id="u0c2b9338-3771-54d1-af05-d38e3e82a849">
For Jane, my wife, who supports and encourages every dream, no matter how fantastic
For Penny, my daughter, this story is for you
A.J.E.
For Ashley and my familiar, Elvis
A.J.
CONTENTS
FOUR Storm Berries and Bookworms
EIGHT Agdaleen and the Octopot
THIRTEEN The Mountain Alchemist
SEVENTEEN The Hydra of Mukrete
NINETEEN The Prophesised Three
It all started with Aldwyn’s whiskers beginning to tingle—the way they always did when he got hungry. Food had been getting tougher to come by these last few months. The back alleys weren’t littered with their usual fish guts or chicken gizzards, and a stray cat had to fight a little harder to get even one full meal a day.
The whisker-tingling began early one morning, when Aldwyn sat perched atop a shingle rooftop, casually taking in the scenery. His mangy coat of black and white fur looked as if it had never been washed—which was more or less true. The tip of his left ear was missing; a bite-sized reminder of a skirmish with an angry pit bull terrier from when he was a kitten.
Looking out, Aldwyn could see all of Bridgetower. There were rows upon rows of two-storey stone buildings along the narrow cobbled streets. Robed city custodians were hurrying to finish their pre-dawn chores: one used a bell-shaped snuffer to extinguish the candles in the waist-high lamp posts lining the city’s darker alleyways; another laid down straw on the main street to quieten the click-clacking of the mules’ hooves that would soon be pulling rattling wagons along the roadways. Aldwyn’s eyes were drawn to the spired watchtower of polished white marble that stood higher than the rest of the skyline. Its guardpost had been empty for over half a century, ever since the brave and noble wizard, Queen Loranella, helped fight back the Dead Army Uprising. A flag billowed at the very top of the watchtower, bearing the Bridgetower coat of arms: a double-headed eagle, holding a bow and arrow in one talon and a wand in the other.
Aldwyn could see beyond the white walls that encircled the city as well: to the west, the Ebs River; to the east, the Aridifian Plains and the forests of the queendom. But he had never set foot outside Bridgetower, and he never intended to, comfortable on the city streets he knew so well.
With dawn’s first ray of light, a morning bell chimed brightly, waking Aldwyn from his daydream. He turned his attention to the back door of the local fish and fowl shop, waiting patiently for the fishmonger to appear with the catch of the day. Stealing was one of Aldwyn’s favourite schemes to fill his belly, but he used many others. Just last night, he found himself acting—cooing like a pigeon to get bits of cheese from a blind lady feeding birds in the park.
Sure enough, right on schedule yet again, there was the fishmonger, carrying a heavy, dripping burlap bag towards his store. And even though Aldwyn couldn’t see what was inside the bag, he could smell it: river flounder! As the old man closed the door to his shop behind him, Aldwyn started counting the toes on his paw.
One… two… three… four.
Like every morning at this precise time, the fishmonger opened the window, airing out the kitchen as he dumped the fish into a bucket beside him. Now Aldwyn could begin his descent from the rooftop. He climbed down the wall, his claws leaving scratch marks on the stone. He crossed the alley, darting around puddles from last night’s rain. A short-eared raccoon limped out from behind the corner, trying to keep his weight off an injured hind leg.
“Morning, Aldwyn,” said the raccoon. “Heard the afternoon milk wagon is taking a detour tomorrow to avoid the Shield Festival. It’s going to be heading through Hangman’s Square instead.”
“Thanks for the tip,” Aldwyn called back. “I’ll try to push a jug off the back of the cart when it rounds the Glyphstone. Make sure you’re there for lick up.”
Aldwyn had made a habit of thinking three meals ahead. He relied on everything from careful observation to back-alley alliances. Finding food was a full-time job—and an exhausting one at that. A freak hailstorm had struck in the middle of the summer, wiping out most of Bridgetower’s typically plentiful harvest. Hungry townsfolk were making use of the tripe and offal they once threw away.
The raccoon gave an appreciative nod, and Aldwyn quickly returned to the task at hand. After jumping onto the crates stacked up outside the fishmonger’s window, he waited, watching the old man clean and gut the flounder. Aldwyn