Driven by terror, the pair ran and ran, but before long their lungs gave out and they crumpled to the ground in a heap. They gasped and gulped and wheezed, both unable to speak. Being shot out of the sky and a bit of running had knocked every last breath out of them but fear was screaming at them to get going, this was not the time for the luxury of a lie down.

They were just outside a town which lay nearly ten miles away from their take-off point. This gave them a decent start over their hunters but probably nowhere near enough for their trail to grow cold, especially if magic was being deployed in the chase.

"What the hell was that?" said Tung as he rolled onto his back and sucked in lungfuls of air. "What sort of demonic magic knocked us out of the sky?"

"Magic deployed by our pursuers, I'll bet."

"Oh great, so now Mifal's using magic to catch us?"

"Looks that way but how did his men deploy it? I'm the Royal Wizard, only I can do magic for him."

"You've been replaced, old man, Mifal's got himself a new court wizard and he's part of the hunting party."

"Damn. Our magic was the only thing keeping us ahead of the pack. If our trackers have their own magic then our advantage is gone."

"So I've gone through all this pain for nothing," complained Tung.

"Not necessarily," said Madrick. "I know a bit about the local landscape and we're not too far from the border of Mifal's kingdom. I reckon it's twenty miles at the most and once we cross into the adjoining land I think we'll be relatively safe. Mifal could still send spies to track us but why would he bother? We're not important to him, although we would be if he ever found out about the Scroll."

"Sounds good, that means I'd have time for a wee sleep."

"No, no, no," said Madrick, "All in all we've been damned lucky so far, we need to keep moving if we're to stay ahead of the chasing pack."

"But you said that twenty miles from now we'd be safe."

"I know but twenty miles is twenty miles. Create another spell, Tung, we need all the help we can get."

There was no reaction whatsoever because Tung was fast asleep. This was becoming an infuriating recurring situation. Madrick was talking to a comatose Tung. Eventually, with a lot of hard shaking, he managed to rouse him from his stupor.

"Create another spell, Tung. Now."

Tung, although only half awake, obliged. Here we go again. Read the Scroll. Say the incantation. Collapse to the ground. Madrick catches the head. This time, it was a great example of exactly how it should be done. This time, it was nearly perfect.

"What do you see? What is the image?"

"Aaagh, my head is full of flames. My brain's on fire. AAAGH. Make it stop. Do something, get this out of my head. NOW."

He started slapping the sides of his head with his hands as if his hair was on fire.

"Don't panic. It'll be the Fireball Spell. Just say it but point your arms at that ring of trees. Where you point is where the flaming ball will hit."

Squirming and moaning, he fought through his head fire and found the words. He 'spoke' the letters and an enormous ball of fire crashed from his hands and engulfed five of the twelve magnificent oak trees which had dominated the landscape for nearly a hundred years. The five trees burned vigorously and crashed to the ground in a smouldering heap. It was horribly awesome. Tung regained his senses just in time to see the last of the great trees vanish in the super-heated firestorm.

"Wow, scary or what? That fireball is definitely not something you want to keep in your head any longer than you have to. I'm ready for the next spell. I need to put that last one a long way behind me."

He went through the routine again. The new spell materialised and he stared into the depths of his head and saw water. He tried to focus more but no matter which way he looked at it, it was just water; lots of water.

"I see water," he said, shrugging his shoulders, "lots of water."

"Water," pondered Madrick. "It may be the simple 'water to drink' spell. It was created to help travellers parch their thirsts as they crossed some of the vast wastelands which used to cover the landscape."

"Okay, so I'll just say it. I could do with a drink."

"No wait. It's either that or a spell which parts a great expanse of water so there's a safe and dry passage through it. I've no way of knowing which one it is, not without the words."

"Only one way to find out," said Tung.

"NO WAIT. I've no idea what'll happen if you use the sea-parting spell when there's no water around. It could be catastrophic. Let's keep travelling south and only use the spell when we come across a decent-sized body of water."

That was wise and sensible, so after a short protest from Tung, they set off at a decent pace, all things considered, heading south.

Hours later a group of peasants congregated to stare at the semicircle of trees left standing after Tung's fireball. Seven trees was all that remained of the great circle of oaks which had been there longer than anyone could remember. The village elders were called and they agreed they'd have to rename their town. 'Twelve Oaks' no longer made sense.

Tung and Madrick eventually came to a small lake. It was serenely beautiful and its secludedness, being completely surrounded by a forest of luscious pine trees, made it the perfect place to find out which spell they had. Tung spoke the spell and, unspectacularly, a small cup of crystal clear liquid appeared.

"Wow, that was disappointing," said Tung. "I wanted to feel the power of parting the lake."

"Mind you," said Madrick handing him the magical cup. "Take a sip of that. It's the cleanest, freshest, sweetest water I've ever tasted."

Rested and refreshed, they set off again on their southerly journey, making the short detour around the lake, because the magical shortcut had unfortunately failed to materialise.

"Create another spell," Madrick demanded as they set off. "You should be able to do it on the move now that you've had so much practice."

The saying ritual was repeated over and over again on their journey southward. Many, many spells were created and used. A few helped them a little, while others had the unfortunate consequence of leaving behind magically-created landmarks which would act as pointers for their pursuers. The ever-burning campfire and the giant pillar of salt were two good examples of the signs which would tell informed observers that magic had passed through.

They'd been on the road for more days than they could remember but, as each day passed, they both felt slightly safer. The longer they travelled, the more likely it was that the pursuers would give up, particularly as they were now approaching the border. Once they crossed into the adjoining kingdom, surely they'd be safe?

"This is the town which marks the edge of Mifal's kingdom," said Madrick as they approached a ramshackle of a village.

It was a small settlement built around a substantial wooden castle which nestled beside the river that marked the southern boundary of Mifal's lands. A small group of people stood by the road and watched them approach.

"Welcome to our village, strangers," said the biggest man in the small welcoming committee. "What brings you here?"

"Just passing through," said Madrick.

"You'll have to pay," said one of the other men.

"I don't think so," said Tung clenching his fist in preparation for a fight.

"Calm down, young'un. It's not us you have to pay, it's the ferryman."

"Yeah, there's a ferry to take people across the river but the ferryman charges a ridiculous price," said the big guy who'd first spoken. "We all resent paying it but what can we do? The man has a monopoly..."

"And the only boat..." said a simple looking lad who reminded Madrick of Tung.

"The man has a monopoly," continued the big guy ignoring the interruption, "so he can charge what he likes and we've no choice but to pay."

"He's a scoundrel and we hate him."

It was an interesting coincidence that Tung had the Bridge Spell in his head. Was Fate fiddling in the destiny of these villagers?

"Funny enough," said Tung, "I think I might have the answer. Take me to the river."

As they walked the short distance to the water's edge, the group grew larger as word spread that the strangers were going to help them with the ferryman problem.

"Stand back," said Tung. "Let me amaze you with my spectacularity."

Madrick groaned as he watched the young man point his hands across the water and say the spell in his head. "Please don't let him mess this up with pretentious stupidity," he prayed under his breath.

With a deafening hiss and the speed of a piglet escaping from a poke, a rope-like projectile snaked its way across the river. Once it was firmly rooted on both sides, it creaked and shook as it expanded and morphed into a magnificent wooden structure wide enough for two horse and carts to pass. Supports and archways sprouted and grew like rampant creepers to complete the towering construction. A noisy excitement buzzed around the crowd.

"Oh my God."

"It's a miracle."

"You're saints."

"In your face, ferryman."

Spontaneous applause and cheers broke out.

"Hooray for the strangers," yelled the crowd.

Tung flung his fists in the air like a triumphant pugilist before turning to his audience and bowing. "I am Tung the Great and I'm here all week."

"No he's not," said Madrick, "we have to move on now."

A man stepped from the crowd. "I'm the under-sheriff and on behalf of the whole village, I wish to thank you for this wondrous gift. We are poor folk so we can't offer you money but we can afford you the privilege of being the first to walk across the bridge."

More claps and cheers.

Madrick and Tung stepped onto the bridge and made their way out of Mifal's kingdom, waving over their shoulders as they went.

"I'm not sure if they were affording us the privilege of being the first users," whispered Madrick when they were halfway across, "or if they wanted a couple of mugs to test the reliability of this thing."

"Who cares? We're out of Mifal's reach now. Let's just keep going south and see what life holds for us."

"You're right, this river is an important milestone in our journey. We're beyond Mifal's jurisdiction, my friend, we've escaped his clutches and now we're free."

The group of locals who'd watched the whole amazing scene clapped loudly and whooped as the pair crossed the bridge and walked away. Hours later, all the villagers congregated to stare at their wonderful new bridge. The elders agreed they should rename the town... from that day forward it would be called Tungbridge.

Everyone in the town was happy except, of course, the ferryman. His business had been destroyed in one magical fell swoop. However, as is the way with greedy men, he tricked the village elders into selling him the bridge and within a month he'd established a toll booth on it and was charging even more than he'd charged for the ferry crossing. One way or another, you always end up having to pay the ferryman.

***

Five days earlier, the Black Grandee, accompanied by Stanverital and Devligrate, had arrived at the Sorebun Academy. Panic gripped the White wizard guards.

"Look, it's the supreme Black Wizard."

"He's only got two men with him and they're carrying a white flag."

Was it an evil deception, or was it a genuine surrender?

"Get the captain of the guard. Alert the Council. Drop the portcullis," screamed the sergeant.

Archers joined him, pointing their arrows at the group who were now only yards from the gate.

"Halt," shouted the sergeant. "What brings you here?"

"We just want to talk to the Great Grand Wizard," said the Black Grandee. "I have a proposition for him."

After much discussion and debate, the Black Grandee was granted permission to meet the hastily convened assembly of the White Order who listened suspiciously to what he had to say.

He recounted the story of Stanverital and Devligrate's mission. He explained the conclusions of the Black Council and the potential catastrophic danger of the ten scrolls being outside the control of the Orders. He made no mention of the Spell Spell.

"Of course, I want all the scrolls in the Black arsenal but the truth is, I'd prefer them to be shared with you Whites rather than in the hands of common folk."

The White wizards nodded.

"All I ask is that we get first pick of the recovered scrolls," said the Black Grandee.

"And if we only recover one scroll?"

"That is highly unlikely, given the circumstances, but in the interests of fairness we'll donate two of our own scrolls to your library."

"You'll donate two rubbish spells," said a White wizard.

"Yes, but we may end up with a rubbish spell... we might end up with the Chicken Transformation scroll, after all."

Everyone laughed.

"Seriously though, the elite must remain the elite," he concluded. "We must unite to ensure the common man doesn't get powers beyond his station. Otherwise, they may rise up and threaten our privileged existences. It is our collective duty not to allow that to happen."

After careful deliberation and a lot of debate, the White Council agreed. Almost unanimously they decided to accept the Black proposal to create a joint force of their best men to hunt down the fugitives. It was to be Stanverital and Devligrate joined by Gravalar, if he returned within the next day. The Whites would also send Nextar, he was their finest young scroll finder and his skill of distance hearing would be invaluable to the team. Four junior wizards would reinforce the magical contingent of the task force.

Gravalar arrived a few hours after the momentous treaty had been agreed. He was too late to affect the decision, so he didn't try. He knew that if he'd reported to the Council before the Black delegation had arrived, then this dangerous pact might never have come into existence. Had he arrived sooner, he could have revealed the overheard whispered conversations between Stanverital and Devligrate; conversations which didn't bode well for the pact. His observations showing the treacherous nature of these bad seeds might have scuppered the deal but that was all water under the bridge now.

Silence was the answer. There'd be no admission of stealing the golden goblet nor any mention of his weakness for the endless supply of fine wine. No one would be told how an excess of this red nectar had slowed his journey home and extended it by a good day and a half. Silence meant he'd keep his treasured goblet. He wasn't going to share anything with the Council, not his story nor the goblet, so he accepted the decision without comment and prepared for the mission which had been assigned to him.

The next day the joint task force assembled midway between the Lair and the Academy. Stanverital, Devligrate, Gravalar and Nextar eyed each other suspiciously as they shook hands. These four senior wizards had each been given some carefully selected spell scrolls; spells which would help them with their search and ultimate capture of the fugitives. They also had at their command four junior wizards and about fifty scouts and serfs. A pack of sniffer dogs completed this small army.

"Let the hunt begin,"shouted Gravalar as he led the army off on their trek southward.