One
THE NITHLING SOLDIER thrust its crackling, electrically charged spear towards Arthur’s chest. At the very last moment, just as he was about to be impaled, Arthur managed to block the thrust with his shield, the spear point scratching up and across with a horrifying shriek of metal on metal. He stabbed back with his savage-sword, but the Nithling dodged aside and then leaped upon him, knocking him down as its taloned fingers ripped at his face –
Arthur sat up in bed, screaming, his hands scrabbling for a weapon. His fingers closed on a sword hilt and he picked it up and hacked at his attacker – who melted into thin air as he became fully awake. The sword in his hand transformed itself, changing from a slim rapier to a marshal’s gold-wreathed ivory baton, the shape the Fourth Key appeared to prefer when Arthur was carrying it.
Arthur put the baton down and took a deep breath. His heart was still hammering as if a crazed blacksmith were at work in his chest, the fear from his nightmare only slowly fading.
Not that the waking world was all that much better. Arthur looked hopefully at the silver crocodile ring on his finger, the one that indicated just how much sorcery had seeped into his blood and bone. But it was no different than it had been the night before. Five of the ten marked segments of the ring had turned gold, indicating he was now at least half Denizen. Every time Arthur used a Key or some other sorcery he would be affected, and the ring would measure the contamination. If the gold spread across just one more segment, the process would be irreversible and he would never be able to return home. Not without negatively affecting everyone and everything he loved. Denizens had a bad effect on life in the Secondary Realms.
‘Home!’ said Arthur. He was really awake now and every one of his many problems clamoured in his head, demanding he think about them. But foremost of them all was his desire to find out what was going on back home and to check that everyone was all right.
He slid out from under the heavy satin sheets and off the feather-stuffed mattress on its four-poster base of mahogany. Each of the posts was carved with battle scenes, which distracted him for a moment, so he found out the hard way that it was farther to the ground than he expected. He was just getting up off the floor when a discreet knock came at the door.
‘Come in!’ Arthur called out as he looked around. He’d been so exhausted battling to defend the Citadel against the New Nithling army that he’d hardly noticed where they’d carried him off to sleep. Clearly it was the bedroom of some very superior officer – probably Sir Thursday himself – for as well as the ornate bed there were several gilded, overstuffed armchairs; a richly woven carpet that depicted yet another battle scene, this one a vast spray of orange-red firewash over a horde of misshapen old-style Nithlings; a washstand with a solid gold washbasin and several thick fluffy towels; and an open door leading to a walk-in wardrobe absolutely stuffed full of different uniforms, boots, and accoutrements.
‘Good morning, Lord Arthur. Are you ready to be shaved?’
The Denizen who came in was a Corporal wearing the scarlet tunic and black trousers of the Regiment, but he also had a white apron over his tunic, and what appeared to be a brass bowl on his head. He carried a leather case, which he deftly laid on the side table and opened to reveal several brushes and a number of very sharp-looking cutthroat razors.
‘Uh, yes, but with the back of the blade, please,’ said Arthur, without really thinking. He’d got used to ‘shaving’ during his recruit training, even though at age twelve he had no whiskers to come off and wouldn’t need to shave for a couple of years.
The Corporal gestured to Arthur to sit, took the bowl off his head, filled it with water from the washstand’s elephant trunk spout, and began to whisk up a lather.
Arthur sat down, then stood straight back up. ‘I haven’t got time for this!’ he said hurriedly. ‘I have to find out what’s going on.’
‘And so you shall, sir,’ said a new voice from the door. It was Marshal Dusk, looking much cleaner and tidier in his dark grey uniform than when Arthur had last seen him in the aftermath of battle. ‘It was Thursday’s custom to hear the morning news as he was shaved and dressed. Would you care to follow this practice?’
Arthur looked down at himself. He hadn’t realised he was wearing pyjamas. Regimental pyjamas of scarlet and gold, complete with fringed gold epaulettes that irritated his neck. He was sure they would have woken him if he hadn’t been too tired to notice.
‘I guess I do have to get dressed …’
He sat back down and the barber instantly applied lather to his cheeks and chin. Dusk marched into the room and stood at attention opposite, while another Corporal, in a more usual cap, came in and marched past into the wardrobe.