clear to him, and presumably Miss Krux, that his attraction to her was growing not fading with time.

Obviously, any man with a spark of male animal in him could not fail to be aroused by the attractive heiress. He had found himself instantly bewitched by her in London, her beauty and impudent demeanour triggering amusement and lust in the jaded rake he had become.

On the other hand, he understood the conventions of British society and he would never forget the promise he had made to George Challenger. To pursue his desire for the woman who was bankrolling the expedition would be a complete abandonment of good manners and not something a man of honour would ever consider – no matter what the degree of provocation. Above all, as a woman on this expedition, her reputation was in his hands – and her life, of course. These things he could never betray.

But when he had been released from the strictures of his upbringing by the bite of an infected stranger, he had felt a kind of blood lust he was still trying to comprehend. God, how he had wanted her. The smell of her, the touch. Part of him wanted to rip her throat open; part of him wanted -

Roxton flushed a little at how far his daydreaming had led him. He scanned the forest; no signs of any disturbances. All quiet. They were making good time. He slipped back into his reverie.

He had maintained iron control over his desires after that experience. To know he was capable of that degree of craving was disturbing. Sharp remarks and lewd innuendo kept him a safe distance from the lovely woman and his longing damped. It wasn’t until he watched Marguerite step in front of a weapon intended for the boy-king Gawaine that another feeling had started to grow.

He had taken her in his arms as she fell, and for once she had no smart remarks. He held her, fragile as a bird, and his gut ached in fear, in recognition that – if that knife had struck a few inches from where it did – those enormous eyes might never have opened, that musical voice might not have uttered another scathing remark. He could have lost her right then. Damned if he knew what to do about this confusing flood of emotion, but he vowed that the rules of propriety that governed their lives in London weren’t going to keep him from getting a little closer to this woman. If she ever gave him the chance.

2. The Chosen One

The attackers must have been waiting there all along, Roxton decided later. There had been no sounds of movement, no hush in the forest that portends an alien presence. How long had they crouched there, waiting? How could the men lying in ambush have known they would come this way? In hindsight it was clear to see it had been no ordinary hold-up.

Suddenly a score of men rushed out of the trees, overpowering the two of them in an instant. Roxton struggled against five men who held on to his arms and his chest as others ripped his rifle from his shoulder and the knife from his belt. Oddly they left the pistol in the holster at his side. It might be they were unaware of firearms; he hoped their ignorance would come in handy. After they disarmed him, the men turned to face the others who had made short work of capturing Marguerite. She was still struggling furiously, raking her booted foot down one man’s leg. Eventually she gave up, panting with the exertion. The men dragged her back along the trail until a gap of nearly twenty feet separated the two captives.

The men held them fast but otherwise said and did nothing. Roxton tried to size up their captors. They were all dressed in drab brown robes that made them look like they were medieval monks. They were filthy – from their greasy ill-cut hair to the hardened sandaled feet that poked beneath their robes. Despite the resemblance to early Christian monks, something inside Roxton said Druids – even though he hadn’t the foggiest notion about what a druid might look like.

Marguerite turned to the cowled figure who held her arm.

“Well, isn’t anyone going to introduce themselves? I thought priests were supposed to give sanctuary to passers-by, not manhandle them.”

Her jibe generated only impassive silence. They all seemed to be waiting for something, Roxton thought.

“Roxton, why don’t you make them some kind of offering. Maybe they’ll go away,” Marguerite said, her voice sarcastic and aggravated.

An older man emerged from the forest. As all eyes turned toward him, Roxton could tell by his manner that he was the leader, the one that the others had been waiting for. The man threw back his cowl imperiously and stared fiercely at Marguerite. He wasn’t a very prepossessing character, his chin-length hair hanging in lank strings round his pale face. There was an air of fanaticism about him, his eyes flickering between the woman in front of him and an object held by a young lad who followed him like an acolyte.

The priest neared Marguerite, circling until he was behind her. He reached out a grubby claw to yank the blouse off her shoulder. Roxton bellowed out a threat as he strove vainly to free himself and come to her rescue. Marguerite twisted her head to keep her tormenter in sight, a terrified scream escaping her. The priest looked intently at her back. His hand snapped away as if her skin was flaming hot. He sucked in a breath that Roxton could hear twenty feet away. The druid completed the circle until he faced his target. He leaned forward until he was inches from her face.

Roxton had to admire the heiress’s courage. At first she fought fruitlessly against the pinioning arms, but now she stood up to the menacing fanatic chin to chin, holding his glare with one of her own. He shouted something at her in a strange tongue. Marguerite flinched and responded in English,

“What? It’s just a birthmark – nothing more. You’re crazy. You can’t kill me; I haven’t done anything.”

The priest turned around; Roxton could see the look of triumph in his face.

“Roxton, this lunatic says he’s supposed to kill me. Someone named Bochra has done something which has put him over the edge. Some nonsense about sending a mighty storm. And that I have to die to prevent it. I’d like a little help here.”

“I’m trying, Marguerite. Talk to him, buy us some time.”

Marguerite spoke to the man in that strange language, her voice at first cajoling then growing harsh in frustration. The priest said not a word and the smile of triumph never left his face.

“He’s not listening.”

Roxton dipped his shoulder and threw his weight forward against the restraining arms. Using every ounce of his considerable strength he managed to throw off a couple of the men holding his right arm. But there were too many and when one put a hammerlock around his neck and squeezed, Roxton saw black spots at the edge of his vision. He began to sag at the knees. The pressure on his neck eased off but he was held even more tightly than before.

The priest turned to the young boy and took from him an object wrapped in a bright red cloth. He unfolded the cloth and revealed a heavy knife which glistened even in the gloom of the forest. Reverently picking up the knife, the druid slowly approached the English lord. The weapon lay in the open palms of his raised hands as he stood in front of Roxton and began to chant. The hunter found himself staring at the weapon which gleamed as if lit by an unearthly light. It was some silvery metal – nothing he was familiar with. It was created in the design of a throwing knife but was more likely some kind of ritual dagger. There was etching on hilt and blade. He could identify a Celtic chain design on the thick blade and runes on the hilt. He had a brief moment of wondering if Marguerite would be able to read the writing but then his stomach tightened. The chanting had ended. The priest was now holding the knife in a very business-like manner.

“He’s saying something about needing the blood of the protector, using it to destroy the serpent.” Marguerite translated then her voice changed pitch, “Roxton, now would be a good time.”

“Marguerite, I can’t get loose. No matter what happens to me, save yourself. Take your chance while he’s busy with me. See if you can get to your pistol.”

He missed her response, if there was one, because the men holding his left arm yanked it out in front of him. He struggled desperately as the head priest leaned forward. The knife slashed, scoring the meaty part of his palm. Blood gushed. The priest held the bloody knife over his head then wiped it clean on the cloth held by his acolyte. He jabbed the point of the knife in his own palm and twisted the blade. New blood stained the knife. Its sharp point was crimson, the rest a translucent silver. The Celtic symbols glowed orange as if reflecting a nearby fire.

The priest dipped the knife tip in the dripping wound on Roxton’s hand. Now it was coated with both men’s blood. The priest kissed the blade and began to chant again. All eyes were on him as he faced Roxton. This was Marguerite’s chance to escape, Roxton thought. Now, while their captors were distracted.

He heard a commotion from behind the looming presence of the priest. Marguerite cried out in frustration. Her attempt to get loose must have gone wrong.

“Damn it!”

The druid leader turned at the disturbance and Roxton could now see Marguerite struggling desperately; the cowled priests dragged her back to her feet. She had failed to free herself. They were both trapped.

Marguerite turned her focus to the priest, “Come on now. Can’t we talk about this like civilized people?” Her voice rose trying to get the attention of the chanting druid.

The priest stopped chanting and raised the dagger skyward. The blade seemed to reflect a crimson shaft of sunlight. In one swift movement the priest took the knife by the bloody tip and hurled it with all his might at Marguerite.

The flight of the blade seemed to take forever. Roxton could count every revolution it traced in the air as it sped toward Marguerite. It was meant to be a killing blow, travelling unerringly toward her unprotected breast. He swore he could see the runes flaming as if on fire from within. The silver blade was on target to take the life of its sacrificial victim. Marguerite’s life. His shout of warning died in his throat. Somehow it felt far worse that it would be his blood that pierced her beating heart, a grievous betrayal of the woman he had pledged to protect.

He watched her face, eyes wide, mouth twisted and open in horror. She was screaming -was it his name she spoke? With one last desperate lunge she jerked to the side, her mesmerized captors pulled with her in a brief instant of inattention. It wasn’t enough to save her. The knife struck high in her chest with a thunk he could hear twenty feet away.

“Marguerite!” He screamed as if that might hold her to this world.

The knife rebounded from her body, arcing high in the air before dropping to the ground in front of her. The entire mass of attackers froze in a silent tableau. Marguerite wobbled a little.

The frantic hunter ripped himself from his captors’ loosened grips. He turned toward the nearest priest, ready to fight through them all to rescue Marguerite. The druid stood there, ashen-faced, slack-jawed, staring at her. When she straightened to a stand, a moan escaped the man. He turned and fled. So did the men beside him, howling like they were being pursued by demons. The men holding Marguerite snatched their hands away as if she were made of molten metal. Without their support she slipped to her knees, a crimson stain of blood slowly seeping through her blouse.

3. Alive!

Roxton raced toward Marguerite, freeing his pistol from his holster as he ran. He kept an eye on the priests as they fled, leaping over fallen trees, stumbling in their haste. He recognized abject terror when he saw it. It was as if the devil himself was pursuing them. They wouldn’t be coming back any time soon. He dismissed them from his attention and turned toward Marguerite. She slowly slumped face first to the ground as he neared. He dropped to her side.

Marguerite lay facedown on the mossy trail, the silver dagger beside her fingertips. Almost rough in his haste, he rolled her onto her back. She moaned at the movement. Her face was so pale that the shadows beneath her eyes were etched in darkness. He pulled back her blouse to take a look at the wound in her chest. It was spilling a little blood but less than he had feared.

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and swabbed blood from the gash. It was a narrow slit three inches long– far smaller than he would expect from such a large knife. It looked like the tip had struck her collarbone dead on and had deflected away without doing further damage. The hunter sagged in relief. She was alive. At worst, he figured, the bone was broken.

Not dead. Not like he’d dreaded as the knife had sped toward her. Droplets of his own blood flying off the blade with the force of its flight.

Alive. Now all he had to do was get her away from here to safety, away from the crazy priest and his insane band of followers.

4. Failure

Woran ran through the woods as though all the spirits of destruction were baying at his heels. Chest heaving, he sucked great gulps of air as he fled Still he found himself overtaken by some of his followers, their blind panic overcoming their discipline. Eventually exhausted he stopped and leaned heavily against a tree.

Reluctantly the priests behind him halted as well, still bound by their oaths of obedience and silence. All the same they looked at him with wild eyes. Some probably harboured a vague hope that he could explain away the horror they had just witnessed. They had come a long way to save their people. Instead the spirits of evil had protected the woman and prevented the sacrifice. It was crushingly clear that they had failed in their sacred duty to the Great Goddess. Morrigan was still alive and they had little time left to complete their mission. The element of surprise was gone; Woran’s followers were in disarray and despair.

His thoughts jumped in panicked disorder. The ritual should have worked – the spelled knife should have pierced her protective ward. The mingling of her protector’s blood and his own – representing valour and faith – ought to have struck her heart and shrivelled it in her chest.

Woran rebuked himself for his cowardice. He had fled in such a panic that he didn’t even know if the knife had cut her at all. If it had, maybe she would sicken and die without the need for further action. If not… the high priest didn’t know what they would do to stop her – only that they must destroy her if their world was to survive. They had so little time.

“Did the knife pierce her flesh?” he asked urgently.

A priest nodded.

5. The Tip of the Knife

John Roxton rooted through his pack searching for his first aid kit. From it he pulled out a small vial of carbolic acid and a wad of soft cloth he could use as a dressing. He worked quickly while Marguerite was still semi-conscious. It was going to hurt.

He pressed the dressing to the wound gritting his teeth to ignore the deep groan he heard from Marguerite. She was deathly white and though he talked softly to her for comfort, it didn’t seem as if she could hear him. When the bleeding stopped he splashed the carbolic generously around the small wound, holding the edges of the wound apart to clean it thoroughly. He frowned and looked closer.

Sitting back on his haunches he looked around the clearing until he spotted the knife. He went over, picked it up and inspected the blade. His hunch was correct. The knife blade had a jagged end where the sharp tip had been. An inch of it was now imbedded in Marguerite’s collarbone. No wonder she was dazed. He needed to get her back to the treehouse where Challenger had the instruments to get that chunk of metal out of her before it did more harm. The trouble was they would never reach the treehouse by nightfall.

He finished bandaging Marguerite’s wound and started a fire. His best bet was to give Marguerite a little time to recover. They would cover ground much more quickly if she could travel on her own two feet. More that that, he wanted to see her open those amazing green eyes and start complaining. Then he’d know she was all right.

6. Together for Dinner

Summerlee watched Ned as the young man scanned the jungle from his perch on the treehouse balcony. The two of them had arrived back at the treehouse first and had spent an hour recording the results of their explorations – Ned recounting his observations in his journal and Summerlee organizing his sketches and live specimens in the lab. At the end of that hour Veronica had returned with Challenger in tow. The dear girl had brought some game for dinner and some fruit as well. He had been contemplating a new recipe for preparing the pheasant-like bird, making a glaze from the mangos and hot pepper plants that flourished in the area. Wouldn’t it be grand to present his Bush Chicken a l’Arthur for the group this evening? It was going to be pleasant to have everyone at the table after being separated for some time; he looked forward to the conversation.

It was times like this that made him realize how lonely he had been the last few years. Of course he had his colleagues at the Botanical Society to keep his mind active but, to be truthful, since his children had grown up, he rattled around in the house a little.

This plateau had challenged him in so many ways. He had been attacked by a venomous bee, condemned to death as a heretic and he had confronted frightening creatures both real and fantastical. Some things had reaffirmed his faith; others had made him question his beliefs. For instance that strange encounter last week with the batty old woman who was convinced she was a fairy. He could have sworn he saw her later – a beautiful young girl, laughing and innocent. Malone and he had vowed not to mention their experiences to the others - he could hear Challenger’s jeers already – but there was little way of knowing whether Miss Krux would betray their pact, if only to taunt poor Malone.

She was sometimes terribly cruel to the young American, Summerlee admitted, but he was fond of the woman. There was much more to her than met the eye, of that he was sure.

He hummed a little, one of the Chopin pieces that Veronica had been playing recently on the gramophone, as he went to the kitchen. If Miss Krux and Lord Roxton got back soon their band would be all together once more. Yes, he would make a nice dinner to celebrate. Bush chicken with mangos, perhaps a little cinnamon. He could hardly wait.

7. Chilled to the Bone

John Roxton sat on the fallen log, his rifle butt resting on the ground beside him. The vigil beside the unconscious heiress seemed endless. There hadn’t been a sign of life in the forest around them since the Druids had run off. Marguerite had lain motionless for almost an hour; he was growing ever more anxious to leave. With a sigh he settled back to wait.

He became aware of a pair of gray-green eyes fixed on his.

“Sleeping beauty awakes,” he said gently as he approached her, “how do you feel?”

“Odd. Fine, I guess. Just a little chilly.”

“Does it hurt much?”

“What? Oh,” a frown crossed her face as if she had just remembered how she had come to be here. “The knife- did it - ?”

“It struck your collarbone. The tip broke off. Probably hurts like the very devil.”

“No, not really. What did you give me? Something Challenger concocted?”

“No, nothing.”

Marguerite tentatively raised her shoulders from the ground.

“That guy in the bathrobe couldn’t have been much of a knife-thrower. I can’t feel it at all – it’s just numb.”

“You think you can walk? We need to get back to the treehouse – you’ve still got a left-over piece of metal in your collarbone.”

“Well, I certainly don’t want to stay here any longer than I have to.”

Roxton helped her lever herself to her feet. He didn’t like her colour; her face was dead-white. He was surprised when she insisted that the wound didn’t hurt. Perhaps the blade had been coated with some sort of pain-killer – or poison. Odd that it hadn’t had the same effect on him. The gash on his palm throbbed like the very devil. They’d better get going while she could still travel.

They made surprisingly good progress at the beginning. After two hours of steady walking, the sun grew lower in the sky. Marguerite stumbled occasionally as she walked along. She must be exhausted, he thought, and called for a halt.

“Might as well set up camp nearby. It’s been a long day.”

She turned his way and he was surprised to see her teeth chattering. The day was hot and muggy; he himself was dripping with perspiration. She must have some kind of strange fever, he decided. Damn it, why couldn’t Challenger be here.

8. Morrigan Must Die

The Druids reached the sacred clearing before sunset. Woran pulled the pouch of herbs from under his robe. While his fellow priests gathered firewood, he ground holly berries and leaves of the mistletoe plant. He tossed the dust on the open flames. The fire flared high and died down. Woran raised his voice in prayer.

“Great Goddess, we have come to this strange land to do your bidding. We read the signs and dreams you sent us. We have come here to save our world.” He bitterly thought about his people harried and slaughtered by Bochra’s followers until there was only this handful of men remaining. As Woran inhaled the smoke he fell into a trance as he remembered the past……

***

Bochra had fooled them all at first. He was so wise, so knowing. He could see the future. Harvests had never been better. The hunt was successful. After Bochra had come there had been three years of plenty.

People fell away from the old ways. They no longer left offerings for the little people or gave thanks each day to the goddess. Bochra whispered lies. Everyone believed them. The spirits of the land were forgotten.

Woran had taken Bochra as a brother, shared his temple, offered him bread and salt. It had taken a disturbing vision to make him realize that Bochra was actually an evil creature who had wormed his way into his trust.

During the night of the mid-summer festival, Woran had made his offerings to the gods and settled himself with the others. At dawn they would see the first rays of the sun framed by the standing stones at the plains of Avebury. Woran dreamed a strange dream.

The goddess Brigid came to him. Tall and regal she smiled down on him, took his hand and took him along with her. They walked on emerald green moss in some strange land he did not recognize. She showed him a mighty forest filled with sturdy trees soaring to the sky. It was a beautiful land. Then a shadow appeared. It was a raven. The black bird flew from tree to tree vomiting a black liquid on the roots. A hundred years passed in a heartbeat. The trees turned brown and brittle. A great storm came. The trees snapped in the wind and crashed to the ground. The rivers rose and swept away everything. The clouds were black and angry. They blotted out the sun. The dream ended in darkness.

Then Brigid spoke to him.

The raven in your dream - that is Bochra, spreading his poison. Your people are the trees, soaking up that evil. The storm is coming. When it comes, the world will end. But if that fate can be avoided, your people will live. Morrigan, my sister, has cast her lot with Bochra. Only recently was her betrayal revealed to me and as I pursued her with my bow, she escaped through the shining stone to another world. She is the Bringer of Destruction. Only if she is slain can the storm be averted.

I must stay here to stop Bochra before he poisons all our people’s minds. Moreover, it is forbidden that I should harm my sister. So it is you, Woran, who must fulfill this part of the prophecy. You are the last priest who remains loyal to me. You must follow my sister and kill her – in whatever incarnation she may have assumed.

The day of the final storm is three years from now. Three years, three chances. Your task is difficult. Each year there will be only three days in which you can travel between the worlds. Three days when the sun hits the shining rock and opens the portal between worlds. Three chances. If you fail, Morrigan wins and the world is destroyed.

You may not reach the right world the first time. Or you may not be able to destroy my sister – she is protected by warriors and wise men. You must be strong and you must be patient.

To aid you in your quest, I give you three gifts: a sacred blade that can kill a god, a book of spells which contains enchantments to find Morrigan, and last, a vial of elixir that will protect you from the wicked power of the enchanted blade you carry. When you tie it around your neck, you will be safe from evil spirits. Protect these gifts well. If you do, your only danger will be from Morrigan and her protectors. No charm of mine can overcome her strength.

You must defeat her by stealth. She will be in human guise in that world and so can be captured and killed by a true believer. You are the Chosen One, Woran. Do as I command.

***

Woran awoke from his dream. His fellow priests stirred as the first brightness of the predawn lightened the sky. A ground mist swirled around their feet as the sun’s rays crested the horizon and struck the notch between the dolmens. Surrounded by his people celebrating hope and plenty, all Woran could feel was the burden of his duty. While his brethren sang, Woran fell to his knees and wept.

His tears fell in sorrow, for the plight of his world; in fear, for the gravity and strangeness of his mission; and in humility, for the honour bestowed upon him by the Great Mother. He had apprenticed for twenty years to be a druid and it had taken him twenty more to rise to a position of leadership. But nothing in his years of prayer and fasting and worship had prepared him for a duty so demanding. He had hoped he would be proven worthy…

Instead he had failed abominably. Morrigan lived. He had just two days left to make up for his mistake or a whole year would be lost. Failure ultimately meant the end of his world. The storm would come. All would be lost.

9. Return to Safety

John Roxton added another log to the fire. Despite the heat thrown off by the flames, Miss Krux shivered in her sleep. Nothing seemed to warm her, though she claimed to feel no pain. As she lie there with her teeth chattering, Roxton huddled closer trying to use his own body heat to warm her a little.

He awoke with a start a few hours later. His companion was curled into his side, her dark head beneath his chin. It must have been a wisp of her soft hair tickling his neck that had wakened him. Her shivering had subsided and he felt her soft breath on his arm. He eased his head back onto his bedroll. The sky was just beginning to lighten. There was still a little time for her to rest.

***

Shortly after sunrise they were on their way again. They weren’t far from the treehouse and though Marguerite was shaky and pale she declared herself fit to walk the rest of the way.

Roxton was doubtful.

“Are you sure? It wouldn’t take that long for me to go get Challenger, bring him back here.”

“And then what? Bivouac out here in the jungle? No I intend to rest in my own bed with all the comforts – limited as they are – of the treehouse.”

Still uncertain if it was the best course, Roxton picked up the packs and they headed back.

***

At mid-morning Summerlee noticed Ned leaning over the railing of the treehouse, staring intently out into the jungle. Between chores, he’d taken to watching for Marguerite and Roxton. They were a little overdue, not enough to worry about, but he told Summerlee he had ‘a funny feeling’ which apparently was American slang for a journalist’s hunch. There they were, coming in from the north just as he’d expected. He didn’t notice how Marguerite leaned on the hunter.

“Summerlee, they’re back,” he turned toward the great room where the botanist was sketching a plant. “Challenger,” he shouted louder so he’d be heard down in the lab.

Summerlee got up to peer over the balcony. “Oh, excellent, I was beginning to worry about those two. Looks like we will all be here for dinner. I’ve been looking forward to an opportunity to try some new seasonings – some plants I brought back.”

They waited for the elevator to bring up their companions; hoping perhaps they had had some success in their explorations. Challenger remained in his lab oblivious to Ned’s shout.

Veronica was just returning from gathering fruit when she came upon Marguerite and Roxton. Her friendly smile of greeting faded when she took in Marguerite’s ghastly paleness and the patch of dried blood that marred the front of her blouse. She ran to Marguerite’s side.

10. Feeling No Pain

“What happened?” Veronica asked, almost accusatory in her concern.

“We had an encounter with some druids. Marguerite’s been injured. Where are Challenger and Summerlee?”

“Challenger’s in his lab. The professor is in the main room, classifying some plants he and Ned brought back.”

Roxton hurried toward the elevator, practically carrying Marguerite as she faltered. Soon she was seated in a chair in the great room. Challenger came up from the laboratory at Summerlee’s shout to stand next to the botanist as he placed the medical kit on the table. Roxton described the events of the previous day while Summerlee gently removed the bandage that Roxton had applied.

Summerlee shielded his patient’s view of the wound, expecting to see the angry redness of infection. Instead he was surprised to see instead that the wound was as pale and cool as though Marguerite had been submersed in an icy pool since being stabbed, not trekking through the jungle for a day. The bone beneath the wound was clearly visible. The jagged silver edge of the broken knife tip could be seen protruding slightly out of the bone.

Summerlee frowned. Uncanny how deeply it had become imbedded in the collarbone. One might expect the delicate bone to either have deflected the blow or broken with the impact. Miss Krux was very fortunate. The dagger must have been thrown with tremendous force. Anywhere else and the knife would have sunk to its hilt in her flesh. He shuddered at that gruesome image. He would need to improvise an instrument to extract the piece of metal; nothing in the medical kit was suitable.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to extend the incision so that we can get hold of that piece of shrapnel. We need to find something to get a grip on it.” The look he gave Marguerite was full of apology, “Challenger, do you have anything that in the lab that will do?”

“I have a pair of forceps that might be up to the task.” He turned and descended to the lab.

Summerlee looked at his patient over his spectacles, his kind face filled with compassion.

“I’m sorry, my dear. But this will undoubtedly hurt. How does it feel now?”

“I can’t feel a thing. No pain. It’s as if there’s ice water in my veins,” she turned toward Ned sitting in the corner and said with a weak grin, “Malone, I don’t want to read any smart remarks in your journals about me being cold-blooded.”

“I’ll try to restrain myself,” the journalist said, sounding a little annoyed by her crack. Roxton bristled a bit at the younger man’s tone.

Summerlee swabbed the wound with alcohol and cut through the delicate skin with the scalpel. He was confounded by the meagre amount of blood that flowed from the incision. There was no doubt that there was something very unusual about her injury. Challenger returned with an instrument which the scientists proceeded to sterilize in alcohol. Challenger’s combination of medical understanding and greater strength made him the best one to remove the metal splinter. He got a good grip on the protruding edge and attempted to ease it out from where it was wedged in the bone. The fragment resisted his tug. His eyes shot toward Marguerite’s to gauge the pain that he was causing. He was met only with a quizzical gaze from Miss Krux’s unique green eyes.

“No, George, it doesn’t hurt.” She drawled anticipating his upcoming question, “Carry on.”

Challenger intensified his efforts bracing himself with a hand against her shoulder. When the shard finally gave way, he staggered backward.

“By Jove, that was hard work,” Challenger muttered as he examined the knife tip. “No sign of poison but it looks like there’s some sort of etching on it.”

11. A Riddle

Roxton had slumped back in relief when the scientist finally extracted the piece of metal. Challenger’s words triggered his memory. He fished in his pocket and pulled out the druid’s knife.

“They’re symbols –reminds me of some old artefacts we’d find as kids on our estate in England. They’re all over one side of the blade and the hilt as well. I wonder if they say something.” He examined it for a moment, frowning fiercely as if effort alone would make their meaning clear.

“Hand it over. If someone is trying this hard to send me a message, I suppose I should pay attention.”

Roxton looked up at Marguerite, her hand extended above Professor Summerlee who was wrapping a bandage around her shoulder to cover the dressing. She still appeared disturbingly pale to Roxton’s eyes though she didn’t flinch at the botanist’s care.

He handed her the weapon, which she examined carefully.

“Odd.” She frowned and hesitated, “It looks like a riddle.

She began to read aloud.

“Three days, three chances, a three-faced woman
Mother and lover and collector of souls
The coming storm I bring
Three fates there be – Chaos, redemption or death
Goddess and princess and long lost child
Your destiny I sing
Who am I?”

“What the hell does that mean?” growled Roxton.

“And the bit on the handle?” Challenger asked.

“Give me power over evil
And strength to break the spell.
Bring death to the serpent which holds the balance
And chooses the way.”

There was a long pause while Marguerite twisted the knife in a shaft of sunlight as if it might yield more secrets.

“What do you think it means? What’s that part about a three-faced woman?” she muttered.

“Well the three faces of woman in literature are maiden, mother and crone,” said Roxton musingly. He felt a twinge of self-consciousness as the others turned to him surprised by his familiarity with literary motifs.

What was that part at the end again – the ‘snake that is at the balance’ part?” Veronica’s voice held an undertone of excitement.

Marguerite read the handle once more, “the serpent that holds or maybe decides the balance and shows the way or chooses the path” She was trying to articulate the various meanings of the characters on the strange knife.

“The serpent at the balance. That sounds so familiar. When I was a child… it was a story my parents read to me,” Veronica frowned in concentration then made for the volumes that lined the bookshelves in the greatroom.

“It doesn’t sound like any fairy tale I ever read,” Ned said dubiously.

“Except perhaps the one where the serpent tempted a fair maiden in paradise,” replied Roxton, “No happy ending in that one.”

“Really, John,” muttered Summerlee, outraged a bit that Roxton would classify the book of Genesis with fairy tales.

Roxton looked toward Marguerite. “You’re the expert on languages. Sound familiar to you?”

The linguist answered with a shrug. She was still examining the knife, holding it up to the light. The flickering glow that Roxton had noticed when the druid held the weapon flared up again.

“What metal is that?” Challenger asked, intrigued by the phenomenon. He took the dagger from Marguerite and examined it closely.

“Light in weight, easy to engrave yet rigid. Interesting.” His eyes lit up with scientific curiosity. “I wouldn’t mind doing some tests down in the lab.”

“Here it is!” Veronica had been pulling out volumes while the others had been concentrating on the knife and now she had one of her parents’ journals open. “Listen to this.”

12. The Druid’s Story

Veronica began to read aloud.

“We had a curious conversation with a holy man from a culture likely descended from the ancient Celts. Perhaps some Irish curragh lost on a voyage of discovery somehow made its way up the Amazon. The druid, as that is what he proved to be, told us a great deal of the history of his people. However, some of what he said sounds more like myth than reality.

He made us commit one story to memory in much the same way that tales were passed down from one generation to the next in the days before the written word. Even though he was literate and wrote in Greek as well as the Celtic runes, he said that druid knowledge was secret and was never to be written down.

On our return Abigail and I discussed at great length whether the story should be put onto paper. Since the druid was very old and told us that we were the only ones he had told the tale to, we felt that it was important to pass on his message. We have compromised here, writing down the introduction and the basic story but not revealing the secret druid knowledge. So here it is – the druid’s tale.

Three candles illuminate every darkness: Knowledge, Nature, Truth.

Gods and people inhabit the three realms- land, sea and sky. Life follows life. Everything follows everything for eternity.

Long ago the gods of birth and creation – among them Brigid and Diancecht worked as one with the gods of death and destruction – Ahrianhrod and Arawn, Dagda and others. Dagda was a prideful god and quarrelled with Diancecht. The quarrel became so heated that Morrigan was asked to settle it. The goddess Morrigan has three faces – passion, death and prophecy. As she embodies both life and death the gods believed she would be fair in her judgement. Morrigan asked many questions. In the end she chose destruction over creation. The world and all its people were snuffed out in a single spark of light. This is our past.

But the battle is never truly won or lost. The gods returned and, in time, people once more covered the earth. Whenever there were angry words among the gods they remembered what had happened the last time and chose life and fire and birth. But even gods grow restless and forgetful with time. Their children have forgotten the eons of darkness. The quarrel begins anew. This is our present.

Once again it will be left to the line of Morrigan to choose. But Morrigan’s child does not know her nature. She does not know the truth. Men, evil men, will try to corrupt her while she remains unknowing. Good men will fear her and try to kill her in their attempts to save the world.

There is a famous prophecy. It says when the gods clash Morrigan will take the form of a serpent. She will bring the storm that destroys the world. Only one thing can stop her.

In a strange land seek a woman. You will know her by the sign she bears – the sun, the moon and the serpent. She is Morrigan’s child. Sacrifice her, the prophets say, and it will prevent Morrigan from bringing the storm.

The old druid then said. This story was told to me by my father and his father told it to him and so it continues through time – they are the words of my ancestor who first came to this land.

I have spent my life sailing across the seas and now I am here in this land far from my homeland. On my voyages I have seen many strange things. You may not know this but at the centre of the world, at the bottom of the sea is the Well of Wisdom. One day I took a leap of faith and drank of its water. This is what I learned. It is very important that you listen carefully.

The prophets are wrong. The serpent that holds the balance must be allowed to choose the way. The sacrifice of this woman is needless and wrong. It will lead only to chaos. Man will die, the gods will die, the very earth itself will be at the mercy of evil spirits who wish nothing more than its disintegration into barren dust.”

Veronica paused at the end of the druid’s story. When she began again it was her father’s words she spoke.

“We can write no more of what the druid told us. In the spirit of the ancient ways we decided to pass along his final words to our daughter Veronica. She thinks that it is a fairy tale. We have told it to her often and when she’s old enough we will explain to her what it means.

That’s all that’s written.” Veronica looked up, puzzled. “They never told me what it means. I guess they left before I was old enough to understand.” The old sorrow crossed Veronica’s face again. “What were the words to the fairy tale? I remember the part about the serpent that holds the balance, but the rest is fuzzy.”

“Take it easy,” Malone put his hand over hers, a look of gentle understanding on his face. “You’ll remember better if you don’t force it.”

“Meanwhile maybe we can figure things out from the runes,” Challenger said, picking up a piece of paper and thrusting it at Summerlee. “Marguerite, read the runes again. Summerlee, write down what she says so we can analyze it and discern the meaning.”

Once again the linguist translated the symbols on the unearthly knife while the botanist transcribed the words in his careful script. The others crowded around hoping to figure out the meaning of the riddle.

Malone made the first stab at it. “Well, three days –there’s a time limit.”

“And three chances sounds like if the sacrifice doesn’t succeed, they get to try again. I don’t like the sound of that. What about a three-faced woman?” asked Roxton.

“That has to be Morrigan! Isn’t that what Veronica’s parents said – the goddess of love and death and prophecy.” Summerlee’s eyes lit up as he solved the riddle.

“And the coming storm I bring – just like the last time. And once again Morrigan will choose destruction.” Malone crowded forward, intensity in his voice.

“Oh, Malone. You can’t believe everything you read,” scoffed Challenger, “There’s no such thing as prophecy – or leaps of faith for that matter. There are only conclusions based on facts.”

“Well the fact of the matter is, it looks like someone believes the prophecy and I’ve been chosen for the sacrifice. And unless we figure out some sort of cure for this thing, I’m going to freeze to death.” Marguerite’s voice was muffled a little by the chattering of her teeth.

“Yes, of course. You’re right. I will leave the rest of you to unravel the runes. I will test the knife to see what might have been on the blade that has caused this peculiar reaction Marguerite is having. Perhaps this strange glow is given off by some kind of coating. The blade itself resembles platinum, but it’s rigid as if the alloy contained iridium.” Hoping he could come up with a solution for the problem that was before them, Challenger jumped up and hastened down to the lab.

Without a word, Summerlee went to the stack of wood to throw another log on the fire. Even though the rest of them were perspiring in the stifling heat, it seemed the least they could do for their ailing companion.

Veronica was absent-mindedly preparing a pot of tea while the others continued to examine the riddle.

“Three fates,” read Malone, “I thought there were only two possible fates – life – I guess that could be redemption - and death.”

“No,” Roxton responded, “Remember what the druid said after he took his leap of faith. If the sacrifice is made and that stops Morrigan - or the serpent or whatever she is – from making the choice, then evil spirits will have the opportunity to destroy the world in a far more final manner. Throw the world back to where it was before it began. Chaos- that’s the joker in the deck.”

“I think I’ve got it,” Veronica blurted out, slamming the teapot on the table, “I remember it – or at least part of it.”

“I knew you could do it,” Malone’s boyish face beamed. Roxton watched Veronica draw strength from his smile. She closed her eyes and began to recite in a lilting voice.

13. The Serpent’s Tale

“Long ago a serpent sat on the rocks and basked in the sun. Her smooth skin glistened – green as an emerald on a cloudy day blotched with daubs of deepest ebony. She knew the earth and the sea and the sky.

A man walked by, shrouded by a dark robe. He said to the serpent “Who are you and what do you do.”

The serpent answered. “I am the world-serpent. I hold the earth safe in my coils. If I shift a little, the earth shakes. But if I squeeze like this,” The snake wrapped itself around a rock and constricted until it shattered into dust. “I could destroy the whole world.”

“Ah,” said the man, “I had heard as much.” And without another word he pulled out a knife and stabbed the serpent in the tail.

The serpent twisted and writhed in terrible pain. It slithered away, oozing blood. Though it was not a mortal wound the serpent felt very ill and sought out Airmud the daughter of Diancecht and a great healer in her own right.

Airmud examined the wound and said, “You were cut by a magic knife. You have only three days to live. You must find the man who did this and ask him for the cure. Only he can save you.”

Veronica hesitated. “I remember - that part made me angry. The snake was innocent, a victim. Why did she have to go back and beg for her life? Daddy told me it was because she was so powerful that perhaps the man was frightened of her.”

Ned couldn’t stand it any longer. “So how does it end?”

Veronica shook off the childhood memory, “Well, naturally the snake goes back to find the man. She feels weaker by the hour. When she finds him she confronts him.

“Why did you do this to me?” she asked the man.

“Because you are too powerful for this worldl. You don’t belong here.””

“Veronica, enough dramatic details. Get to the part where he cures her.” This time it was Marguerite who interrupted her.

“He doesn’t. The man tricks the serpent into giving him the knife back and then he runs away. The snake chases him. She gets closer and closer, her breath on his neck, her fangs at his back. He runs up to a magic rock shaped like a gateway –Daddy said it was probably like the standing stones at Stonehenge. She sees he’s trapped. She strikes –snapping her jaws shut - but the man is gone in a blinding flash. All she’s left with is his robe hanging from her fangs. In anger at her failure she swallows up the robe and squeezes it in one mighty constriction.

A vial hidden in the folds of the robe is broken; it contains a magic potion. The fluid trickles down her throat. Heat spreads throughout her body from her head to her wounded tail. Her skin which had been a brilliant emerald green turns crimson red from the heat within her. Her eyes are no longer green but are now golden amber. When she opens her mouth, she breathes fire.

And that’s where the first dragon came from.”

Veronica sat back, satisfied that she had remembered the story and told it well.

“Three days, huh,” said Marguerite glumly.

Roxton followed her train of thought. “It’s just past noon right now. You were stabbed almost exactly twenty-four hours ago. If this means what I think it does, we have to track down the druid who tried to kill you and get that antidote by this time two days from now.”

“Samhain,” said Summerlee. All eyes turned to him, puzzled. “Samhain is the day after tomorrow, the Celtic Feast of the Dead. It is said that on that day the boundary between this world and the Otherworld is weakest and passage between the worlds is smoother.”

“By the Otherworld, I’m assuming you mean the spirit world, ghosts and supernatural creatures?” Marguerite asked.

Summerlee nodded reluctantly.

“Great,” was her sarcastic response.

“We’ll need to leave right away,” Roxton decided and rose to his feet to prepare.

“How will we do it, Roxton? By the time we go and track down this creep and bring him or his magic potion back we’ll have run out of time.” Malone’s brow was set in a worried line.

“Not if I go with you.” Marguerite told them.

Summerlee was horrified at the idea.

“Nonsense, my dear. You’ve been stabbed and I’ve just performed surgery on you. And it seems we can assume that you’ve been poisoned somehow. You’re not in fit shape to be on your feet.”

“Well if that snake story is some kind of parable, I’d better catch up with the man who started all this. A little fire-breathing sounds mighty good right now,” Marguerite said the last in a wistful tone. She was huddled by the fire, her arms wrapped around her chest.

Just as Summerlee was about to try again to convince her not to go, Roxton interrupted.

“Sorry, Professor, she’s right. There’s no time for caution now. If Marguerite can travel, then we’d best be off immediately.”

At that moment Challenger came up the stairs. His dejection was apparent.

“No sign of poison and I can’t begin to tell what metal this knife is made of.”

Roxton walked by and pulled his pack off the rack.

“Keep it with you, George. I’m afraid we’re going to need it to flush out those druids.”

“What? What’s he talking about?” Challenger watched as the younger members of the expedition quickly packed food, ammunition and bedrolls.

Summerlee collected the medical kit and picked his pith helmet off its peg.

“It seems we are hoping to save Miss Krux’s life by putting our faith in a fairy tale.”

“What? It will be nightfall in a few hours. This- ,” the scientist spluttered even as he pulled on his jacket and jammed his hat on his ginger-coloured hair.

In a few minutes the elevator descended with a grim group of explorers. They began to retrace the route that Roxton and Marguerite had taken that morning.

***

Woran gathered his followers to explain the dangerous journey they must make. They would have to seek out the serpent-woman and her protector.

“Brave and loyal priests. We have been chosen by the gods for this mission. More is still required of us. The one we have come to sacrifice survives, guarded by a fierce warrior. Her destruction is ordained. If not consummated now, then in the time yet to come. The sacred knife, the instrument of her destruction, must be retrieved. We must go back and find it. Without the enchanted knife, we have no chance to destroy this vile creature.”

There was some muttering among the priests but Woran would not be swayed. They had to be back at the standing stones before the passage closed at noon on Samhain if they hoped to return to their own world. With the help of the Goddess, the enchanted knife would be reclaimed and Morrigan would be sacrificed.

The priests moved swiftly back to the place where they had ambushed Morrigan. The knife was nowhere to be found but they easily picked up the trail of Morrigan and her protector. They had to move quickly if they hoped to catch up.

14. By Firelight

Summerlee fed another chunk of wood to the fire. Ned and Challenger sprawled on their bedrolls. Veronica muttered a little as she dreamed, no covering other than the brief outfit she wore that so suited the climate in this land. Miss Krux on the other hand was lying as close to the roaring fire as was safe, covered in blankets, her own and those given her by Lord Roxton and himself. Still she shuddered spasmodically in her sleep, the alabaster paleness of her face reflecting the flames in an uncanny manner.

She’d made not one word of protest as they had covered ground swiftly, racing the sun to its sleep. That very lack of grumbling worried the botanist. He had noticed since he’d gotten to know Miss Krux that the more serious the problem, the less likely the heiress was to complain. He had checked her condition after they had made camp for the night, placing a hand on her clammy forehead and examining the bandage to see if her wound had torn open in their trek. As he had taken her pulse, he had given her icy fingers a squeeze to reassure her. It had only served to alarm him. He hadn’t thought to bring a thermometer but it felt like her temperature was dangerously low.

He watched her now, the firelight creating shadows that danced around her. This was beyond his medical capability. He could only pray that the cure lay in the words of a fairy tale.

Roxton stood on guard, his senses attuned to the natural world around him while his mind fretted over the heiress’s condition. He had thought of her as a creature of fire and steel; now she was a pillar of ice, her fire slowly being extinguished as the poison from the knife spread through her body.

When they’d left London, he’d promised himself that he would protect her, every member of the expedition and by God he’d do it. He tried not to ask himself why it seemed unbearable to think she might die. It was likely just his old guilt talking, nothing more. Nothing to do with a lustrous-haired beauty with a rapier-sharp tongue. If only they were able to track down that priest quickly. He didn’t care if the odds were five to one against; he’d get that antidote from the druid one way or another. They had to find them in time. If she died…

15. Two Plots

Woran and his men sped through the forest. He had sent his two swiftest runners ahead. If they came upon Morrigan he wanted to be ready.

He had consulted the book of enchantments at dawn. He had made a smudge of holly branches and invoked a divination spell. In the smoke he saw Morrigan walking through the forest. She had more protectors now; they must be the warriors and wise men foretold by Brigid. The smoke showed that they were drawing near. It was obvious they had come to kill him. If the evil goddess saw him first, nothing would protect him. Tomorrow at noon their time in this world was over. This was his last opportunity. He must get close to her, retrieve the knife, to make the sacrifice. He could allow nothing, no-one to stop him. His world depended on it.

Just then his advance scouts returned with their report. Morrigan was less than an hour ahead. It was time to set the trap.

***

The expedition trudged along the path, slower now as both Summerlee and Marguerite began to flag under the strain of the journey. Roxton walked in front following their trail from the previous day while remaining alert to signs of predators or hostile humans. He wished they could travel more swiftly. It was noon and they had not yet reached the place where Marguerite had so nearly lost her life. By this time tomorrow, their time would be up.

He rehearsed in his mind what they would do when they caught up to the druids. It would be best to get the drop on them. Their superior firepower might make those fanatics more willing to listen. Once he had their attention he would make them an offer. They had talked a long while last night at the campfire, formulating the plan.

***

It was Veronica who insisted that they bargain with the enemy instead of taking what they needed by force. She pointed out that the healer in the fairy tale had told the serpent to ask for the cure.

“I don’t think you can just take it; you have to ask.”

“A lot of good that did the serpent,” snapped Roxton, “It ended up losing the knife. And I have no intention of giving back the knife and allowing that madman another shot at killing Marguerite.”

“Really Lord Roxton, I’m flattered,” Marguerite said in a half-mocking way, “I never realized you held me in such high esteem.”

“Don’t kid yourself ma’am. It’s just that, I have always wanted to keep the privilege of killing you all to myself.” He retorted, a half-smile crooking his lip despite the seriousness of the situation. She always had that ability somehow to tease him out of his black mood. Even now there was a ghost of a smile on her ashen face. He looked closer; her lips were almost blue with cold. The light mood left him as quickly as it came.

“Alright so we reason with this crackpot. Challenger, you’ve got that knife safe? We’ve got to take care of that; it’s our only bargaining chip.” Roxton said.

“Well, there’s Marguerite, that’s who he really wants,” suggested Ned.

“”Well he’s not getting her, you hear me. We’re not using Marguerite as some kind of bait.” Roxton’s voice raised in barely-controlled desperation.

“Here, here,” said Summerlee, horrified by the idea.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” muttered Challenger under his breath.

***

The plan was straight-forward. Catch up with the druids, get the drop on them, trade the knife for the antidote. Before noon tomorrow. Simple.

16. Ambush!

Woran’s trap was set. The trail dipped into a valley among the trees. The druids had done their best to obliterate their footprints and they lay in wait hidden among the trees that overhung the trail, ready to spring out and bring down the goddess and her minions as they passed beneath them. He had the superior numbers, the advantage of surprise, and the blessing of Brigid. Morrigan’s protectors would never know what was happening to them. Once they had subdued or killed the protectors, Woran would retrieve the knife and complete the sacrifice. High in a tree where they expected Morrigan’s band to appear perched a lookout who would give them a sign when Morrigan and her servants were about to enter the trap. Woran waited.

***

It was just past mid-day; if the prophecy was true, they had exactly one day before Marguerite would die. Roxton estimated that they were within two hours of the place Marguerite and he had been attacked. He found himself quickening his pace and unfortunately breaking away from the rest of the group. He forced himself to walk more slowly and kept his eyes on the trail. He emerged into a clearing, the path tracing a valley between twin ridges. Feeling oddly vulnerable, he concentrated on the tracks he and Marguerite had made. Something ahead looked a little different. He approached the spot cautiously. The rest of the explorers caught up to their slow-moving leader.

What was it? Roxton hunkered down to look more closely. Some leaves had been turned over and the moss still had a faint spongy imprint. Had a pack of raptors been through here?

***

Woran saw the slight gesture from the lookout just before he caught a glimpse of the protector, the one who had been with Morrigan last time. He was walking cautiously forward, leading the group past Woran’s druids as they crouched hidden in the brush waiting to pounce. Suddenly Morrigan’s man bent down and examined the trail. Burn his eyes! – he’d seen something! It was time to spring the trap. The druid jumped up and made the silent signal to attack.

***

Not raptors, human footprints! Roxton unslung his rifle and called out a warning.

A couple of druids were on Veronica in an instant. She was at the rear of the group and close to the hidden attackers. She laid out one with a kick to the head but was stunned by a blow from the other’s staff. Her knees buckled and she went down.

Malone wheeled at the sound and dropped Veronica’s attacker with a couple of rounds from his Smith & Wesson pistol. As more druids leaped from the branches the quarters became too close to fire his gun and he was forced to use it as a club swinging it in a deadly arc to protect himself from the blows that rained down on him.

Summerlee took all this in as he pulled his revolver out of its holster. He was a little further from the action and had a moment to collect his wits. Just then he spotted a couple of brown-robed figures running toward Challenger. Steadying himself, he took dead aim and fired his weapon twice. One after the other they tumbled to the ground and lay unmoving.

Roxton braced his rifle to deflect the first leaping attacker. He used the weapon to shove the man aside then pulled his pistol out of the holster to dispatch him. Soon he was ducking blows and using his firearm as a club. He had eliminated four attackers when he spotted the head druid standing on the ridge a short distance away. The leader was staring at something behind Roxton, a look of mingled fear and eagerness on his face. Roxton pivoted to follow his glance.

He spied the three attackers just as they got to Marguerite. She shot one, but in Roxton’s estimation her movements were lethargic in contrast to her usual lithe grace. The other two closed on her, one man disarming her with a vicious chop to her forearm. They each took her by an elbow and dragged her up the opposite bank. Another pair of druids joined them.

“Roxton,” she screamed.

17. Parley

Too many men stood between him and the captured Marguerite. He wasn’t going to let them make a sacrifice of her . Roxton bounded up the embankment heading not toward Marguerite but to the head druid. The leader was the key.

He was on the high priest in an instant, launching a lethal left hook that rocked the slow-moving druid. He felled him with a second blow. Then reaching down to grab his robe at the shoulder, he turned back to the other druids and shouted.

“You let her go! Let her go or I’ll kill your leader, I swear it.” He fired his pistol in the air to get their attention. Marguerite’s captors stared at him, wide-eyed but unmoving. She sagged in their grasp, exhausted by her exertions.

“Tell them, Marguerite. You can speak their language. Tell them I’ll kill their leader if they don’t let go of you.”

She drew in a shaky breath and began to translate. The men holding on to her didn’t move a muscle though one muttered a few words to the woman they still held with an iron grip.

“He said, it looks like he’s dead already. They believe they’re all as good as dead already and it’s their final duty to kill me.”

“No he’s alive. He’s just unconscious. See. He’s coming to now.” Roxton shouted back.

Woran shook his head to clear it. His chin throbbed and bright lights punctuated his view when he opened his eyes. He groaned in despair. Captured! Their cause was lost.

“Talk to him, Marguerite. Tell him to call off his dogs or he’s a dead man.”

Woran looked at his captor then at the knot of people he was talking to. His followers had done their work. The goddess Morrigan was held captive by four of his bravest men. He looked around to see the rest of the battle. Half his men were sprawled on the ground. Five more were standing with their hands in the air, held at bay by two older men holding strange weapons. A young man crouched by the side of the blonde woman and helped her to her feet.

Woran knew he was defeated. He had lost the knife and with it, any chance to complete the ritual sacrifice. He had let down the goddess Brigid. His world was doomed because of his failure. He called to his men.

“Kill her if you are able. We have failed and must pay the price.”

One of the men pulled his own crude dagger from his belt. Roxton watched Marguerite flinch as her captor prepared to plunge it in her body. He aimed and fired.

18. A Knife for a Life

The knife shattered in a dozen pieces. The man who had been holding it moaned and clutched his bloody hand.

“Marguerite, try again. You’ve got to convince him.” Roxton stood menacingly, his revolver still aimed at the injured druid.

A note of urgency gravelled his voice. The heiress began to speak in the druid’s language, her voice weak but commanding. Roxton listened to it rise and fall, the sound of it persuasive even though he couldn’t understand a word of what she said.

Woran listened as the wily goddess used her charms to convince him to let her live to carry out her evil plans. Brigid had made him strong against such tricks.

“Look we know what you’re here to do. But you’ve made a mistake. You’ve got it wrong.”

“There is no mistake. The Great Goddess herself sent me here to kill you, you vile creature,” Woran’s faith made his voice strong with conviction

“She’s wrong too. She’s been tricked. Go back and warn her.”

Woran saw the exigency in her eyes, heard the timbre of sincerity in her voice. For a brief second he wavered. Then Brigid’s words came back to him. Don’t let her trick you. The evil spirit was trying to turn him away from his mission.

“Don’t try to tempt me. My goddess will protect me from your poison.”

The woman’s voice was suddenly filled with angry indignation, “My poison? Look who’s talking!”

Morrigan’s tone changed again. Now it was soft and persuasive. He could feel the deceit in her smile.

“I hear you’ve brought a little druid firewater with you that will have me feeling great in no time. What do you say you give me that antidote and my friends will let you go – forget we ever met?”

“Never.”

“I was afraid you’d say that.”

Roxton had watched the conversation with a sinking heart. It was clear the druid wasn’t about to listen to reason. Marguerite shot him a glance and switched to English.

“Roxton, he’s as stupid as he looks. All he wants is me dead and he’s willing to die along with all his pals if that’s what it takes.”

“Offer him the knife.”

“Do you think that will work?”

“It’s got to. Challenger, show it to him.”

Marguerite explained the exchange. Roxton could see the uncertainty in the man’s face as his eyes snapped from Marguerite to the knife held in Challenger’s hand.

“I think we’ve got his interest.” Roxton shouted at Marguerite trying to keep her going. She looked as though she were on the verge of collapse. Roxton turned back to the group below him.

“George, hand me the knife.” Challenger climbed the bank slowly. He gave the knife to Roxton, his every movement followed by the eyes of the druids. “Now back away.”

“Marguerite, listen to me. Tell him to let you go. When you’re back down the hill beside Ned, he can have the knife.”

Marguerite and Woran bargained once more. She raised her glace to Roxton.

“He won’t do it until he has the knife in his hand.”

Roxton nodded and gestured the druid to step back. When there was a gap of a few feet between them he flipped the dagger so that it embedded itself in the ground between them.

“Be careful, Roxton,” he could hear Marguerite’s faint voice.

“Good heavens, yes, John. For both your sakes.” Summerlee couldn’t restrain himself from adding.

Woran reached tentatively for the ceremonial dagger. He grasped it and pulled it from the ground.

He nodded at his followers. They released their captive. In spite of this show of good faith Woran knew he couldn’t trust these evil creatures. He had no choice. His world trembled in the balance. He had to act while his enemies were distracted.

Suddenly he launched himself at the man in front of him, swinging the knife in a wide arc. The protector jumped back as the enchanted knife narrowly missed him, slicing through the fabric of his shirt. It glowed a dull red as if hungry for blood. Woran readied himself for another lunge but his opponent recovered and raised his strange weapon toward him. Woran shouted a command.

One of his followers immediately stepped up behind Morrigan and shoved her as hard as he could. She plummeted head-first over the embankment, trying to grab something to break her fall. She hit the ground hard and lay unmoving.

The druids scattered. Woran turned and ran. Roxton scrambled down the slope but Summerlee reached Marguerite first and knelt at her side.

“Is she - ?” Roxton couldn’t finish the thought.

“She’s alive, John. But she needs that antidote. Her pulse is weak. I’m not sure how long we’ve got.”

19. Go it Alone

John Roxton had made a name for himself in the war as a commander who could assess his resources and make tough decisions. That reputation had exacted a heavy toll. He still had nightmares about all the men he had sent to their deaths to achieve military objectives.

But no-one here had ever been a soldier. And none of them were under his command. He looked around at Veronica, standing unsteadily as Malone dabbed at a head wound she had suffered in the attack. Challenger stood eager but uncertain as Summerlee ministered to the unconscious Marguerite.

The red-haired visionary was a fair hand with a weapon but Roxton doubted Challenger could keep up in the pursuit he was about to engage in. Besides, two strong bodies would be needed to carry a litter through the forest. Summerlee wasn’t capable of that kind of burden for a journey that could take hours. And Veronica, if she was fit, was the one most capable of following his trail. No it was apparent he’d have to go it alone. He would get that potion and bring it back in time to save Marguerite’s life. He must.

“I’m going after them,” he spoke in a voice tight with tension, “Challenger, Malone, you’ll have to construct a litter for Marguerite and follow as soon as you can.”

“John, I-” Challenger began in protest but was stopped by the ferocity in Roxton’s eyes. In spite of the dire situation Summerlee was briefly surprised. He had never seen the arrogant scientist silenced by a look in all the years he’d known him.

Roxton turned to Veronica. “Will you be able to track me?”

She nodded. “Of course. I’m just a little dizzy right now. I’ll be fine.”

Summerlee took another long look at Marguerite, who remained silent and unmoving. She had a lump forming on her forehead; obviously she had struck some object in her fall. That would account for her loss of consciousness. Luckily there appeared to be no other harm done apart from a few bruises. What worried him far more were the effects of the poison or whatever it was that ailed her. Her heartbeat was rapid, her breathing shallow and she was so cold. He had to tell the others.

“I’m afraid that it would be unwise to move Miss Krux right now. I’d like to see her conscious before we start to travel – in case there have been injuries from her fall we aren’t aware of.”

He gave this news in the gentlest way he could but each word appeared to be a blow to Lord Roxton. He had begun to suspect a while ago that John harboured a fondness for the sharp-spoken heiress and the look on his face now confirmed that notion. Roxton’s handsome countenance was filled with torment.

“Wait for morning then,” Roxton ordered, “There’s only an hour or so until dark. The druids won’t be able to travel at night. I’ll catch them as soon as I can, get the potion and retrace my steps. Come as quickly as you can.”

“Godspeed, John. Get the antidote. And come back quickly.” Summerlee bade him farewell as he dashed off.

20. Godspeed

Roxton ran steadily along the trail of the druids. It took no skill to follow the fleeing men. He had reloaded his weapons before he left and tossed everything unnecessary out of his pack to lighten his load. He figured he was less than an hour behind his quarry. It looked like they were running full out; at this rate they would tire quickly. He was likely too far behind to overtake them before nightfall, but it was his duty to try. Roxton quickened his pace.

***

Woran raced along with his followers bound for the cave entrance where they had entered this world. Their mission had been a failure; so many faithful men had died and still the evil goddess lived. But at least he had the gifts given to him by the goddess: the elixir, the book of enchantments and the sacrificial dagger. He had two more chances to kill the evil demon. He would not fail again.

***

Summerlee kindled a fire while Malone and Challenger searched for tree limbs that they could make a stretcher with. Veronica rested on her blanket, holding a wet compress to her forehead. Marguerite’s blanket was close to the fire. If only he could warm her. He chafed her limp hands in his own warm paws as he waited for the flames to catch.

As the evening turned to night, the expedition members ate their meal, silent with concern for Marguerite and worry for Roxton.

“How are you feeling, my dear?” Summerlee asked Veronica.

“Much better, professor. Just a bit of a headache and that’s almost gone.”

“We’ll get an early start tomorrow,” Challenger stated, “We can’t afford to fall further behind.”

“But, George, we’ve got to wait until Marguerite is awake. It’s too dangerous to move her. She’s had a terrible fall. What if she has a spinal injury?” Summerlee found himself protective of the young woman who seemed outwardly so callous but yet had been so kind to him.

“Arthur, if Marguerite doesn’t get that antidote by noon tomorrow, it won’t matter.”

A silence of grim realization followed his words.

21. In the Darkness

Woran and his followers huddled silently together in the darkness. They had put out a small offering for the goddess, but the men had fasted and prayed. They must wait until dawn to go further. Woran was confident they would be at gateway to his world early in the morning. They must remain vigilant in case they were followed. The portal to their own world would remain open until noon. It would close when the sun no longer shone on the cave entrance.

***

John Roxton huddled under a blanket. He hadn’t bothered to light a fire. He didn’t want to give away his position if he were close to his prey. He had followed the signs until he couldn’t see anything in the dark anymore. With any luck he had made up a little time on the fleeing druids. As soon as it was light enough to see he would be on his way. He wondered if Marguerite were conscious by now. Hold on. I’ll be back as soon as I can. With the cure.

***

Summerlee was awakened from his doze by the sound of a low moan from Marguerite. He roused himself and crouched by her side. He picked up one hand to take her pulse. Her eyes fluttered open.

“My dear, it’s so good to have you back with us. You had us worried.” Her response was a crooked attempt at a smile.

“Are you feeling any pain? You had a nasty fall,” he asked, concerned. She looked at him and he thought she was shaking her head. He leaned in to hear her faint whisper.

“Don’t worry about me, Arthur. Just toss me on that bonfire and I’ll be fine in no time.”

He felt a faint squeeze on his hand then her eyes closed again. She began to shiver once again. Summerlee added more wood to the dying fire. He sat watching her for a long time as the night sounds of the plateau cut through the velvet night.

***

The night sky had lightened faintly when Lord Roxton stuffed his blanket back in his pack. He impatiently chewed a strip of dried raptor as he waited for a little more light. When the forest became a grim pattern of gray shadows, he found the traces of his quarry and took up the pursuit once more.

***

Woran and his men rose at dawn, ate a frugal meal and set off once again toward the cave entrance. It wouldn’t take long to get there.

***

Just after dawn the explorers were awake. Within the hour they had roused Marguerite and, with Summerlee’s reluctant permission, placed her in the litter. They set off at once on the trail of Roxton and the druids. Though everyone was aware of the looming noon deadline, no-one said a word.

***

Roxton’s eye caught a bit of movement no more than half a mile ahead. He had been on the trail for a couple of hours and the tracks were very fresh. He had been trailing the druids for five hours total and he estimated it was about three hours till midday. He prayed that his friends had been able to come quickly – as difficult as that would be with a woman in a litter. He was very afraid they were going to run out of time. He left the trail and took a shortcut through the forest that would allow him to sneak up unseen on the men he had been following.

***

Woran was at the head of his band of followers when he came out of the forest and glimpsed the tumbled rocks rising from the meadow. The cave entrance was a deep black hole in the moss-covered cliff-face. When he turned to talk to his men he saw Morrigan’s protector closing in on them. Woran gave a warning cry and took to his heels toward the refuge of the cave. The light was already striking the shining surface opposite, causing a glitter that was almost blinding. He ran as if his life depended on it. More that that. His world’s existence depended on him making his escape with his precious cargo.

***

Roxton was only a few feet behind the last man as they broke into flight. He went as fast as he could, an all-out sprint to catch up to the man who had the antidote. He passed a couple of the slower druids but two others were fleet-footed. They sped past the head priest and ran toward the brilliant light, so bright that Roxton couldn’t see them any more.

His eyes were fixed on the head priest, the man he was convinced would have the elixir that would cure Marguerite. That was his only objective – to retrieve the vial of liquid and speed back to his friends. His lungs burned with the need for oxygen, his legs pounded hard across the meadow. Slowly, inexorably he began to shorten the distance – twenty feet, fifteen.

The brightness was hurting his eyes. He heaved in huge breaths of air. There was a strange cracking noise directly in front of him like boulders tumbling off a cliff. And at counterpoint to it all was the slap, slap, slap of the druid’s sandals upon the grass. The light was all around him now. The head priest was less than ten feet away. Roxton launched himself at the figure before him.

His hands grasped at the druid’s hood. His fingers raked down the man’s spine, snagging on a leather thong that hung around his neck. Falling headlong, Roxton pulled his quarry down with him. Roxton hit the ground hard, knocking the breath from his lungs. The thong snapped with the impact and Roxton lost his grip.

Woran gasped as he felt the pull of the man behind him dragging him down like a wolf on a deer. He bellowed in desperation. He was so close to the portal. Woran hit the ground hard, entangled with Morrigan’s protector. He kicked himself free. Woran jumped to his feet.

About to flee, he hesitated. He spied his belongings, scattered when he hit the ground. There was the knife. Woran stooped to pick it up and the book of enchantments. A little further away was the thong that held his amulet and the protective potion Brigid had given him. He reached out but a meaty hand closed over the vial before he could grab it. The look of desperate fury on his enemy’s face made him quail. The last two druids passed them and disappeared into the blinding light. He was left alone facing Morrigan’s vengeful demon. Woran turned tail and fled into the cave.

22. Magic potion

Roxton lay on the ground, winded. He saw the druids disappear and soon he was all alone, in that piercing, grinding white light. No time to rest.

As soon as he could breathe again he turned his back on the escaped druids and the strange shining light. The air around him cracked again as he staggered away. Soon he was loping back along the trail, a vial of clear amber fluid clutched in his hand.

***

Arthur Summerlee’s arms burned in protest. He was spelling Challenger at the rear of the stretcher. The red-haired scientist stumbled along behind, weary beyond belief but ready to take up the burden once again in a few minutes. In the stretcher before him the heiress lay silent wracked by constant shivering, her teeth chattering in the same desperate rhythm.

Ned Malone was a driven man, never stopping, carrying the heavier front end of the stretcher wherever Veronica led them. He set a pace that, even with alternating, the two older men were hard-pressed to maintain.

Veronica was taut with tension. She was still fighting a little dizziness or she would have made Ned trade places with her if only for a little while. She appreciated the young man’s quiet strength almost as much as his poetic side. Three hours they had been travelling. Her eyes strayed to the skies once more. Less than an hour till noon she estimated.

***

Roxton found it hard to run swiftly; he was so tired he stumbled over small irregularities in the ground. What if he fell and broke the small vial that would save Marguerite’s life? What would he do then? He pressed on a little more cautiously.

****

Ned staggered on, head down, perspiration dripping steadily from his chin to the ground. Now Challenger and Summerlee shared the task of holding up the rear of the litter, each gripping one bough and plodding after the broad back of the young journalist. Summerlee was worried – Marguerite wasn’t shivering anymore.

Roxton saw them coming, reeling down the path, the litter swaying between them. He tried to increase his pace but his body refused. The sun was almost directly overhead. Would they be in time?

Summerlee grimly maintained his grip on the litter as Ned lurched on, oblivious to Veronica’s shouts, until she seized his arm and swung him toward her.

“Ned! Roxton’s here. You can put her down now.” He stared at her in bleary incomprehension. Finally he seemed to understand and sank to his knees in exhaustion. Veronica had to pry his hands from the arms of the stretcher; he couldn’t do it himself.

Summerlee crouched by the semi-conscious heiress, his own exhaustion lost in his concern for her.

Roxton walked unsteadily toward Summerlee and bent down to hand him the vial with enormous care. “Here,” he said in a soft gravel growl and sat down suddenly, his strength abandoning him. Challenger too lay back on the grass, breathing deeply.

Summerlee unstoppered the vial and patted Marguerite on the cheek. She turned away, a frown creasing her brow.

“Can I help, professor?” It was Veronica, the dear child, always willing to lend a hand.

“Oh thank you, Veronica. If you could just prop her… yes, like that … and try to rouse her,” Veronica delivered a far more vigorous slap than the professor had administered and was rewarded by Marguerite’s eyes opening in shock.

“Now, Marguerite, listen carefully,” His patient’s eyes turned to Summerlee as he spoke, “We have the antidote and I’m going to have you drink it down so you must help me now by swallowing. Understand?” She nodded

Little by little he got the amber fluid down her throat without a drop spilled. They all looked expectantly at the heiress and were horrified when her eyes fluttered shut and her head lolled to the side.

“Dear lord, please tell me I haven’t poisoned her,” Summerlee prayed in a low murmur.

“Shouldn’t it have started to work by now?” Malone’s gaze snapped between Veronica and Summerlee, waiting anxiously for an answer neither one could give.

Lord John Roxton just stared as the fire inside him started to die. Maybe it was too late. He looked into the sky – noon or past. He had taken too long. This was his fault.

23. Kill or Cure

Challenger peered closely at the woman in the litter. He nudged Summerlee and pointed at Marguerite.

“Look!”

Summerlee followed his gesture. A flush could be seen emerging from Marguerite’s blouse, colouring her neck and now her face. Within a minute her cold blue face was fiery hot, her limbs a rosy red. Summerlee checked her pulse which was hammering as if she had just completed a long run.

“It’s working!” exclaimed Malone, “Just like the serpent in the story, she’s turning bright red.”

Roxton’s head sunk to his chest in relief while Summerlee looked heavenward to give thanks. Challenger picked up the empty vial and sniffed the contents.

“You should have kept a little, Arthur,” he grumbled, “We could have analyzed the composition, perhaps made our own.”

“You want to create a potion to protect us from enchantment, George?” Summerlee asked mockingly.

“Good lord, no. This has to be an antidote for some exotic poison or a kind of germicide for whatever strange disease caused Marguerite’s symptoms.”

Roxton felt a surge of emotion, the guilt and defeat washing away in a flood of relief. If only she would wake up and be her usual self once more, everything would be right again. He didn’t question the strength of his feelings. He had adopted this group like a stallion takes his herd. It was his duty to protect them all, even a maverick like Marguerite. Particularly her, he admitted to himself.

***

Summerlee saw to his patient with anxious diligence. She had been resting quietly now for some hours. He was as happy as the others that her condition had changed, but he was totally out of his depth in this situation. His medical knowledge was sketchy but based on scientific theory. What he was doing now – why, he felt like some sort of witch doctor.

They had no clue what poison might have been on that knife blade and they had dosed Miss Krux with some unknown liquid based on a fairytale about a snake. In that story the snake had changed into a dragon. The part of him that was not a rational scientist and a devout Christian wondered at the power of what – magic? the supernatural?

He had scoffed at Challenger’s description of an albino tribe that lived under a volcano and was convinced that the younger set had been pulling his leg when they insisted they had met a king in a place called Camelot. But he himself had visited a village where people never aged and seen a newborn heal Challenger’s blindness with a touch. Only days ago he had met a woman who might possibly have been a fairy queen. Whatever strange forces were at work here on this plateau, he just prayed Marguerite hadn’t been harmed by the ‘magic potion’ he had administered to her.

He found her temperature still high but easing toward normal. Her face remained flushed but the rosy hue was fading on her limbs and her neck. She appeared to be sleeping normally.

Summerlee rose and returned to the campfire. Ned and Veronica had gone hunting and now a rabbit roasted over on a spit over the fire. The group talked softly among themselves. All except Roxton. He hadn’t left the vicinity for more than a few minutes since he’d come back with the potion. He claimed that he was too tired to hunt, but it didn’t take a clairvoyant to see that it was his concern for Miss Krux that kept him pacing by the fire. The older biologist sat by the fire, weary down to his very bones. He relayed the word of Marguerite’s condition to the others and was rewarded with murmurs of appreciation for his treatment and heart-felt hopes for a rapid recovery for Marguerite.

Soon after dinner, the worn out explorers retired for the night. Wordlessly, Roxton spread out his blanket next to Marguerite. He stood there staring at her for a long time. Challenger took first watch as the others turned in, promising the anxious Roxton that he would wake him in two hours. Exhaustion soon overtook the resting group and Challenger was left alone with his thoughts.

24. Out of the Light

Roxton stood and stretched the kinks out of his back. His watch had been uneventful, peaceful even. The night was quiet and starry, cooler than he had become accustomed to by his life in the jungle below. He crouched by the fire and added another stick. The glowing embers soon flared. The flames created a merry dance of light and shadow on the sleeping figures sprawled around the clearing. Most were huddled beneath their blankets; only Ned had kicked off his, an arm crossed over his forehead.

Roxton leaned close to Marguerite, noting that her face, though pale, thankfully did not have that deathly pallor she’d had the past few days. The flickering fire struck auburn highlights in her dark hair. He caught himself breathing in and out with the gentle rise and fall of her chest and looked away, heavy with emotion.

She was going to be fine. They’d beaten the devil this time. But it had been close. This place was so strange and so dangerous. Who knew what would happen in the future? Any one of them could be lost so easily – Summerlee, Challenger, Marguerite.

God he wanted to wrap her in his arms right now. Maybe she’d wake and turn her face up to his. In his fantasy her face would be full of longing. He believed she wanted him almost as much as he wanted her. He’d been with enough women to tell. He didn’t give a damn if it was frowned on by London society. Plenty of people managed to have discreet affairs back home.

It was just that here on the plateau it was so – awkward. Ned had said it best – it was like the six of them were living on top of one another. Damned difficult to have a little privacy. None of that mattered. When she was well again, they’d had some time alone together. He promised himself that.

He was about to rise to his feet when a burning log snapped sending sparks swirling into the night air. The sleeping heiress twitched into wakefulness, her eyes flaring open and blinking to focus. Roxton watched the glow of the fire reflected in her huge eyes, giving the illusion that an amber flame lurked in their depths. As she looked directly at him, the flame faded and her eyes returned to their usual jade green. Veronica’s fairytale came to his mind – the image of a fire-breathing dragon.

He found himself grinning at the thought. Any one of their company would insist that Marguerite didn’t need the ability to breathe fire; she had that attribute in abundance already.

“What are you laughing at, Lord Roxton?” Marguerite drawled quietly, “Shouldn’t you be keeping watch? Or perhaps you’ve decided you need to protect the group from me?”

His smile grew bigger to see her in fine fettle, “I always make sure I keep an eye on you,” he answered with a slight arch of his eyebrow to add a whole new layer of meaning. “But truthfully, I had just come by to check on your health. I’m glad to see you’re looking well. How do you feel?”

“Splendid, delightfully warm for a change.” She yawned and stretched like a cat.

“Yes, well that would be the magic potion’s effects, I should think. It’s a damned shame it turned you into a yellow-eyed, red-haired dragon,” he said with a feigned look of regret on his face.

“What?” Marguerite yelped, loud enough to wake both Veronica and Summerlee. She grabbed at her hair to take a better look and then looked suspiciously back at Roxton to see him suffused with laughter. She grabbed the pack that served as her pillow and slung it at the chuckling hunter.

“What’s going on?” said Veronica crossly, as she began to realize the noises she’d heard were not the herald of an attack.

“My dear, you’re awake,” Summerlee cut in, his voice full of delight and relief. He put on his spectacles and rose to his feet.

“Yes, professor, it would seem that I’m cured,” Marguerite hesitated as the older scientist limped toward her then asked him in a less certain voice, “at least I am if you tell me my eyes are their usual colour.”

“Just as lovely a shade of green as ever,” he replied gallantly, “though the firelight does create a golden reflection of sorts. Were you afraid that perhaps you had turned into a dragon?”

“Well, after hearing that fairy tale and then when Lord Roxton said-,” she paused as if confused meanwhile shooting a surprised Roxton a devilish look.

“Really John,” the professor frowned at Roxton, “Why must you always aggravate Miss Krux? A few hours ago she was at death’s door.”

Roxton flushed and bit off a reply. Damn Summerlee. It sometimes seemed that the botanist was determined to be Miss Krux’s chaperone. Here he was scolding him about his behaviour. He couldn’t make a fitting retort without the old bird lecturing him further. Summerlee’s comment a few months ago that they sounded like a bickering couple had really stung.

Roxton looked at Marguerite as if to seek her support. Her eyes were twinkling but he could swear the light in them faded out as she noticed his frown. Did she regret using Summerlee to tease him? He sighed. Might just as well go back to guard duty; the conscientious scientist would be by Marguerite’s side for a while.

“Still an hour left in my watch. You two had better get back to sleep. It’ll soon be daylight and we’ve a long walk ahead of us tomorrow.” He moved away till the campfire was reduced to a circle of brightness in the dark.

25. Three years, Three days, Three chances

Woran clutched the magic dagger in his hand as he burst through the portal. In his world it was midnight, the standing stones lit by the icy brightness of moonlight. His breath made a moist cloud in front of his face. The four other men who had escaped with him stamped their feet in the sudden cold of their homeland.

Woran got his bearings and headed toward the hidden camp in the wilderness he had left three days before. Another year living as an outlaw under Bochra’s tyranny before he had a second chance to save his world. Three years, three chances, three days. One opportunity wasted. Two remained. He could not fail.

The End

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