The Wings of Ruksh Page 4

  Rothlan looked at him consideringly for a moment and sat back, stifling a sigh. “You’re not going to like this,” he said evenly, “but I rather think Prince Kalman has it!”

  The Sultan, his face pale with fury, leapt to his feet and strode up and down in anger. “Kalman!” he hissed venomously. “Kalman Meriden! Casimir’s son! When I get my hands on him I’ll tear him to pieces!”

  Rothlan gave a wry smile. “If he has the crown that will be difficult, your majesty, for its magic will guard him.”

  The Sultan grunted in annoyance at the truth of this and, in a swirl of silken robes, flung himself down on a divan. Adjusting a few cushions, he pulled up his feet and sat cross-legged. “You’d better tell me the story from the beginning, Rothlan,” he snapped. “And don’t miss anything out!”

  Alasdair Rothlan smiled wryly and, choosing his words carefully, told the Sultan what he knew. “Rumour,” he began, “has always had it that the crown fell from the carpet before the storm carriers killed Casimir,” he said. “Needless to say, Kalman scoured the area but although the remains of his carpet were found, his father’s body was never recovered. Nor, of course, was the crown.” He shrugged. “It was only recently, when he had the idea of having his father’s carpet sewn back together, that he started searching again. You see, he made it tell him everything that happened that night.”

  “Did he, indeed,” muttered the Sultan, looking at Rothlan searchingly.

  Rothlan nodded. “Before he died, Casimir apparently turned the crown’s magic in on itself and tied it to the Meriden family forever. It must have fought against the hex, though, for when he threw the crown off the carpet, it didn’t land in Ardray as he’d planned, but fell into my loch instead.” He looked thoughtful. “But the fact remains,” he said slowly, a shade of puzzlement crossing his face, “that although it must have lain there for many years, it still hid itself from me.”

  “That’s a good point” the Sultan said, meeting his eyes. “I also wonder why that was.”

  Rothlan shrugged and continued his tale. As the story progressed and he outlined everything that had happened in Jarishan the previous year, the Sultan, to Clara’s relief, seemed to relax and by the end of the story, looked more concerned than angry.

  “So the children were never directly involved with the crown?” he said. “They weren’t in the loch with you?”

  Rothlan shook his head. “Neil was still suffering from dragonsleep and we wouldn’t let either Ellan or Clara in the loch. It was too dangerous.”

  Neil and Clara blinked as the Sultan turned towards them, his look suddenly becoming searching and penetrating. For an instant, they felt a power stronger than anything they had ever experienced, surge through their minds. “Wow,” Clara gasped, looking at the Sultan in astonishment, “how did you do that?”

  But he only smiled in answer and, to her relief, was once more the kind Sultan that she knew and liked. Nevertheless, the memory of his anger stayed with her and she shivered as she thought of Prince Kalman’s fate should he ever be at his mercy.

  “If what you say is true, Rothlan, and he does have the crown, then he’s very powerful and an enemy to be feared. Make no mistake, he’s every bit as cunning as his father was before him! We, therefore, must be clever, too. Clever and cunning.”

  No one dared to speak as, lounging back against the cushions, he stroked his beard.

  “There may be a way, though,” he said, pursing his lips thoughtfully. “As you know, we, the Osmanli, have always owned the crown and know many of its secrets. Without it my magic, as you know, has been severely weakened over the years but you, Alasdair, are a powerful magician. If you speak truly and are willing to help me, then it is possible that together we could take the crown from the prince.”

  “I am more than willing to help you, your majesty,” Rothlan answered immediately, “and I’m sure the MacArthur will, too, once he knows the situation. He’s been helping me look for the prince for some time now and he knows just as well as I do that in Kalman’s hands, the crown is a threat to us all.”

  “Then,” the Sultan announced, rising to his feet, “I suggest that tomorrow we go to Scotland to visit the MacArthur. He has mirrors, does he not?”

  7. Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

  “Arthur! Arthur! Wake up!”

  At the sound of Archie’s voice, the great dragon rolled over on his bed of treasure, settled himself comfortably and covered both ears with his wings.

  “Arthur, will you wake up!”

  Arthur rolled over again in the hope that Archie would go away. He hadn’t finished his afternoon nap and was in the middle of a particularly exciting dream involving deep, dark forests, knights and castles.

  “Wake – up – Arthur!” shouted Archie. “Come on, I know you’re awake!”

  Irritably, the dragon slowly opened his wonderful eyes and looked at the small, sheepskin-clad figure that was shaking him out of his dream.

  “Go away, Archie. I want to sleep!” he muttered and made to close his eyes again when Archie gave him a tremendous thump that although it didn’t hurt him, was enough to tell Arthur that something really was up.

  “Arthur! For goodness sake, wake up! Something dreadful’s happened!” Archie spoke rapidly as he shinned up on his back. “The Turks we’ve been watching in the High Street have somehow managed to get hold of Sir James and the MacLeans! It’s awful! Jaikie’s going frantic!”

  “Not Neil and Clara as well?” Arthur sounded shocked.

  “That’s what he said! How they managed to get tangled up in all this, heaven alone knows,” Archie gasped, getting a firm grip on Arthur’s scales.

  Arthur didn’t hesitate. Now wide awake, he slithered his ungainly way down the huge pile of treasure, scattering gold and jewels as he went, and sped through the tunnels that led to the Great Hall at a speed that left Archie clinging to his neck for dear life. When they reached the huge cavern, they found it full of little people, clustered anxiously round a raised dais where a wizened old man sat on a large, carved chair. Dressed in boots, breeches and a long, somewhat tattered, sheepskin jacket draped haphazardly over a dull-red tunic, this was the MacArthur, chieftain of the magic people who live in the hill.

  From his perch on the dragon’s back, Archie stared across the hall for in front of the MacArthur glowed a delicate crystal ball that was, at that moment, pulsing with vibrant light. Archie promptly dug his heels into Arthur’s flank and urged him forward.

  The MacArthurs, who had been standing transfixed at the sight of the shining crystal, now scattered frantically as the dragon more or less screeched its way through them and came to a jarring halt. Miraculously, Archie managed to keep his seat and scrambling off the dragon’s back, ran to Hamish and Jaikie who, with the MacArthur and his daughter, Lady Ellan, were gazing into the depths of the crystal.

  The MacArthur smiled as Archie and Arthur joined them and repeated some instructions to Hamish, who was taking careful notes on a piece of paper. Archie sighed with relief as he heard Lord Rothlan assure the MacArthur that Sir James and the MacLeans were perfectly all right. However, even as he leant forward to get a better view, Rothlan bade them farewell and the light faded.

  Hamish, totally absorbed, scanned the piece of paper he’d been writing on, made a few alterations to his notes and handed the sheet to the MacArthur, who took it carefully and bent over it, frowning short-sightedly as he fished in his pocket for his glasses.

  “What on earth’s going on?” Archie asked in amazement. “That was Rothlan’s voice, wasn’t it?”

  Ignoring his question, Hamish turned to him with a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness you’re here, Archie,” he muttered, grasping his arm anxiously as he spoke. “Do you remember how to set the magic mirrors? It’s really important as it’s been ages since anyone’s used them. Rothlan’s given us instructions but they have to be absolutely spot-on accurate. It won’t do to send the Sultan to Inner Mongolia or Mandarin China for that matter!”

&n
bsp; “The what? To where?” Archie looked absolutely blank.

  “Don’t confuse Archie any more than you have to,” Lady Ellan admonished, flapping an exasperated hand at Hamish. “Things are complicated enough without you rabbiting on about China!”

  “Listen,” she explained to Archie, who was looking more bewildered by the minute, “Alasdair … Lord Rothlan … has just contacted us from Turkey.”

  “Not China?” queried Archie.

  “Forget China!” she said, “China has nothing to do with it!”

  “But, Hamish … “

  “Listen to me, will you,” her voice became impatient, “Sir James and the others are safe in Turkey and Alasdair wants to bring them back here through the mirrors and,” she said, running her hands distractedly through her long, fair hair, “you’re never going to believe this! The Sultan of Turkey is coming as well — with his entourage!”

  “The Sultan of Turkey!” Archie and Arthur looked at one another in amazement. “You mean,” Archie gulped, “that …that Sulaiman the Red is coming here? To the hill?”

  “Through the mirrors,” she nodded, “and how we are going to cope with them all, I don’t know. I doubt if we have enough bedrooms for a start; even in the old days he never travelled with less than fifty people!” She looked harassed and turning towards him, touched her father’s arm. “Excuse me, won’t you, father. I’ve a good bit of organizing to do if we are going to show our guests some good, Scottish hospitality!”

  The MacArthur, who had finished reading the sheet Hamish had given him, took his glasses off and absently nodded his head. As his daughter headed purposefully for the kitchens, he turned to them in relief and patted Arthur absent-mindedly as the dragon, curled excitedly beside his great chair, puffed clouds of smoke that set them all coughing.

  “Well, I don’t know how Rothlan’s done it,” the MacArthur said, waving his hands around to disperse the haze, “but he certainly seems to have worked miracles! He’s not only managed to mend fences with Sulaiman the Red but has rescued Sir James and the MacLeans as well. I don’t mind telling you that Jaikie had me seriously worried when he told me the restaurant had disintegrated!”

  “That’s nothing to how I felt,” Jaikie said, feelingly. He shook his head in disbelief. “How they ever found out about the Turks is a mystery! We’d barely found out about them ourselves!”

  “We’ll doubtless hear their side of the story when they arrive,” soothed the MacArthur. “To tell you the truth, I still can’t quite believe it! Sulaiman the Red — coming here in person! After all these years!”

  “It’s just as well he is coming, MacArthur,” interrupted Archie. “Especially now that we know Prince Kalman is in town. In fact, the sooner we start getting things organized the better.”

  The MacArthur nodded. “All the mirrors will have to be taken out of storage and set accurately for a start. Arthur will give you a hand with them.”

  “And another thing,” Hamish added as Arthur flapped his wings, “what are we going to do about the shield we have in place round the hill? We can’t afford to leave ourselves open and unprotected for very long, not with the prince around — and if Kitor, that crow of his, has been snooping about the place, well …”

  The MacArthur nodded. “You’re right,” he agreed, “it’ll all have to be done pretty quickly. Otherwise you never know who might end up stepping through the mirrors.”

  8. The Tartan City

  Several days after his conversation on the misty shores of Loch Leven with the Chief Constable of Edinburgh, George Tatler walked into King’s Cross station in London, chatting idly with his secretary. As he often travelled to Scotland, he knew King’s Cross well and his glance was therefore casual as it swept the broad expanse of the main concourse. His expression, however, quickly changed to one of concern as he approached his platform. He stared, totally thunderstruck at the sight that met his eyes, for its entire length was looped, hung and strung in tartan.

  “What the devil’s going on, Martin?” he queried, lifting his eyebrows in amazement at the sight of hordes of tartan-clad passengers. True, there were a few men in suits, but they were totally outnumbered by those in kilts. And the women! His eyes goggled at the long tartan skirts, ruffled blouses and vast, trailing, loose shawls that drifted around them. Even the children sported mini kilts and the theme seemed to have spilled over into tartan luggage, pushchairs and even the odd carrier bag.

  “I told you it was bad,” his secretary glanced at him apprehensively. “Edinburgh is a nightmare! Believe me, an absolute nightmare!”

  “Good grief!” Tatler exclaimed. It was totally mind-boggling! He eyed the engines and carriages of the Intercity train with complete and utter horror as it pulled into the station. “I don’t believe it,” he said, stopping dead in his tracks as his eyes took in the full enormity of a train plastered from end to end in tartan. “What’s the matter with the Scots? Have they all gone mad?”

  “That’s as good an explanation as any,” Martin said sourly. “They seem to be a law unto themselves these days. Just look at them!” he flapped his hand at the sea of Scottish passengers surging along the platform. “Tartan to the eyeballs!” He shook his head. “The real problem, as I see it, is that they don’t seem to realize how totally over-the-top it all is! They think it’s wonderful!”

  “Wonderful!” repeated Tatler in awed tones. “There’s nothing wonderful about it! It’s downright awful!”

  “You try telling them that!” muttered Martin, wincing at the sight of a hairy Highlander. “And if you think this is awful, just wait till you see Edinburgh! I’m telling you, you won’t recognize it!”

  “It wouldn’t be so bad,” Tatler muttered in horror, his eyes drinking in the garish dreadfulness of the tartan train, “if all the carriages were painted in the same tartan but … but they’re all different!”

  “They’re all different inside as well, sir.”

  “You mean …?”

  “Tartan from end to end,” nodded his secretary, “carpets, seats, the lot and,” he added, turning pale at the horror of it, “there are bagpipes as well.”

  “Bagpipes!! They – play – bagpipes – on – the – train?”

  “All the way north, I’m afraid, sir.” He fished in his pockets and drew out a small envelope. “That’s why I brought you these. I thought you might need them.”

  “What are they?” Tatler regarded him suspiciously.

  “Earplugs,” said his secretary, hiding a grin. “You’re going to need them, believe me. I … er … I also bought you these for the journey.”

  Tatler looked inside the plastic bag. “Sandwiches and bottled water? But surely I can buy these on the train?”

  Martin shook his head. “Not any more,” he said, his eyes glinting. “They now have what they call a Scottish menu.”

  “What on earth do you mean, ‘a Scottish menu’?”

  “Principally haggis, mashed turnips and potatoes followed by shortbread, something called ‘Black Bun’ and … and a drink called Irn Bru.”

  “Iron Brew! What the devil’s Iron Brew?”

  “I asked that myself when I was in Edinburgh last week and they told me it was made from girders. No, sir,” Martin gulped at the expression on Tatler’s face. “Seriously! That’s what they said!”

  By the time the train reached Edinburgh’s Waverley Station, Tatler had cause to be grateful to his secretary — for the earplugs, if nothing else! And although he had been forewarned about the changes in Edinburgh, nothing had prepared him for the dreadful reality of a city that positively wallowed in tartan.

  “I can’t understand why you haven’t noticed it, Archie,” he said to the Chief Constable the following day. “The castle’s the same as before, thank heavens, but the rest of Edinburgh,” he flapped his hands helplessly, “seems to be covered in tartan!” He shook his head in disbelief. “Thistles, flags, tartan streamers, banners of all the different clans — they’re here, there and everywhere. Bagpipes
on every street corner! For goodness sake, Archie, Hollywood couldn’t do it any better! It’s not natural! It’s … it’s like Braveheart out there! And the people! Kilts all over the place! I ask you!”

  Archie Thompson frowned at Tatler across his desk. “We are Scottish, you know, George,” he said somewhat sharply. “Tartan’s very popular. I’ve even had a request from the Scottish Police Federation to issue tartan trousers to the men. There’s a big demand for it! Tartan’s fashionable these days!”

  “Fashionable!” Tatler looked flabbergasted. “For heaven’s sake, wake up, man! It’s more than fashionable! It’s … it’s weird!”

  The Chief Constable, however, not only looked totally unconvinced by Tatler’s outburst, he also looked more than slightly offended. So much so that Tatler was visited by a sudden feeling of acute anxiety and thought it politic to change the subject. Mind racing, he sat back in his chair and, taking a deep breath, broached the real reason for his visit to Edinburgh; Duncan Campbell’s film of Loch Ness. “Ah well! Down to business!” he said, mustering as much of a smile as he could manage. “You got the film from Campbell, you said?”

  “Ah, yes. The film. Yes, Duncan brought it in personally. I hope you don’t mind but I’ve already gone through it with him. He was on his way to film wildlife somewhere in Africa — Kenya, I think, so we went through it before he left. It’s quite short, actually. Only lasts a few minutes.” He pressed a switch on a TV monitor and they watched as the screen flickered and came to life. As the blue waters of Loch Ness appeared, Tatler leant forward and gave it his full attention.

  “Hmm,” he said as the Chief Constable rewound it and they went through it again, “there’s not much to go on, is there.”

  “It really only makes sense if Campbell’s story about the Loch Ness Monster is true, you know,” Thompson said. “Look at this bit, where the water is suddenly all churned up for no apparent reason. He pointed it out in particular. And, as he said, the children in that frame,” he clicked on “pause” to hold the picture, “are definitely scared. Look at the girl’s face!”