his fluttering fingers appeared more ghostly than Human, he began to gnaw at his knuckles.
‘What to do?’ he asked the grass.
‘What to do?’ he asked the clouds.
‘What to do? What to do?’
Thoughts, fears and anxieties raced through Mr Crow’s brain. It was obvious that he had failed in his task. As far as he was aware, Charlie Keeper still ran free and still had that pesky pendant hanging round her smug little neck – a fact that would no doubt infuriate his master, Bane.
And that was the crux of the matter.
Mr Crow did not, under any circumstances, want to return to face an enraged Stoman Lord. He knew from his previous encounters how powerful, ferocious and unforgiving Bane was.
The lawyer’s beady little eyes bulged with alarm. He really did not want to be ripped limb from limb or pummelled into a bloody pile of fleshy scraps – a fate that he suspected was waiting for him in the Western Mountains. He had no idea how he might return to Earth from Bellania, but he knew that even there he would not be safe from Bane’s wicked revenge. Something stronger than greed swelled inside Mr Crow’s soul.
Cowardice.
‘WHAT TO DO?’ he screamed.
The answer came to him, not in a flash of brilliance, but in a sluggish wave of gutlessness.
He would do nothing.
He would hide and wait.
Surely, thought Mr Crow, an opportunity would arise if he waited long enough or was patient enough?
Having made his decision, he raced forward and leaped into the sky. Bursting into his alternative form, the cawing, shrieking crows sped across the grasslands beneath the tempestuous skies. Banking left and right they searched for miles and miles until they at last found what they wanted.
A dank and dark cave.
Circling round the entrance once, twice, three times, they flew back the way they had come until they hovered above a herd of wild cattle that they had seen while scouting for their hideout. Descending venomously, the flock pulled one of the cows kicking and bellowing into the air. Whipping round, they sped back to the cave and disappeared inside with their writhing catch.
To wait.
And to feed.
Three Stoman generals entered the Throne Room, stamping past the guards and the long line of footmen. The rattle of their swords and the clink of their chainmail resounded across the great space, yet oddly didn’t echo back. Each man was grizzled and war-torn, but they wore their scars and marks from a hundred different battles proudly. Heads held high, hands on pommel or belt, they marched to the foot of the great dais. Slamming their feet together and holding clenched fists above their heads, they saluted.
‘My lord!’ they said, standing ramrod straight. Each of them knew the punishment for failure. Each had seen lesser men, beasts and creatures snapped across Bane’s knee or torn to shreds between his powerful hands for failing to deliver his wishes. But each cared not. They stared up at their master with shining eyes. Bane, the Stoman Lord, was the man who had led the forces of the Western Mountains to rule Bellania, and for this they would worship him forever.
‘Report,’ commanded Bane.
‘The Second has taken Alavis,’ said the general with a milky eye and a scar that curled his lip in a perpetual sneer.
‘The Third has taken Alacorn,’ said the one with the cleft in his jaw. ‘Both Human cities now lie beneath the shadow of your banner, my lord.’
‘Good,’ said Bane. ‘And do the Tremen still believe that our forces intend to use Alavis and Alacorn as launching posts from which to invade Deepforest and Sylvaris?’
‘Our spies report this to be so,’ said the milky-eyed general.
Bane settled back into the Devouring Throne. He appeared pleased with the news. ‘Excellent. You will command both the Second and the Third to make preparations to move, but they are to take their time. Allow the Tremen to believe they will have weeks – if not months – in which to prepare for the arrival or war.’
‘As you wish, my lord.’ The milky-eyed and cleft-jawed generals both bowed their heads in acknowledgement of their orders.
‘And what of the First?’ growled Bane. ‘How does my prime army fare?’
The last general, larger and more ferocious-looking than the others, peeled back his lips to reveal blackened teeth. ‘The First has already departed the Western Mountains, my lord. As you commanded, they will loop northward through the Great Plains to strike at Deepforest from an approach that the Tremen will not suspect.’