by S L Ager
She looked up at Owain again, but he said nothing.
Terrified, envisaging beetles and bugs, she placed her hands back in the dirt. Steeling138 herself, inch by inch, her determination139 and conscience140 motivating141 her on, she crawled into the space. Owain shone his bright torch, lighting her way.
At least I can see now, she thought, then immediately recoiled.
Incapacitated142 with revulsion, she pictured a bed of stinging insects in the dirt beneath her. Forcing herself forward, sweating with terror, she crawled on, straggling143 behind Gwilym and Jack, trying not to touch anything alive with her hands and yelping each time she thought she did.
‘Keep going. Keep going,’ she chanted, coaxing144 herself grudgingly145 forward. ‘How long is this tunnel? Please. I hate this. How long is it?’ she asked Owain, panic rising further as dirt and dust fell down into her eyes and mouth.
‘We are nearly there; it is short,’ replied Owain.
‘Calm, Claire, calm,’ she told herself, gagging146 on a mouthful of dirt.
Up ahead, Gwilym was waiting for her. She increased her crawling speed, placated147 at seeing him and at a glimpse of Jack’s deliriously148 happy tail. In front of Gwilym, she could see a handleless wooden hatch149 blocking their way.
‘Jack, back!’ Gwilym ordered.
The knight, restricted by the tunnel’s size, squared his bulk150 against the wood and shouldered151 the barricade152, pushing it inwards, enabling his fingers to curl around its edge. Grappling for a better purchase153, he finally managed to lever154 it out of the way. Claire almost butted155 Gwilym out through the opening as she pushed forward, gasping for air. She shot out, landing face down on yet another dirty floor.
The tunnel had opened into a dark, austere156 room, now partially lit by Owain’s torch. He found an old-fashioned light switch on the wall, and a muted157 yellow light glowed softly, partly illuminating158 their features.
Shelves stuffed with antiquities – conserved159 articles160 of all shapes and sizes – surrounded them, covered in a thick layer of dust, seemingly untouched for years. Claire knelt, spitting out and blinking away dirt. A covering of filth speckled161 Jack’s coat. Sneezing and snuffling, he shook the grime off in the way only dogs can, twisting and shaking in opposite directions from nose to tail, coating162 Claire in the process163. She laughed as she brushed it from her sleeves, and was overcome164 by an urge to hug him, so she held him close, kissing his dirty nose.
Standing up slowly, she absorbed her new surroundings. Yesterday she wouldn’t have entertained165 that smothering hole of a tunnel; she would have refused point blank. I can do this, she thought, staring steadfastly at the two men and Jack, bracing166 herself for whatever came next.
7. The Race for the Cutter
Upstairs in the stuffy cinema, Rebecca Cadwallader was oblivious to her sister’s timely arrival in the basement1 beneath her. In fact, Rebecca Cadwallader was becoming oblivious to anything.
‘Sir, Rebecca’s not well,’ Josh Drane called to his teacher, interrupting the film. His bogus2 act of caring and civil3 behaviour deserved an award.
‘What’s the matter, Drane?’ replied Mr Hollie, looking dubiously at his pupil.
‘Dunno, sir. She’s acting funny and she’s hot. She says she’s gonna faint. I don’t think she’s putting it on,’ replied Drane slimily.
The powdered drug he’d administered4 to Rebecca’s drink would keep her feeling unwell, though not so ill as to pressure the teacher to cancel the trip. Rebecca would comply5 with Drane and, better still, afterwards remember nothing.
‘Rebecca, how are you? What’s wrong?’ whispered Mr Hollie, approaching her seat.
The other pupils craned6 their necks to look as whispers rapidly spread around the hushed cinema. Clearly, they needed little excuse to distract them from the educational film – they had no interest in following it.
‘I feel funny, sir. A bit weird and boiling hot. I want to lie down.’
Drane watched the teacher study the telltale sheen7 of sweat on Rebecca’s wan8 face as she slurred9 her words.
Mr Hollie sniffed, then sighed. ‘This is all I need,’ he said, tutting.
‘Mmm, she’s sober,’ he muttered to himself. ‘I can’t detect any trace of alcohol10.’
‘Drane, stay here with Rebecca and Miss Malik. I’ll be right back. I’m going to ask Mr Evans for help. She needs to lie down somewhere.’
‘Course, sir,’ replied Drane, his face portraying a picture of concern.
Mr Hollie turned with an irritated groan towards his assistant.
‘Miss Malik, Rebecca Cadwallader isn’t feeling well. Stay with her and supervise11 the class while I confer12 with Mr Evans, the museum’s curator,’ he demanded imperiously.
Not waiting for her answer, he hurried out.
Outside the cinema door, he almost rammed into the curator. ‘Oh good, Mr Evans,’ he blurted.
‘Is everything all right, Mr Hollie?’ queried13 Mr Evans. ‘The film has a while to run yet.’
‘One of my pupils is unwell. Could she lie down somewhere? Hopefully, it won’t be for long,’ said the teacher. ‘I’m sure there’s no real malady14, but it is rather hot and stuffy in there,’ he added in a pompous15 manner.
‘Oh dear, I am sorry. We have an office with a reclining16 chair. She can rest there with my wife, if that helps,’ replied Mr Evans.
‘Yes, please. Thank you, and sorry for the inconvenience17,’ replied the teacher.
Mr Evans spoke into a clunky18 walkie-talkie radio, requesting his wife be asked to come to the cinema urgently. Within a minute or so, a crook-backed lady shuffled into sight. She had frizzy19 grey hair, rounded shoulders and what could only be described as a drab20 and meek21 demeanour22. Her large, hooked nose supported thick-lensed glasses that magnified23 her watery and bloodshot24 eyes.
Mr Evans spoke for her.
‘This is my wife, Marjorie. She will help with your pupil. Shall we move her to the office?’ He gestured.
‘Yes. That would be most helpful; thank you for accommodating25 her,’ replied Mr Hollie. ‘No need to cancel anything unless she deteriorates26; let’s not worry her parents yet.’
The teacher and his wife supported Rebecca under each arm as they helped her from the cinema. Drane emerged and stared straight at the curator Evans, a challenge in his eyes. He knew Evans sensed his true identity but was positive27 the old man wouldn’t dare act against him single-handedly. Although, he didn’t much care; he was ready. Drane never underestimated28 any Instinctive, knowing too well that appearances could deceive29, but his confidence30 in their prodigious31 plan prevailed. His Master would soon arrive to reclaim32 the bracelet that held the Gwalch Gem; the bracelet would soon be theirs again.
Before Drane had arrived at his museum, Robert Evans had unlocked the furthest side room in the basement, clearing the entrance and exit tunnels Gwilym Cadwaladr would need. Having checked his two resident security guards were at their relevant33 stations, he knew all was now in place.
The museum’s alarm worked from an old-fashioned security room situated on the first floor. One overweight, unfit guard sat swinging in a swivel34 chair. Employed35 to monitor the museum’s CCTV screens, he stuffed his face with crisps and watched videos on his phone instead. Periodically36 he cast37 an indifferent38 glimpse at the grainy39 screens. If someone tampered40 with an exhibition case, an alarm triggered41 on his console42. Now and then, overzealous43 youngsters accidentally set them off, but serious incidents44 were hitherto45 unheard of.
The guard’s partner, trying to look important, patrolled around the exhibition hall and surrounding areas. The two guards sometimes swapped places to stave off46 the boredom. Still, none of this mattered. The guards were utterly47 powerless to protect the gem; their presence existed solely48 for show. The Knights Hawk had engineered the glass that housed the gem, creating an impenetrable49 fort. The only device50 capable51 of breaking into the invincible52 glass was the Cutter.
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p; Mr Evans observed judiciously53 as Drane followed the adults and the sick girl into the office. Reluctant to let Drane out of his sight, he tore himself away and headed straight for the basement. There remained one more task to perform to safeguard54 the gem’s future. Hurrying, he didn’t notice two boys exit the cinema and walk nonchalantly in different directions. Nor did he spot the suited man who moved unseen amongst the glass cabinets55.
The man who had just entered the museum unseen had easily avoided being caught on CCTV. Fully aware of the guard’s insignificance56, he predicted57 the real security would arrive in the form of the Knights Hawk. Specifically58 when and how they would show themselves was unknown, but his band59 of young Mal-Instinctives were in place, and the girl was taken care of. Today he would take back ownership60 of the Gwalch Gem bracelet. The man paused, calculating his every move. He watched Evans cross the exhibition hall and leave by a narrow door that he knew led down to the basement. He waited a few seconds, then followed.
As he opened the door, he glanced over his shoulder, checking no one undesirable61 saw him. He didn’t see the black cat that darted through the door at the very moment of his backward look. The two youths who had left the cinema sauntered62 among the cabinets, pretending to enjoy their contents. They, too, waited awhile and then, one at a time, crossed the hall, following their leader through the door and down the steps into the basement.
The lean63, suited man lurked64, shadowing65 Evans. Far enough behind not to be seen, he pursued66 his quarry67 as it scurried68 deeper into the basement. The old man Evans would lead him to the Cutter; without it he would never shatter the showcase that masqueraded69 as standard70 glass. He must acquire71 the Cutter, the fragment72 the Knights Hawk harvested73 from the Gwalch Gem itself when they had seized74 it back from him, all those years ago.
In a similar way that a diamond is needed to cut another diamond, the knights had created a glass that could be cut solely by a piece of the gem itself. Consequently75, it alone would permit entry into that case. Here lay the gem’s infallible76 security. The impenetrable glass, the Cutter and the Knights Hawk guaranteed77 the gem’s safety.
Beyond the foot of the stairs, the hostile78 basement twisted into a cold, airless collection of corridors that quickly narrowed into tight passageways. They led off to myriad79 side rooms and complex80 tunnels as antiquated81 lamps flickered, scarcely82 lighting the way. Undeterred83, Evans knew the layout far too well to fear it. He made his way ably84 along the dim route until he reached the room from which Gwilym Cadwaladr was due to emerge. He stopped in front of the closed door and listened before tapping lightly. After a slight delay came the faintest of coded responses. He turned the handle and nudged the door ajar85. Glancing back over his shoulder, checking the immediate vicinity86, he opened the door and entered the room.
‘Glad you are here, sir, and Owain too,’ said Evans, bowing his head in respect at the knights. ‘I must report the boy Drane has the sister.’ Abruptly he quietened – he had spotted Claire.
‘Thank you, Evans.’ Gwilym stepped in, curtailing87 further conversation. ‘Please brief me outside before we proceed,’ he added, heading for the door, allowing Evans no opportunity to comment.
Shocked, Claire instantly88 recognised Evans as the creepy89 man from the train that morning. What on earth was he doing here? It felt an age ago, yet it had only happened that morning. Why had he been on that train, and how had he beaten the helicopter and reached the museum before them? Wary of him earlier, she felt her unease tangibly90 now, but as the two men re-entered, she knew her questions must wait.
‘Owain, stay down in the basement and cover the key91 areas. Evans will go in the opposite direction.’ Gwilym spoke in urgent bursts. ‘The Master will come with Mal-Instinctives. I must go to the gem. Claire, this way,’ he said curtly92, heading back into the corridor. ‘Owain, take Jack with you,’ he ordered.
Within earshot, but secreted93 away in the shadows, the suited man blended unnoticed as he observed the knights, missing nothing and evaluating94 everything. As Owain left with Jack, the hidden man nodded an affirming95 signal back to his two waiting boys to tail96 the knight. The suited man stood silent and still. He watched and listened as Gwilym turned back towards the waiting curator.
‘Evans, you know what to do. Go to the Cutter now. Protect it with your life.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Evans replied, then moved to leave.
‘Claire, this way,’ said Gwilym.
From the shadows, the suited man smiled to himself. He watched them all leave and then turned to pursue Evans, who he now knew would lead him directly to what he needed.
Owain’s wide stride covered ample97 ground as he followed Gwilym’s orders. As he headed in the opposite direction to Evans, his supercharged torch lit the basement in wide, sweeping arcs. He navigated the labyrinth98 of passageways and side rooms, only one of which held the Cutter, but the Knights Hawk had branded99 it to memory. So far, he’d found no sign of Mal-Instinct as he swept his light around each musty chamber. He investigated every nook100 and cranny101, every twist and turn, and there seemed nothing untoward102. Then, suddenly, Jack froze, rooted103 to the spot. His hackles104 up, he gurgled an ominous105, low growl. Owain stopped dead, shrinking back for cover in a dusty recess106 covered in cobwebs107.
‘What is it, boy?’ he whispered.
Jack’s growl deepened. His ears pricked forward, and his scruffy108 body stiffened, ready to pounce. That was when Owain took the first kick. Fast, furious109 and expertly executed110, it knocked him clean off his feet. Stunned, he rolled onto all fours, deflecting part of a second kick; then he vaulted111 up onto his feet, ducking the third completely.
Akin to a samurai’s112 blade, his reflexes113 were honed114 as his attackers struck again. The two boys were trained combatants115 and, although still young, fought viciously116. Owain instantly identified117 them as Mal-Instinctives. One boy posed118 no problem; two would be troublesome.
They came at him relentlessly, whirling and kicking, throwing steely119 punches and kicks with lightning-quick moves. They were martial artists, acrobatic120 and systematic121, but then so was Owain. A Knight Hawk, he’d had centuries to acquire these Eastern techniques122 and had been taught by classical123 tutors. He parried and dodged more than he attacked, tactically124 wanting to tire them out, then finish them. The Knights Hawk would not condemn125 needlessly126; they captured and reasoned127, but if all else failed, then they would kill.
With ease, the larger boy leapt towards him, spinning a phenomenal128 three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn in the air. He kicked high, towards Owain’s face, his foot connecting129 precisely. Owain took the cruel blow to his chin and stumbled. The other boy grabbed him from behind, wrestling130 him to the floor. The back of Owain’s head hit the ground with a sickening smack.
They had him, or so it seemed, but perhaps their misplaced131 conceit132 caused them to drop their guard. Jack, waiting, sprang from the shadows. The boy who was now straddling133 Owain’s chest lifted his fist to punch again as the terrier’s teeth sank into his upper thigh. Jack had always prided himself on his canine accuracy134, and rarely missed. When a Jack Russell locks its jaw onto its prey, it doesn’t let go. The youth rolled back, wailing135 as Jack’s head shook aggressively136 against the boy’s skin. Seemingly distracted by his accomplice’s137 howling, the other boy’s grip on Owain loosened. It was enough; Owain took him down with a stunning blow. The boy would be unconscious138 for some time.
‘Jack, leave!’ commanded Owain, grabbing the other bleeding youth and yanking him to his feet.
Jack immediately let go of the boy. Owain dragged the wailing youth into a side room, where he bound and gagged him, using the boy’s own belt and socks. Blood oozed139 through his trousers, but he’d live. It took more than that to kill a Mal-Instinctive.
Owain deftly secured140 the other boy in the same manner and sprinted away down the corridor. Stealth was not an option now, and speed was crucial141. These boys were mere f
oot soldiers; the Master would be present. He had to find Evans, and the Cutter, right now.
On the opposite side of the murky142 basement, slinking through the dark, the statuesque143, suited man tailed Robert Evans. For him, the Mal-Master, following the little old knight was easy, and Evans would lead him to the Cutter. He was unruffled144 that Evans had sensed him following and plunged145 the passageways into darkness; that wouldn’t stop him. On the contrary146, he revelled in the smell of the beleaguered147 knight’s fear.
Reaching a crossroads in the passageway, the panting knight turned a sharp right, then stopped abruptly. The Master smiled to himself. Show me the door, old knight. Show me the door. The Master waited, listening. He must move cautiously lest148 he scare Evans off; Evans must disclose149 the Cutter to him.
The Master detected no movement from Evans. A thrill shot through him; the Cutter must be close. He must remain patient. Dozens of doors lined the passageway. Which one would Evans enter?
‘Patience, Dewi,’ he told himself. ‘Patience.’
Without warning, a dazzling flash of emerald light filled the shadows, its luminescence150 so astoundingly bright it momentarily blinded the Master.
Blinking furiously, the Master swooped around the corner in time to hear one of the side-room doors slamming shut. He dived at the door, forcing it open to reveal complete darkness. Only a single second passed between lifting his night-vision monocular151 to his eye and finding the light switch, but to his chagrin152, Evans was nowhere to be seen.
Evans had simply vanished. Still, the Master didn’t care about Evans. He didn’t care what magic the knight had conjured to escape, because he could sense the Cutter’s presence in this room. Whichever secret tunnel Evans had disappeared into as a ploy153 to divert154 him did not matter. The Master sensed the Cutter’s proximity, and it was calling to him.