Runemarks [antikvár]

Seven o'clock on a Monday morning, five hundred years after the End of the World, and goblins had been at the cellar again. Mrs Scattergood - the landlady at the Seven Sleepers Inn -swore it was rats, but Maddy Smith knew better. Only goblins could have burrowed into the brick-lined floor; and besides, as far as she knew, rats didn't drink ale. But she also knew that in the village of Malbry - as in the whole of the Strond valley - certain things were never discussed, and that included anything curious, uncarmy or unnatural in any way. To be imaginative was considered almost as bad as giving oneself airs, and even dreams were hated and feared, for it was through dreams (or so the Good Book said) that the Seer-folk had crossed over from Chaos; and it was in Dream that the power of the Faerie remained, awaiting its chance to re-enter the world. And so the folk of Malbry made every effort never to dream. They slept on boards instead of mattresses; avoided heavy evening meals; and as for telling bedtime tales - well. The children of Malbry were far more likely to hear about the martyrdom of St Sepulchre or the latest Cleansings from World's End than tales of magic or of World Below. Which is not to say that magic didn't happen. In fact over the past fourteen years the village of Malbry had witnessed more magic in one way or another than any place in the Middle Worlds. That was Maddy's fault, of course. Maddy Smith was a dreamer, a teller of tales, and worse; and as such, she was used to being blamed for anything irregular that happened in the village. If a bottle of beer fell off a shelf; if the cat got into