Charlie Bone and the Shadow of Badlock. Jenny Nimmo

      Prologue

      The winds of Badlock were the cruellest in the world; they came from every quarter, screaming against the giant’s broad back, tearing his hair and lashing his eyes, so that he could barely open them. At every step great gusts swept around his long legs until, at length, he was forced on to his knees.

      Behind the giant lay a vast plain of wind-torn scrub and ever-shifting stones. It had taken him and his child a night and a day to cover this inhospitable terrain. They had come from the range of snowcapped mountains that surrounded the plain like a massive wall.

      The giant drew his cloak tight about the boy in his arms. They had been making for a little hollow, where a shelter of trees could be seen, and the gleam of water.

      ‘Forgive me, Roland,’ moaned the giant. ‘I can go no further.’

      ‘You are tired, Father,’ said the boy, twisting out of the giant’s arms. ‘If I walk you can move more easily.’

      The giant marvelled at his little son’s spirit. It must come from the boy’s mother, he thought. It shamed him to see Roland still so unafraid after their long ordeal. Gathering his strength, the giant got to his feet again and battled forward, while his son staggered bravely at his side.

      ‘Look!’ Roland suddenly sang out. ‘I see a light in the hollow.’

      ‘The moon,’ murmured his father.

      ‘No, Father. A flame.’

      The giant brushed a hand across his eyes and blinked. Yes, there was, indeed, a light flickering at the edge of the hollow. But how could he tell if it meant danger? They were unlikely to find help in such a godforsaken place.

      All at once, Roland suddenly sprinted ahead. He had always been inclined to rush headlong into things that excited his curiosity.

      ‘Wait!’ called the giant.

      But Roland, his arms wide as if embracing the wind, forged through the swirling gusts, whirled away towards the trees and disappeared from view.

      When the giant arrived at the hollow, he found his son talking earnestly to a boy of about ten with startling snow-white hair. The stranger raised his rush-light the better to see the form that stood at the lip of the hollow, and the giant noted his large violet-coloured eyes. A goblin, thought the giant. What fairy tricks has he come to play on us?

      ‘Roland, come here,’ the giant commanded, stepping closer to the pair.

      Of a sudden, as if from nowhere, another figure moved into the circle of light: a tall young man with raven hair and a cloak of some dark shiny stuff.

      ‘Don’t be afraid,’ said the dark young man. ‘White-haired Owain is no fairy. He has sought you for many months.’

      ‘For me?’ The giant’s eyes narrowed.

      ‘You are Otus Yewbeam?’ asked the boy.

      ‘That is my name.’

      The boy made a deep bow. ‘I am so happy to find you, sir. No one could tell me where you had gone. It was an old woman in your village who, nearing the end of her life, overcame her fear of punishment, and told me that you and your son had been taken prisoner by a knight all in green.’

      ‘Count Harken.’ The giant gave a snort of loathing.

      ‘But you have escaped,’ said the dark youth.

      ‘We would have rescued you,’ said Owain, ‘however fiercely you had been guarded.’

      Roland, who had been leaping up and down with excitement, could contain his news no longer and burst out, ‘Owain is my cousin, Father, and he,’ he pointed to the dark young man, ‘he is my uncle Tolemeo.’

      The giant frowned. ‘Can this be true?’

      Tolemeo said, ‘Let us go further into this hollow where we can speak more easily.’ For they had been shouting in sentences devoid of warmth or feeling, as the wind snatched their words and scattered them into the air.

      Tolemeo led the way, followed by Owain, whose flaring torch caused Tolemeo’s cloak to sparkle with ever-changing colours, from vivid blue to green to deepest purple.

      He is wearing feathers, thought the giant, and a small thread of unease ran through him. Yet I must not expect them to be ordinary, he told himself, for they are the Red King’s children and my own dear wife, Amoret, was a child of the magician-king.

      They reached a cluster of rocks at the bottom of the hollow and, easing himself on to a wide slab, the giant asked, ‘Have you news of my wife?’

      He did not get an immediate answer. Owain looked at the ground. The white-haired boy seemed, all at once, nervous and uncertain.

      ‘Forgive me, sir,’ said Tolemeo, ‘but you are not my idea of a giant.’

      ‘No,’ said Owain,