Embark on a perilous quest into a magical realm where a young boy must do battle with monsters and demons in order to survive.
Immerse yourself in an epic fantasy adventure, based on the book by the hugely popular science fiction writer Douglas Hill, and brought to life in this full-cast performance.
When his village is destroyed by the evil Prince Mephtik, young Jarral Gullen must search for answers. With the help of his three friends Archer, Scythe and the Lady Mandragorina - a band of magically talented adventurers - Jarral must make a terrifying journey into the unknown. Only then will he be able to answer the questions that haunt him. Will he be able to discover what strange talents he possesses? And why does the spectre known as the Poisoner want to hunt him down? Marked with the tainted sword of Prince Mephtik, Jarral is doomed to die a terrible death unless both the blade and the prince are destroyed by the next full moon. The band of friends must complete their treacherous quest to Mephtik's demon-guarded fortress - but can Jarral connect with his power in time, and will he live long enough to use it?
This exclusive edition includes a bonus fantastical story of magic and mayhem - Penelope's Pendant. When eleven-year-old Penny finds a pendant on the beach she discovers that it gives her the power to move herself and other objects through space. But when the pendant's maker comes to claim it, Penny doesn't want to let it go.
Starring Bridgerton's Adjoa Andoh alongside James Holland, Eric Allen, Elizabeth Bell, Ben Onwukuwe, Susan Sheridan and Hugh Dixon, these adventures will delight fans of Ursula K. Le Guin's Earthsea novels and J.R.R. Tolkien's Tales from the Perilous Realm.
Blade of the Poisoner Written by Douglas Hill Dramatised by Wally K Daly Produced by Peter Fozzard Music by Peter Howells Special Effects by Dick Mills
Jarral the Man - Eric Allen Jarral the boy - James Holland Archer - Elizabeth Bell Carver - Ben Onwukwe Dorrina - Adjoa Andoh Mandra - Susan Sheridan Prince Mephtik - Hugh Dixon Yorrold - David Bannerman Soldiers - Nigel Carrington, Charles Millom and Neil Roberts Cryltor Tabatang - James Thomason Flammarock - Bret Usher Whiney - Richard Pierce Innkeeper - Anne Windsor Other parts played by Auriol Smith and Charles Millom First Broadcast BBC Radio 5, July 1991
Penelope's Pendant Written by Douglas Hill Adapted by Paul Copley
Penelope - Keeley Forsyth Trish - Vicky Fox Alan - Jason Lowe Ralph - Jonathan Tristram Tony - Matthew Raybould Errol - Richard Redpath Gummy - James Buckley Mother - Joanna Myers Narrator - Paul Copley Glumdole - Barry Kaylor First Broadcast BBC Radio 5, 2 April 1991
Jarral Gullen slid noiselessly forward through the brush. Gripping his spear firmly, he fixed his gaze on his quarry, feeding unaware in the sunlit glade. One more silent step forward … then one more….
But an unseen briar, snagging his bare ankle, brought Jarral’s game abruptly to a halt. “Ow!” he said, stumbling sideways. Three twigs snapped under his feet and a sapling threshed as he fell against it. His prey, a small, tufty-tailed rodent, swept up a tree with a volley of chittering abuse as Jarral’s spear clattered harmlessly against a lower branch.
Jarral stepped out of the thicket, glanced up at the foliage where the little animal had disappeared, then gazed round at the great trees of the Wellwood, the forest that gave his village its name. The trees and shrubs still displayed the freshness of their early summer greening. Even the glade’s carpeting of coarse grass was glowing with new green, dotted here and there with tiny wildflowers bright as jewels.
Jarral ambled across the glade to retrieve his weapon—a thin, slightly crooked stick that was a spear only in his imagination. Idly he used it to prod a small anthill, then squatted to watch the insects scurry. He was just twelve years old, an ordinary boy from the tiny forest village. He was of average height and weight for his age, with plain brown hair and brown eyes and a plain, cheerful face, simply dressed in shirt, short trousers, and sturdy shoes.
He glanced around the glade again. The day was wearing on towards mid-afternoon, and the overcast sky had begun to darken slightly as heavier clouds moved above the forest, bringing the murky threat of a thunderstorm. That did not trouble Jarral, for the weather was very often gloomy, with frequent swirls of storm clouds and mutters of thunder. In that land, sunlit days tended to be rare. But with the humid heaviness of the air, Jarral decided that what he wanted was a cool drink from the great spring-fed well on the fringe of the forest, around which clustered the villagers’ cottages.
He set off at an easy jog toward the well. After his drink he supposed he should go and see if his cousins had any chores for him. He did not feel at all like doing chores, but he knew that his life would be a little more pleasant if he offered to do so, now and then.
The cousins—a quiet, elderly man and wife—had actually been cousins to Jarral’s parents, who had died when he was an infant. The cousins had taken the boy in and had looked after him as well as they could. They were a stolid pair with no children of their own. They filled their days with what seemed to be endless, plodding labor that was rarely lightened by affection or amusement. Because of them, and because there were no other children of Jarral’s age in the tiny village, he had got quite used to his own company and to the games of his own invention, in which he played the parts of warriors and heroes.
So, as he jogged through the shadow-patterns of the Wellwood and heard strange, faint noises in the distance, his imagination began at once to dream up a game, or a story, that might fit around those noises.
Then he stopped. A breeze had brought some of the sounds more clearly to his ears. They came from the direction of the village, now less than a mile away. The half-invented game faded from his mind as uneasiness wrapped around him with a sudden chill.
The noises sounded like screams—the ragged screams of people gripped by unimaginable agony and terror.
He began to move forward again, tense and nervous, straining to hear more. Ahead, the land sloped steeply upwards towards a long, flat ridge that extended far into the distant forest depths. On much of the ridge an expanse of evergreens grew, leaving the ground free from dense brush. Jarral started up the slope, peering worriedly at the trees ahead. Then again he halted with a jolt, his heart leaping in a rush of panic.
Something had moved out from behind a tree near the top of the ridge. Something, or someone, huge and looming …
Then recognition filled Jarral’s eyes. He half-raised a hand. “Archer!” he called, his voice cracking with relief.
The figure moved smoothly down the slope towards him, still huge but no longer threatening. Archer was a giant—twice Jarral’s twelve-year-old height, half as tall again as the tallest man in the village. Archer was sun-browned and powerfully built, with arm muscles like cables from drawing the mighty bow that was slung across the broad shoulders.
But Archer also had a kindly face, bright grey eyes, dark brown curls, and a female shape within her jerkin and breeches of doeskin and her low, soft boots.
Archer had been visiting the village now and then for some years. She was a wandering hunter, with a huge bow that few men could draw—and with an uncanny skill that no man could match. During her visits she had always been especially kind to Jarral, claiming a fellowship since she had been raised an orphan, too, in her homeland far to the east. She had become one of Jarral’s dearest friends. He had even begun to dream that one day she might take him with her on her travels.
His dream was about to come true—though not in a way that Jarral could ever have imagined, or wished for.
His grin of greeting faded when he saw the look on Archer’s usually cheerful face. A pain-filled darkness shadowed her broad brow, and anger flashed from her eyes and leaped in the clenched muscles of her jaw. For a moment Jarral thought that he had done something wrong. But then he saw that the giant woman’s anger was not aimed at him. The village, he thought fearfully. She has come from the village.
“Archer, what’s happening?” he asked.
Archer shook her head. “Horrible things, Jarral. Things I can hardly make myself speak about.” Her grey eyes searched his, in a gaze that mingled sorrow and fury and deep distress. “You are young, Jarral, but you must be brave. What I must tell you will be the worst thing that you have known in your life.”
Jarral stared, wide-eyed with fear.
Archer’s mouth twisted. “The village has been destroyed, Jarral. Everyone is dead—except you. The cottages, the gardens, the barns and fields—all has been crushed and burned. There is nothing left.”
The clouds above the forest rumbled with deep thunder as Archer spoke. Jarral had begun to shiver, seeing mental images of his cousins, his friends, the village as he knew it. Tears filled his eyes and a terrible coldness spread through him. Again his voice cracked slightly as he spoke. “Who … who did it? Why would anyone do that?”
Archer shook her head again. “I do not know why. But I know that the Prince Mephtik did it. Or ordered it to be done by his soldiers and his … creatures.”
“Prince Mephtik?” Jarral had heard the name only once or twice before. Villagers mentioned it in nervous murmurs, if at all, and Jarral had known that it was a subject to be avoided.
“Mephtik, called the Poisoner,” Archer said. “The ruler of all these lands, this whole eastern domain.”
Jarral’s trembling grew worse as tears blurred his vision. “Why would a prince destroy the village and … and kill everyone? What did we do?”
Archer laid a strong brown hand on his shoulder. “I do not know, Jarral. He is the Poisoner, a man of terrible cruelty and evil. He does many monstrous things that seem to have no meaning.”
Jarral’s tears finally spilled over. “What’s going to happen to me?” he wailed.
“You will come with me,” Archer said gently.
Jarral sobbed, then leaned forward against the towering figure. Archer put an arm around his shoulders, kindly and comforting, as Jarral wept out his loss and bewilderment and fear. But in a moment, as the thunder growled again, Archer gripped his shoulders and stepped back.
“We cannot mourn properly now,” she said. “The Poisoner’s servants are still in the Wellwood. We must get away, swiftly.”
“Can we go and … look at the village?” Jarral asked.
“No,” Archer said quickly. “There is nothing left to see, except horror. Remember it as you last saw it….”
Her voice broke off as she stiffened, then dropped into a low crouch, dragging Jarral down beside her. “Be still!” she hissed.
Panic clutched at Jarral again. “What—what—?” he stammered.
“Soldiers,” Archer said. “There.”
Jarral’s gaze followed her pointing finger, but even straining his eyes he could see no one. He was not surprised, for he had long known about Archer’s astonishing keenness of eye over vast distances. But a second later he could just glimpse a movement, much farther along the ridge-top. It was a vague shape that looked like a horse and rider. And the rider seemed to be clad in a weird, mottled green.
“Do the soldiers wear green?” Jarral asked.
As Archer nodded, an eerie sound came to their ears. Not distant thunder, this time, but a strange combination of a breathy hiss and a rapid, rustling patter, like the paws of two or three dogs galloping through the forest.
The sound turned Archer pale beneath her tan. She unslung her bow and drew from her quiver an arrow nearly as long as Jarral was tall. She gripped both so tensely that her arm muscles leaped and knotted.
“There is something besides soldiers on that ridge, Jarral,” she murmured. “So now we must run, as fast as we can. You must keep going, deep into the forest, without looking back, without stopping. No matter what I do, or what you hear, keep running until you can run no more—and then walk or crawl if you must. But do not stop. Do you understand?”
Jarral was rigid with fright. On the distant ridge he saw another flicker of the mottled green of a soldier’s uniform, then another. And beyond them, briefly visible in an open area, he seemed to see a weirdly shaped shadow, dark and low-slung, moving in what was surely an impossible way….
A sob escaped his lips as he whirled and fled into the depths of the Wellwood, terror flinging him forward at a headlong speed, with Archer in a long-legged gallop just behind him.
Terror gathered around Jarral like a haze. It was as if he were flying along a narrow, leaf-walled tunnel. He saw only the twigs and thorns that clutched at him as he plunged through leafy tangles—only the fallen logs or patches of bog that threatened to trip him up as he sped along the barely visible forest trail.
But his mind was half-aware of the eeriness around him—the ghastly silence among the trees. Even the thunder had faded, though dark clouds still shed murkiness onto the forest. It seemed as if every creature of the Wellwood, even the trees themselves, had been silenced by the presence of unnatural horror.
Then he stumbled and almost collapsed under a fresh assault of panic. He had realized he was alone. The steadying bulk of Archer was no longer behind him. Then he might have disobeyed the bow-woman’s order—might have stopped running, turned to look back. But before he could do so, he heard a series of noises in the distance.
One was the sound of galloping hooves, seeming very loud in that eerie stillness. As Jarral’s pace faltered, he heard, from fairly close by, the deep, musical twang of Archer’s bowstring. It was followed, from farther away, by a high-pitched human shriek. There was an abrupt halt to the galloping hooves.
Then Archer was suddenly with him again, running with long strides, not at all out of breath. “Do not slow down, Jarral!” she cried. “The danger is great!”
So Jarral resumed his desperate flight, ignoring the twinges in his leg muscles and the ache in his chest. Again the haze settled around him, blotting out everything but the tunnel-like trail ahead. And again, a few minutes later, Archer faded back, letting Jarral dash on alone.
This time, instead of hooves in the distance, he heard that other combination of sounds: the weird hissing and pattering. The memory of that dimly glimpsed shadow on the ridge sent a shockwave of icy terror along his spine, which poured new energy into his tiring legs. Once again Archer’s bowstring sang its baritone note. But the sound of pursuit did not stop. The fearsome hiss and patter kept on—only seeming slowly to swing aside and fade away.
Could Archer have missed? The thought nearly drove Jarral to his knees, for she had never done so in all the times he had seen her shoot. Then Archer was at his side again, running tirelessly, but with a grim and troubled expression, indicating that Jarral’s thoughts had been correct.
But at least the arrow must have driven the unknown horror off their trail, for they ran on now surrounded only by the ominous stillness. By that time, Jarral’s legs were like lifeless wood and his lungs were aflame. But still Archer urged him on, still his panic drove him like a whip. Eyes blurred with near-exhaustion as well as fear, he did not see the barrier across the trail. Not until Archer, with a cry, clamped a great hand on the back of his shirt and flung him sideways into a leafy bush.
There he lay for a moment, breathing in huge sobbing gulps, before crawling slowly out of the bush. And fresh terror closed round his throat and body like huge. . .
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