The Eye of Zoltar

We hadn’t gone more than two miles when we came across a dusty Range Rover parked on a grassy lay-by at the side of the road. We slowed down as we passed, and looked in at the driver and passenger, who were staring at the view. They didn’t look up and, sensing something might be wrong, I instructed Wilson to stop the half-track a little way down the road.

‘Wait for us here,’ I said to the Princess and Curtis, then walked cautiously back to the Range Rover accompanied by Wilson and Ralph, who didn’t seem to want to stray too far from my side.

‘Everything okay?’ I asked the driver of the Range Rover, but he didn’t reply. He was a well-dressed middle-aged man who was holding a camera in one hand while the other rested lightly on the steering wheel. His brow was wrinkled, as though he had just seen something, but he made no movement. Something definitely wasn’t right.

‘Hello?’ I said, and waved a hand in front of the driver’s face. He didn’t even blink.

‘Mine’s unresponsive,’ I said, ‘what about yours?’

‘Same,’ said Wilson, staring uneasily at the passenger. She was seemingly frozen in mid-stretch, her mouth partially open as though just finishing a yawn.

‘Mule Fever?’ I suggested.

‘If it was, they’d have ears long before the paralysis set in,’ replied Wilson.

‘I can’t feel a pulse,’ I remarked, holding the driver’s wrist, ‘and the skin feels hard and waxy.’

‘Hotax did this,’ said Wilson.

I looked at the motionless people.

‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m saying,’ said Wilson, ‘that the Hotax are not just murderously cannibalistic but big on conservation. They retain the discarded skin, hair and bones then preserve them perfectly. Look.’

He reached inside the car and lifted the hair from the back of the driver’s neck to reveal a row of fine cross-stitching in the skin, then tapped the man’s nearest eyeball, which was not human at all, but skilfully made of glass.

I peered closer. It was quite the most remarkable piece of work. As realistic as anything I had ever seen, and ten times better than the rubbish you get at the waxworks.

‘Amazingly lifelike, aren’t they?’ said Wilson. ‘The families of Hotax victims often elect not to bury their relatives but instead use them as hatstands in the hall. Mind you, the good thing about a Hotax attack is that you don’t know anything about it – just a slight prick in the back of the neck as the poisoned dart hits home. Then you’re like this, preserved at the moment of death, for ever.’

‘I … suppose I could think of worse ways to go,’ I said.

‘I could definitely think of worse ways to go,’ agreed Wilson thoughtfully. ‘Knowing Hotax they would have stripped the car for any tradable spares, too. Look.’

He lifted the bonnet to reveal an empty engine bay.

We stood for a moment, musing upon the Hotax’s odd mix of utter savagery, skilled artistry and business sense in the car spares industry, when the roar of an engine punctuated the silence.

It was the half-track. We both turned, and whoever was driving clunked the vehicle swiftly into gear and it lurched off.

‘Hey!’ I yelled, and ran after it. As it drove away, the driver turned to see how close I was, and I recognised him immediately – Curtis. The half-track was not fast, but Curtis had a head start; I couldn’t catch him.

‘Tell me you didn’t leave the keys in the ignition,’ I said to Wilson as he joined me.

‘Whoops,’ he said, ‘sorry.’

‘Ook,’ said Ralph.

‘This is bad,’ I said, looking around at the empty moorland and wondering what horrors lay hidden just out of sight, ‘really bad,’

‘He’s probably doing it as a stupid joke,’ said Wilson without much conviction. ‘He’ll be back soon.’

‘He’s gone for good,’ I said, realising what was happening, ‘on a journey to the Leviathans’ Graveyard.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he thinks Leviathans’ teeth are key to the magic industry and wants them all for himself, I imagine.’

‘Are they?’

‘Not at all. But,’ I added, ‘it doesn’t explain why he didn’t dump my handmaiden by the side of the road.’

‘I have a theory about that,’ said Wilson. ‘The Cambrian Empire has suffered a servant shortage for the past three decades, and it’s not just handmaidens. Footmen, cooks, pastry chefs and even bootboys are in short supply. He probably wants to sell her in Llangurig and I dare say he’d get a good price.’

‘He’d best be careful,’ I said. ‘Laura was trained in the art of silent assassination.’

‘That might be a relief,’ said Wilson, ‘but if she kills him, can she drive a half-track?’

‘Almost certainly not,’ I said, reasoning that Curtis – who was strong – would not need much effort to overpower the Princess while she was in Laura’s smaller and weaker body.

I sat down on a boulder by the side of the road and rubbed my face with my hands.

‘This trip is getting worse and worse.’

‘We might be able to buy her back,’ added Wilson thoughtfully, ‘unless she’s good at ironing – a well-ironed shirt out here is as valuable as gold.’