The Call. Michael Grant

cows didn’t have names either, at least not that they had shared with Grimluk.

      The five of them – Grimluk, Gelidberry, baby, cow and cow – lived in a small but comfortable home in a village in a clearing surrounded by a forest of very tall trees.

      In the clearing the villagers planted chickpeas. Chickpeas are the main ingredient in hummus, but the discovery of hummus would take another thousand years. For now the chickpea farmers planted, watered and harvested chickpeas. The village diet was 90 per cent chickpeas, 8 per cent milk – supplied by cow and cow – and 2 per cent rat.

      Although, truth be told, not a single one of the villagers could have calculated those percentages. Maths was not a strong suit of the villagers, who, as well as not being maths prodigies, were illiterate.

      Grimluk was one of the few men in the village not involved in the chickpea business. Because he was quick and tireless, he had been chosen as the baron’s horse leader. This was a very big honour and the job paid well (one large basket of chickpeas per week, a plump rat and one pair of sandals each year). Grimluk wasn’t rich, but he earned a living; he was doing all right. He couldn’t complain.

      Until…

      One day Grimluk was leading his master’s horse when he spotted a hurried, harried-looking knave who, judging by the fact that his clothing was coloured by light brown mud rather than good, honest dark brown mud, was not from around these parts.

      “Master!” Grimluk said. “A stranger.”

      The baron – a man with more beard than hair – twisted around as best he could in order to see the stranger in question. It was an awkward thing to do since the baron was facing the horse’s tail as he rode. But he managed it without quite falling off.

      “I don’t know the knave. Ask him his name and business.”

      Grimluk waited until the stranger was in range, loping and wheezing along the narrow forest trail. Then he said, “Knave? My master would know your name and business.”

      “My name is Sporda. And my business is fleeing. I’m a full-time fleer. If you have any sense you’ll join me in that line of work.” He glanced meaningfully back over his shoulder.

      “Ask the knave why he is fleeing and why we should flee,” the baron demanded.

      The stranger had been brought up well enough to pretend he hadn’t heard the baron’s question and waited patiently for Grimluk to repeat it.

      Then the stranger said the words that would haunt Grimluk for the rest of his very, very long life. “I flee the… the… Pale Queen.”

      The baron jerked in astonishment and slid off the horse. “The…” he said.

      “The…” Grimluk repeated.

      “The… Pale…” the baron said.

      “The… Pale…” Grimluk repeated.

      “No… no, it cannot…”

      “No…” Grimluk said, doing his best to replicate the baron’s white-faced horror. “No, it cannot…”

      The baron could say no more. So Grimluk said no more.

      Only Sporda had anything else to say. And what he said then also changed Grimluk’s life. “You know, if your master sat facing the other way on that horse, facing the horse’s head instead of his tail? He wouldn’t need you to guide him.”

      In less time than it took a rooster to summon the morning sun, Grimluk had lost his job as a horse leader and been forced to switch to a far less lucrative career: fleer.

      

      

o, back in the present day, Mack was waiting to get his butt kicked. Stefan kept his iron grip on Mack’s shirt and insisted that Mack keep chewing on Stefan’s unpleasant gym clothes.

      They had reached the usual spot. Big green Dumpster. Chain-link fence. Cinder block back wall of the gym. Asphalt underfoot. No teachers, cops, principals, parents, or superheroes anywhere in sight.

      Mack was going to get a beating. Not his first. But the first since sixth grade. One month into the new school year and he was already in the grip of Stefan Marr.

      “I’m thirsty,” Stefan said.

      “Mmm hngh nggg uhh hmmmhng,” Mack offered.

      “Nah, that’s OK,” Stefan said. “I guess this won’t take long.”

      Sure enough, Matthew and Camaro had been able to quickly assemble the available Richard Gere bullies. Six boys and Camaro were striding towards them with a purposeful, thuggish stride.

      Mack had one and only one possible escape route. There was a fire door in the back of the gym. It had frosted reinforced glass that revealed nothing of what was on the other side, but Mack knew the cheerleaders would be practising just beyond that door.

      He also knew the door was supposed to be locked at all times. But Coach Jeter sometimes unlocked it and turned off the alarm so that he could sneak out between classes and smoke a cigarette here in the alley.

      Mack had one chance.

      He waited, gathering his strength and focus. He went limp, almost collapsing. And in the split second that Stefan took to adjust his stance, Mack lunged.

      His T-shirt ripped away in a single piece, leaving behind only the neck band.

      He broke free.

      Three steps to reach the door. One, two, three! He snatched at the handle and yanked hard.

      The door did not open.

      Mack sensed movement behind him.

      He spun. Stefan’s fist flew and Mack ducked.

      Crash!

      “Yaaaah!” Stefan cried.

      Mack jerked away, off balance, feet tangled. But he didn’t fall. He back-pedalled, needing just to get his feet back under him.

      Then he saw the red spray all over the shattered window.

      Stefan’s fist had gone through the glass. He had a four-inch gash in his arm, like a red mouth, spurting.

      The approaching bullies froze.

      Stefan stared in fascinated horror at his arm.

      The bullies hesitated, almost decided to keep coming, but then, with a sensible assessment of the risks involved, decided it was time to run away.

      They turned tail and bolted, yelling threats over their shoulders.

      Stefan used his left hand to try and stop the blood flow.

      “Huh,” he said.

      “Whoa,” Mack mumbled with a mouth full of shorts.

      “I’m kind of bleeding,” Stefan observed. Then he sat down too fast and landed too hard and Mack realised that what he was seeing here was not a painful but well-timed minor injury. Way too much blood was coming out of Stefan’s arm. There was already a puddle of it on the ground – a little pool was forming around a discarded candy bar wrapper.

      The king of the bullies tried to stand up, but his body wasn’t working too well it seemed, so he stayed down.

      Mack stared in amazement. In part he was terrified that he was on the verge of acquiring a whole new phobia: haemaphobia – fear of blood.

      Escape would be easy. And Mack definitely considered running.

      Instead he spat out the shorts. He straddled the seated Stefan and said, “Lie back.”

      When Stefan didn’t seem to track on that, Mack pushed him none too gently onto