1

The approach of dawn has turned the sky a milky grey-green, like jade. The sea is a luminous pane of silver. Holding the tiller of your sailing boat, you keep your gaze fixed on the glittering constellation known as the Spider. It marks the north, and by keeping it to port you know you are still on course. The sun appears in a trembling burst of red fire at the rim of the world. Slowly the chill of night gives way to brazen warmth. You lick your parched lips. There is a little water sloshing in the bottom of the barrel by your feet, but not enough to see you through another day.

Sealed in a scroll case tucked into your jerkin is the parchment map your grandfather gave to you on his death-bed. You remember his stirring tales of far sea voyages, of kingdoms beyond the western horizon, of sorcerous islands and ruined palaces filled with treasure. As a child you dreamed of nothing else but the magical quests that were in store if you too became an adventurer.

You never expected to die in an open boat before your adventures even began. Securing the tiller, you unroll the map and study it again. You hardly need to. Every detail is etched into your memory by now. According to your reckoning, you should have reached the east coast of Harkuna, the great northern continent, days ago.

A pasty grey blob splatters on to the map. After a moment of stunned surprise, you look up and curse the seagull circling directly overhead. Then it strikes you – where there’s a seagull, there may be land.

You leap to your feet and scan the horizon. Sure enough, a line of white cliffs lie a league to the north. Have you been sailing along the coast all this time without realising the mainland was so close?

Steering towards the cliffs, you feel the boat judder against rough waves. A howling wind whips plumes of spindrift across the sea. Breakers pound the high cliffs. The tiller is yanked out of your hands. The little boat is spun around, out of control, and goes plunging in towards the coast.

You leap clear at the last second. There is the snap of timber, the roaring crescendo of the waves – and then silence as you go under. Striking out wildly, you try to swim clear of the razor- sharp rocks. For a while the undertow threatens to drag you down, then suddenly a wave catches you and flings you contemptuously up on to the beach.

Battered and bedraggled you lie gasping for breath until you hear someone walking along the shore towards you. Wary of danger, you lose no time in getting to your feet. Confronting you is an old man clad in a dirty loin-cloth. His eyes have a feverish bright look that is suggestive of either a mystic or a madman.

Now turn to 20.