The Shadowmagic Trilogy. John Lenahan

      ‘Cool.’

      ‘No, it doesn’t get hot or anything.’

      ‘I mean, nice.’

      ‘Oh, I could set you up with a guy to make you one if you like. It isn’t cheap though.’

      ‘I am afraid I’m a bit broke at the moment.’

      ‘Me too. You and I have got so much in common,’ he said with another slap.

      As we followed the stream Fergal waxed on about the intricacies of Banshee blade manufacture but I didn’t take much in. His voice was increasingly drowned out by the bass drum solo that began playing in my head. After I don’t know how long (by which time the pounding in my head had graduated into a full-blown marching band), Fergal turned to me and said, ‘You haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said, have you?’

      ‘Huh? Oh, sure I have.’

      Fergal looked me in the eyes and I had a scary moment when I thought he was going to quiz me. Then he broke into an ear-to-ear smile and said, ‘I like you, Conor, it usually takes friends ages to learn to ignore my babbling – you figured it out right away.’ He went to slap me on the back but then stopped when he saw me flinch. ‘You know, you look awful rough. We’re in no hurry; how ’bout we make camp here?’

      We found the remnants of an old campfire under a tall, broadleaved tree that had roots creeping into the stream. Fergal said it should be OK to camp under an alder this far away from the Fearnlands. I wanted to ask him what that meant but I had a feeling asking too many questions would arouse suspicion, and anyway I was too tired. Fergal took some kindling out of his bag and piled it within the ring of stones.

      ‘You wouldn’t have a decent fire-coin, would you? Mine’s practically silver.’

      ‘No. I’ve lost everything except my sword,’ I said, which was pretty much the truth.

      Fergal produced a half-dollar-sized disc out of his pocket and placed it beneath the little bits of wood.

      ‘I think this thing has one more fire in it.’

      He mumbled under his breath, there was a faint glow and then smoke appeared under the wood. He blew it into a small flame. ‘Keep an eye on this and I’ll beg for some wood.’

      Fergal climbed the alder as I lay on my side and blew on the tiny flame. Just this was enough to make me feel light-headed. I was still in pretty bad shape after that damn rothlú thing. Whether I fell asleep or passed out I don’t know, but the next thing I remember, Fergal was shaking me awake and handing me a stick with a fish on it that he had just cooked on a roaring fire.

      ‘Is there anything else I can do for you, Prince Conor?’ For a second I thought he had figured out who I was. I sat bolt upright expecting his Banshee blade to fly out of his sleeve, but then he smiled and said, ‘You’re a fat lot of good around here. Next time I’m nursing a hangover, you wait on me.’

      ‘Deal,’ I said with a nervous laugh, and took the fish. ‘Thanks.’

      We ate in silence. I’m not a big fan of food that can stare at me but I was too hungry to complain. I apologised to the trout’s face and wolfed the rest of it down.

      After dinner Fergal put a couple of logs on the fire and said that even though he would love to talk all night, he was beat. He touched the alder, put his pack under his head and closed his eyes. My short nap had done little to ease my overall body pain. I put my head on the ground and moaned. Just before I went out, I thought I saw some strange movement in the branches above. I sat up and had a good look but then decided I was just spooking myself.

      I dreamt I was back in the Real World in a super-posh shoe store where I didn’t even have to put the shoes on myself. Sales clerks actually knelt down and placed all kinds of really cool footwear directly on my feet.

      Dawn, as it always does, came too early. I find that going to sleep under the stars is lovely but waking up outside is a drag. It leaves me itchy, damp and with terminal bed hair. It wasn’t until I stood that I realised my shoes were missing. Well, that explained the theme of my dream. I walked over to the still-sleeping Fergal and lightly kicked him with my bare foot. He shot straight up.

      ‘What?’ he sputtered.

      ‘Ha ha, Fergal, very funny. What did you do with my shoes?’

      ‘What are you talking about?’ he said, getting his bearings.

      ‘My shoes, I don’t know how you did it without waking me up but I want my shoes back.’

      ‘I don’t have your shoes,’ he said, confused.

      ‘Quit mucking around, Fergal, I had them on when I went to sleep.’

      ‘I’m telling you I don’t have your … uh-oh.’ Fergal jerked his hand a couple of times and then pulled his tunic over his head. ‘Damn it,’ he said, ‘damn it, damn it, damn it!’

      ‘What? What is it?’

      ‘My Banshee blade is gone – and the wire too.’

      ‘What do you mean gone?’

      ‘Robbed, we were robbed last night.’

      Oh, just great, I thought, now I’m going to have to walk in this godforsaken land barefoot. Then I had a terrible thought. Slowly I reached down to my waist and felt for my scabbard – the Sword of Duir was gone.

SEVEN

      BROWNIES

      ‘They took my sword. Oh my God, my father is going to kill me.’

      Fergal went over to the alder and placed his hand on the bark, then kicked it. A rain of branches showered down that made us run out from under its cover.

      ‘Fergal, what the hell is going on?’

      ‘We got rumbled by the alder last night.’

      ‘Are you telling me the tree mugged us?’

      ‘Don’t be stupid.’

      ‘Then who could take my shoes and your wire from under your shirt without waking us up?’

      ‘Brownies, damn them.’

      ‘Whos-ies?

      ‘Brownies – who else?’

      ‘You mean like girl scouts?’

      ‘Why do you think they were girls?’ Fergal said, confused.

      ‘Never mind. I have to get that sword back. It is very important.’

      ‘Well, that’s not going to be easy. Brownies weigh nothing and are famously difficult to track.’

      We looked around at the dew-covered grass and then at each other. We were both wearing the same ear-to-ear grin. You see, Brownies are usually difficult to track – except when one of them is wearing Nikes.

      Whoever stole my shoes must have had tiny feet because he dragged them along the ground, trying to keep my size elevens from falling off. The tracks led into the stream but were easy to pick up on the other side. Fergal dashed under the tree and grabbed a couple of branches that we could use as weapons. He shouted a sarcastic, ‘Thanks,’ as the alder tried to rain more wood down on him.

      We followed the trail across some wide, open fields that led to rolling hills. The trees were thin and the ground pretty spongy but periodically my bare feet made contact with a rock or a twig that made me yelp. I wasn’t sure how long I would be able to keep up this pace, but saying that, I felt a lot better than I did yesterday.

      Every