Savanarolova could not remember when she had last been in such a difficult predicament. She cowered behind a support for a huge concrete pipe that ran parallel to the wall of the Production Floor upper level. Well aimed shots smacked into the wall beside her head intermittently and she dared not risk taking a quick look to isolate the location of the crazy old man who was shooting at her. Occasionally she would loose a return shot off blindly with her pistol. The sub-machine gun she had grabbed lay at her feet, useless now she had expended all its ammunition.

The dragon was awake. Her source had been wrong on that. It was supposed to be near dead, calcified like some petrified tree, or other fossilised relic. Well at the very best, if she came out of this alive, she would need a new butler.

There was no question of harvesting eggs now. One glimpse into the inferno within the Confinement Chamber persuaded her of that. It was actually shaking on its mountings as whatever was within it thrashed around like some vast stranded fish. Every now and again there was a terrific shriek and the Chamber opened a little more, releasing yet more heat into the huge room. She wasn't just sweating from the stress of being shot at.

She had to get out of here.

"Hey, you with the gun!" she yelled.

"What?" came the old man's reply.

"Would you mind not shooting for awhile? We need to talk!"

"Why would I talk with you?"

"What else is there to do apart from burn to death in about ten minutes?"

"So, burn, devil-woman. It'll be like home for you. I've seen your soul and I'll not let it loose on the world if I can help it. Burn, witch, burn!" The old man cackled.

"That'll be a no then," Savanarolova laughed ruefully.

A thunderous pop from the direction of the Confinement Chamber forced her hand. A quick glimpse confirmed her fears. A spider web of cracks had erupted on the surface of the concrete structure. Those nearest the opening burned with a dreadful red glow. Flames flickered around the edge of the crack, popping ash-like flakes of concrete off onto the floor below.

"Time to go," Savanarolova said to herself. Taking a deep breath, she slid a fresh clip into her pistol, cocked it and climbed out from her hiding place in one fluid move before she had time to think twice. Raising her arm she opened fire with carefully aimed shots and advanced towards the door, where she believed the old man was sheltering from her counter-attack.

One, two, three, four, five shots blasted from the pistol with several seconds pause between each. On the fifth shot, the old man popped up from the doorway, hoping to catch Savanarolova off guard. She looked directly into his eyes as she took aim for her sixth shot, before he could properly bring his own rifle to bear. In those dark, kindly eyes, she could see his surprise at how much distance she had closed between her hiding place and his own. They widened in alarm as she pulled the trigger and then closed in resignation as her shot went home.

Without even breaking step, though greatly relieved that her gamble had paid off, she stalked from the Production Floor and run along the semi-circular corridor for the stairs. There was no way she was going to try and risk crossing the Production Floor in front of that furnace to follow in Rick Bravo's footsteps. She would have to go back the way she had come, and at speed.

***

As her footsteps faded into the distance. Suzuki's eyes snapped open. He was momentarily confused but despite the terrible wound between his eyes caused by Savanarolova's last shot, memories poured back into him. They seemed distant, as if they belonged to another person but he sensed that he had followed his friends into the world of the trapped soul. Now he needed to get to them as quickly as he could to prepare them for the worst and join them in damnation.

***

In the crater of the volcano the forest had gone deathly silent. Birds settled mutely on branches of trees and peered down towards the lake where something extraordinary was taking place.

Eight figures, blackened and wizened, emerged dripping from the lake. In the harsh light of the sun the terrible injuries they had suffered could plainly be seen. Their skins were nothing but fire scorched husks, their faces carbonized skulls that grinned mirthlessly, forever stripped of personality and features. Blue fire burned within the deep pits of their eyes and these swung towards the door of the bunker. Something was happening at last! Someone was coming who would free them from this terrible curse. The shrunken, wizened minds that had once built grand edifices of concrete to bend all to their will in the cause of science, could feel the call of their mistress deep inside the mountain.

They crept toward the bunker, ignoring the searing agony of their fire twisted bodies, as they had done for eighty years, seeking solace in the heat of the day in the cool of the lake. Lured to the tunnel, to the door of the very bunker they had built, by the siren song within, they clustered in the welcome shade and waited. Ravaged, claw-like hands tapped impatiently on the surface of the steel. In the dark of the tunnel the blue aura around their heads flared into life, illuminating the interior in a sinister flickering glow.

It was there that they waited hungrily. Someone was coming. Someone would free them from their tortured bonds.

***

Pulling one final heavy door open, the children emerged from the escape passage, blinking in the sunlight. Charlie looked around him and saw that they were far below the crater rim. Surrounding them was the usual collection of banyans, palms, birds nest ferns and thick vines. A wall of claggy humidity and stifling heat hit them like a wall, almost immediately draining the energy from their limbs.

"Which way now?" Charlie said.

The remains of a path from the door forked in two directions, though this was hard to see through the tangle of creepers, and the slathering of glutinous mud, thickly populated with fern and other plant growth, that covered it.

"Follow that one," Carmen replied. "It's got to go somewhere."

They set off along the almost indiscernible path, tripping over the mat of thick roots that tunnelled their way over it and through it. A sense of urgency gripped them. What Rick had said had not really dawned on them until they were out of the bunker and looking up at the looming mass of the volcano again. It was then that Charlie realised how much of Solitude was actually made of volcano. He felt dwarfed by it. His father seemed to think it possible that something very bad could happen if the dragon got loose. Looking at the volcano, he realised that the worst thing that he could think of was a volcanic eruption. He'd seen enough about destruction of the Roman city of Pompeii from his mother's work that he realised how vulnerable he and Carmen were right now.

"Erm... Carmen," he said nervously, "I think we'd better get a move on."

"We should wait for Dad! We should wait for your dad too!" she insisted.

"I don't think that's such a good idea." Charlie explained his misgivings about being so exposed on the mountain.

"What? You think there's going to be an eruption? But Dad's inside!"

"Yeah, and so's mine. I think that they know this could happen too. They want us out and down at the Cat, Carmen."

"But we need to go back!"

"And do what? What are two kids going to do in there? Suzuki? Savanarolova? Dragons? Are you kidding?"

"Well, we haven't done too badly so far!"

"You have got to be joking! If we go back we're just going to be in the way. We have to get off the volcano and trust that they'll follow on," Charlie persisted. "I'm not going back, Carmen. I'm going down the mountain."

Carmen stood indecisively for a moment. Charlie genuinely thought that she was going to head back into the bunker but eventually she relented and nodded her head.

"Let's go then," she murmured and headed downhill.

Following close behind her, Charlie breathed a sigh of relief.

***

The sky had darkened since the earlier azure blue of dawn. Ominous black clouds had begun to gather over Solitude and Winthrop Smythe had shivered as the temperature had steadily fallen. It would rain soon and judging by the strengthening breeze, it was possible that a storm could break. Great, as if things couldn't get any worse!

Over the last hour, Winthrop-Smythe had been quietly moving the anchor rope with the toe of his boot. Shifting it had revealed that it was not tied down. Winthrop-Smythe thought it was some kind of badly stowed spare but he thanked the heavens for his stroke of luck. Gradually the coil of rope that sat atop the anchor had been shifted beneath Winthrop-Smythe's position on the stern until the short length of chain that connected rope to anchor was exposed. He looked at the exposed chain, silvery against the expensive, teak deck of the launch and mentally calculated the trajectory and force needed in order to cast the anchor where he needed it. Grinning and growing in confidence, he barely noticed the flash of lightning far behind the sinister silhouette of Solitude, far out to sea.

***

"How's this going to work?" George yelled at Rick who was several rungs below?

"No idea! I'm now in the realm of uncertainty! Or, to put it another way, I'm making it up as I go along!" Rick shouted back.

In turn they touched down at the base of the huge pipe. Lamps burned by a workstation that stood in a pool of yellow light, whilst all else was shrouded in shadow.

"No prizes for guessing where we need to go, then," said Rick. He trotted over to the workstation and gazed with a sinking feeling at the myriad collection of gauges, switches and levers, all labelled rather unhelpfully with exquisite brass tags etched with undecipherable Japanese characters.

George joined him. His face fell. "What do those say?"

"Beats me. Either they tell us how to send that dragon down the pipe or it's a heck of a pretty coffee maker."

A savage roar resounded around the cavern, which was soon followed by the sound of very heavy objects crashing to the Production Floor above, shaking the lights suspended below. Yet another ear-splitting screech filled the air, causing both men to bend double and clasp their hands quickly over the ears, crying out in sudden pain.

"I don't think we ought to hang about, Rick," George moaned. "I think that thing's tearing loose. Push something, anything!"

"OK, OK!" Rick winced. His head pounded from the last cry of the dragon and his eyes seemed to be swimming in and out of focus. Something wasn't right but he couldn't think what it was. Three days of flight, exhaustion and beatings had taken their toll and Rick felt decidedly off his game. Looking at the switchboard he tried to piece together some sense of what it was for.

It came to him in a flash. The clue was in the fabric of the building itself. Most of the dials were temperature or pressure gauges. "How many pens are there, George? Around the chamber, how many pens are there for other dragons?"

George and he traced the lines of pipes to where they terminated. They counted twenty. Rick checked the gauges and counted them. Twenty one pairs of gauges but only one pair showed any activity. Beside that pair was a bank of switches, and one, locked, red metal flap.

"Can you open that, George?"

Nodding eagerly, George searched the rucksacks for something to use. Finding a short bladed knife hanging from a strap, he unsheathed it, and crammed the blade into a narrow gap beneath the flap. With a grunt and quick twist of the blade, George pried the flap shot open and revealed a heavy duty button labelled in Japanese.

"What's the bet that says "warning, do not push"?" George said.

"All bets are off!" Rick retorted. He jabbed a finger down onto the metal button and felt a satisfying click as he depressed it.

From the central pipe, the hum of moving machinery resonated. George and Rick grinned at each other but their joy was short-lived. A juddering clunk appeared to indicate that the process they had activated was now, prematurely, at an end.

"Crap!" Rick exclaimed. "It's jammed!"

"What now?"

Rick looked up at the huge pipe, imagining the hundreds of tonnes of concrete that had been used to make it. What on earth could they do to shift the machinery to open the gate within the pipe? He jabbed at the button again but this time there was no answering hum, only an unsatisfying click.

"There's only one thing to do. I think we have to go and slay a dragon."

***

Spinning the locking wheel of the bunker's main door, Savanarolova breathed a sigh of relief that she was away from the cursed place. She didn't have the dragon's egg that she'd wanted but she knew that there were alternatives she could seek out. The project wasn't dead in the water yet. If that eventuality did occur then there was a good chance that she would share the fate of the Dutch cutler. Failure was not an option that she could consider, not with the people she worked for. This expedition was a washout, mostly due to Rick Bravo's attention and she knew who to blame for that. The first stage of recrimination would be visited on Max Winthrop-Smythe. When she returned to the ship, she would arrange for something spectacularly nasty to happen to Rick Bravo and George Hala. If she hadn't been quite so furious from the setbacks in the bunker she would have chuckled at the thought of what she could arrange.

She pulled the door open, putting her shoulder to it as it slid back. It was when she straightened up that she noticed that she was not alone.

***

Sliding on his bottom at least ten metres down the path, which had transformed into a muddy torrent, entirely due to the streaming rain that had begun to fall shortly after they set off, Charlie slowed to a halt in a patch of thick mud. Shaking water from his eyes he stood up unsteadily only to stare face to face with what appeared to be the same wild pig that he had met several days ago in the banyan grove.

The animal was quivering, sheltering under a huge thick stemmed broad leaf that reminded Charlie of rhubarb. Water poured from sides of the leaf in thin streams, beading into tiny jewels that plopped fatly into the puddles below. The pig's beady black eyes peered back at Charlie short-sightedly, reminding him of his mad granddad. The animal showed no inclination to move. It was under the leaf, away from the rain, and nothing was going to shift it.

"Hello there, pig," he said. "At least you're not dangerous!"

A long, low cry followed by a prolonged squelch announced Carmen's arrival and she slid slowly into Charlie's back.

"Careful, Carmen!" he yelped.

"Sorry!"

Charlie was fascinated by the pig. It was still staring at him. He felt Carmen untangle her legs from around his back as she clambered to her feet. The pig still looked at him. No, he thought, it's not staring at me, it's staring past me.

"Uh, Charlie!" Carmen said abruptly, her voice cracking with tension. "Help!"

He turned around slowly and climbed to his feet, which skidded unsteadily in the slippery mire he had been sat in. The path they had been following had taken a turn for the worse as it plunged down the steep, rainforest clad slopes of the volcano. The rainstorm had made it treacherous underfoot, turning the forest around them into a moving mass of water as rivers and tributaries formed from nothing, washing the slope clear of debris. It appeared that he and Carmen had come to a sliding stop on a broad ledge that was thickly carpeted with ferns, the broad leafed plants and yet more banyans. To one side was a steep drop, which they had just avoided sliding over thanks to the thick mud. To the other was the forest, more trees, cascades of muddy water and the target of the pig's attention.

Mr. J J Jones stepped out from under the shelter of a tree, cradling his assault rifle in his arms. Wild eyed, filthy and ragged, he presented a complete contrast to the cool professional that he had appeared to the children, when they had first arrived on Solitude with him.

"Well, well, well. Look what the forest pixies have sent to me!" he said with a mirthless chuckle. "You know, I don't think Miss Savanarolova is going to be in the mood for you after the trouble you've caused us. I think I'll just save her the job of sorting you two out." He slid the bolt back on the rifle, cocking it with a sinister click, clack.

The pig squealed and shot out from under his leaf. He tore past Charlie, taking his feet out from under him and headed straight for the mercenary.

Everything happened rather quickly after that. Distracted by the porcine apparition, J J Jones barely had time to react before the pig plunged between his legs, haring off into the forest beyond, knocking Jones off balance and causing him to stumble into the children. Tripping over the fallen Charlie, he lost his balance completely and collided face to face with Carmen, who attempting to protect herself, grabbed the rifle, pointing the barrel up at the sky. Jones glared at Carmen with bloodshot eyes from no more than a hand's span. The stench of halitosis washed over her as he spat gobs of thick spittle on her, snarling curses, trying to wrench the rifle back under control.

In pure panic, Carmen did the only thing she could. Something her father had taught her over and over again in case she was ever attacked. Something she had been taught over and over until it had become instinctive. She kicked J J Jones in the one place she could, bringing her knee up into his crotch with the all the speed that a girl who played football for her school could manage.

As her knee drove home, Jones sagged, collapsing on her, his eyes wide with pain. A high pitched cry whistled from between his teeth and he staggered away from her, pulling Carmen with him since she still held onto the rifle. In a desperate attempt to free herself, she kicked him again.

This time her foot drove home in the same spot. This time Jones' fingers slid limply from the wet rifle as he sank into the mud and curled into a foetal position, groaning weakly.

Charlie sprang to his feet as quickly as he dared in the treacherous footing. "You know, Carmen," he said, as he looked at the prostrate mercenary, "I don't think I'll ever argue with you again. But I think we'd better go before he gets up again!"

"What do I do with this!" Carmen gestured with the rifle, aghast at the effect of her assault.

"I don't know, but don't leave it here! I'm not sure that he's our biggest friend right now!"

Jones barely moved as the children left the ledge. Through the red haze of excruciating pain, he promised himself payback on those brats. However, he decided to postpone this until he could walk easily again. At the moment, the water and oozing mud provided a cooling relief.

***

Crunching through Hargreaves mummified skin, the anchor's flukes punched their way deep into the creature's chest, snapping ribs and hooking into the tangle of broken bones. The momentum of the anchor threw Hargreaves completely off balance, which Winthrop-Smythe capitalised on by throwing his own weight behind the tottering former marine.

Yes! Winthrop-Smythe thought exultantly, as he drove Hargreaves toward the gunwale with his shoulder. You are getting off this blasted island, Max my boy!

Without a word of complaint or a gasp of surprise the creature slammed into the low rail. Completely off balance, Hargreaves tipped over woodenly into the sea like a log thrown into a river by a lumberjack.

And now...Winthrop-Smythe was unable to finish his thought because he was yanked unceremoniously towards the rail. Somehow, Hargreaves right hand had closed around Winthrop-Smythe's own wrist and held it as tight as if it was being held in a vice. His arm went straight over the side with Hargreaves, and the rest of Winthrop-Smythe went with it. At the last second, the Englishman made a grab for the rail with his free hand and relief coursed through him as he felt his fingers wrap around the slick metal.

Fear almost paralysed him at that point. He hung from the side of the boat like one of the launch's own fenders. Looking down, he could see the dead weight of the marine, and the embedded anchor, hanging from his arm like some nightmarish parasite. The choppy waves of the sea washed over Hargreaves but the dead face turned and stared at him, the skull's mouth grinning at him in mockery.

"Redemption!" Hargreaves said and the marine swung its other free arm up, which grabbed onto Winthrop-Smythe's leg. "Redemption!" it repeated, its weight tearing at the Englishman's hand, wrist and shoulders, which burned with the strain of the burden.

He knew he had only one chance now. There was no way he could hold on for much longer with this swell on the ocean and this weight tearing at him. With tears of fear and despair starting from his eyes, he wailed up at the boat, "Dusty! Dusty! Help! For God's sake help!"

He kept screaming for what seemed an age. His grip was slipping and his fingers were opening up. The marine had no buoyancy at all and seemed to be getting much heavier. Shocked, Winthrop-Smythe realised that Hargreaves' mummified body was hollow and was filling up with sea water. If he went into the water with Hargreaves attached it would be like going swimming with a concrete overcoat on. He would sink to the bottom of the bay and there he would stay.

Panic set in. Fear gave him a burst of strength and he managed to tighten his grip a little but the sweat from his palm was making it difficult to grip the slick metal.

"Dusty!" he screamed in despair.

"Yes, Mr Winthrop-Smythe?" Dusty's face appeared over the edge of the gunwale and looked down on the Englishman with an oddly blank smile on his face.

"Help me!" Winthrop-Smythe gasped.

"Certainly, Mr Winthrop-Smythe," Dusty replied. With the same blank smile, he grasped the Englishman's wrist and gently peeled his fingers off the rail.

"Wh...What are you doing?" Winthrop-Smythe cried in terror.

"Helping you, Mr Winthrop-Smythe. Granting you redemption!"

"No!"

"Yes. I think it really is time you sought some peace, Mr Winthrop-Smythe. Mr Hargreaves agrees too."

Dusty released Winthrop-Smythe's wrist. Hargreaves, anchor and mercenary boss plunged into the clear blue water and sank straight to the bottom of the bay in a stream of delicate bubbles. Dusty watched the pair for a long time as they fought together on the seabed, the clouds of sand disturbed by the struggling Englishman gradually settling as his thrashing slowly ceased, Hargreaves never once letting go.

"Redemption," Dusty whispered, crying into the sea, his salt tears lost in the infinite ocean.

---

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