by S L Ager
The side room’s time-worn shelves were lined with labelled objects and obsolete155 exhibits156 from upstairs, painstakingly157 categorised158 by type. The Master raised his hands to chest height and inclined159 his palms outwards, gliding them languidly160 towards specific ornaments161. Closing his eyes, he hummed as they levitated162 up and down the protruding ledges, assiduously163 seeking his prized goal, his single target.
Detecting the slightest sensory164 disturbance165 at his fingertips, he paused; his humming ceased166. He didn’t move, focusing on one object. Calmly opening his serpentine167 eyes, he looked closely at what appeared to be a disregarded trinket168 placed at the back of the burgeoning169 shelf.
He stepped in closer, sniffing at it and snorting like a pig discovering the rarest of truffles170. It was a petite171 fairy figurine172 holding a bow, a quiver173 of arrows perched sweetly on her back. He picked it up and blew away a layer of dust. A thin grin distorted174 his mouth as he plucked175 out a fragile176 arrow from her quiver. He held it up to his eyes, twirling it around in smug ceremony, savouring the moment. There, on the end, unpolished177 and barely visible, was the fragment of Gwalch Gem. This fragment, the Cutter, could cut the otherwise impenetrable glass before those incompetent178 security guards would notice a thing. Dropping the figurine onto the floor, he laid his trophy179 protectively180 into a tiny metal box and placed it into his breast pocket.
The Master then returned to the job in hand. Had his boys dealt with Owain, or would his knightly skills have overcome them? Either way, Evans, wherever he had disappeared to, would know he was likely to have found the Cutter, their sacred181 tool, and would alert the Knights Hawk. He knew he must act quickly, and fled back into the maze of passageways, heading towards the stairs that would take him up into the exhibition hall and to the case that held the Gwalch Gem bracelet.
Seconds later, Owain reached the room, missing the Master by a heartbeat. Flinging open the door and sweeping the dusty space with his torch, his heart plunged – he was too late. The fairy figurine lay shattered on the ground, and he knew checking the quiver would be futile182 – the arrow wouldn’t be there. Now the Master had the Cutter, Owain thought of nothing but protecting the Gwalch Gem bracelet. He spun around and raced back towards the stairs, fast on the heels of the Master.
8. A Knight’s Tale
Upstairs in the museum’s office, Rebecca lay dribbling onto the cushion of a tatty chair. Josh Drane perched on its arm, seeming to nurse her so convincingly1 that Mr Hollie had left them with the curator’s wife and rushed back to check on his class in the cinema. In the cramped2 office, a composed3 and collected4 Marjorie Evans carefully observed Drane. She was always a patient woman, and her demeanour remained unflappable5 and reticent. Playing cat and mouse, they waited, poised and silent. Opposing6 Instinctives knew the threat of each other’s presence.
The drugged girl’s palpable7 trepidation8 filled the inadequate9 space. Rebecca lay incapable10 now, the dose11 of chemicals asserting12 their comprehensive13 control. She would listen only to Drane and, once recovered, would remember nothing.
Outside the office, in the exhibition hall, the boy who had sneaked from the back of the cinema line earlier loitered14 amongst the glass cases. Surreptitiously checking the time, he feigned interest in the exhibits, imitating15 an ordinary, interested student and not the planted16 decoy17 and Mal-Instinctive that he was.
He watched the second hand sweep twice around the museum’s giant clock face. Then, using his full body weight, he shoved a glass exhibit case as forcibly18 as he could, continuing to rock it back and forth.
Upstairs in the security centre, the flabby19 guard, Dave, visibly choked as the alarm rang out.
‘Come in, Bert, come in,’ he spluttered into his walkie-talkie, spraying a shower of crisps from his mouth. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he heaved20 himself up to his feet. ‘What is it, mate?’ Bert’s voice crackled over the radio.
‘Number one five eight, the alarm’s going off. I can see a lad rocking the case,’ replied the guard, spattering crisps again. ‘I’ll meet you there.’
He brushed crumbs off his portly21 stomach, puffed out his chest and donned his guard’s cap. Case 158 was an awfully long walk from the security room. Normally, he’d gripe22 at the prospect of unwelcome exercise, but right now, he didn’t mind at all. So excited at his chance to play the hero, he broke from his dallying23 into a wobbly trot. As he waddled24 off to help Bert with the boy, his fleshy paunch25 of a belly sloshed from side to side, like an overfilled beach ball.
At the opposite end of the exhibition hall, away from the guards, a gap in the door cracked open, and Gwilym peeked through. Using the kerfuffle26 between the boy and the guards to his advantage27, he beckoned Claire to follow him up the last few steps into the hall. He closed the door behind them, and they darted for cover, scrabbling between towering wooden shelves stuffed with volumes28 of antique29 books, which lined one wall of the hall. Scanning the area, Gwilym quickly evaluated30; across the hall, he saw the cinema door was still closed, and according to Evans, Drane held the girl. He put a finger to his lips and signalled to Claire to remain still.
His Instinct warned him that the footsteps he heard approaching behind him from the basement belonged to neither Owain nor Evans. This presence, merely31 feet away, forewarned32 him of a Mal-Instinctive he had not encountered33 for many years.
‘Dewi,’ he whispered.
‘What?’ asked Claire, seeing the look on Gwilym’s face. ‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘It is Dewi, Llywelyn’s brother.’
‘Where?’ said Claire, her eyes darting everywhere.
‘Behind us. If he has the Cutter, then we are too late,’ said Gwilym.
‘The Cutter?’ asked Claire, remembering what Gwilym had said to Evans just minutes before.
‘I must go back,’ he said in a low, urgent whisper.
‘Why?’ she asked.
‘I have no time to explain. Your sister is in the office. Drane is Dewi’s second in command, and his Mal-Instinct may be powerful. You must now face him alone,’ he said, pointing across the hall.
‘But how can I help Rebecca without you?’ she asked, but he had already turned away.
As he moved to the door, Claire shrank into the shadow of the bookshelf and watched him go.
Bracing himself, Gwilym jerked open the basement door. The steep steps revealed unexpected emptiness, the threatening presence nowhere to be seen. Only a familiar lone34 white bundle35 sat at the bottom of the steps.
‘Jack,’ said Gwilym, ‘go with Claire now,’ he commanded, running down the steps towards him. ‘Go!’
Jack scaled36 the steep steps two at a time, his claws struggling for purchase on the slippery surface. He quickly reached the top, but in his haste, Gwilym had descended into the basement and let the door shut behind him, leaving Jack stranded37 on the top step.
Jack pushed his nose repeatedly at the door, but it wouldn’t yield. Standing on his hind legs, his frantic paws scratched hard at the paint. He panted as he sprang up and down, trying to reach the handle, knocking it with his front paws. The tenacious38 Jack Russell refused to submit and bounced and sprang until, eventually, persistence39 paid off, and he struck the handle inch-perfect. Levering the handle in precisely the right spot, he dipped it enough to release the catch, and it gave way. A couple of centimetres opening offered enough for Jack’s impatient nose to push through, making room for his slim shoulders. The dog’s determination succeeded, and he wriggled the rest of his body through the limited space and sped towards Claire.
Beneath, in the basement, Gwilym edged deeper into the dim, airless passages. Drops of fetid40 moisture dripped from the mouldy41 ceiling, splashing his stony42 face. He flicked them away with the back of his hand, pausing to assess43 his next steps. If he moved prematurely44, he would risk an ambush45. Regardless of the door that had been between them, the Master had sensed him, yet not attacked. This meant one thing: if Dewi ran from him, he
did so with purpose. Dewi fought a fearless and malicious46 fight; he would never portray cowardice47. Gwilym knew him far too well for that. Llywelyn’s brother never exhibited48 weak or craven49 behaviour. So why did he turn from him? Why not confront50 Gwilym there on the steps? He deduced51 it must relate52 to the Cutter – and he must find it now.
In the maze of the basement’s outer depths, Owain sprinted from the ransacked53 side room. With the Cutter gone and Evans not there, he had arrived too late. He bolted54 along the subterranean55 passages, ducking the low ceilings and sliding on damp, earthy floors. Whoever had stolen the Cutter, and Owain feared he knew, would move so quickly they would be difficult to intercept56. As he ran towards the basement steps, he gave no thought to Gwilym, Claire or Evans; his priority57 centred purely58 on saving the Cutter.
Meanwhile, as Gwilym crept deeper into the bowels59 of the sombre basement, he knew Dewi still lurked in its oppressive depths. As he hunted Llywelyn’s brother, images of him filled his mind: Dewi, who had so betrayed the prince centuries before, stealing his wife and causing the death of his beloved hound, Gelert; the brother who had stolen the Gwalch Gem bracelet, plundering60 it for his own greedy gain, leaving the prince heartbroken and desolate61; Dewi, The Master of the Mal-Instinctives.
Anger burned his throat in a bitter62 stream of bile63. Struggling to swallow, he pictured the evil horrors committed64 by Dewi while he had possessed the bracelet. He checked himself, forcing the grievous65 past from his mind. Anger and resentment66 would serve only to hinder67 and weaken him against his arch-enemy, and that he could ill afford.
But this overpowering68 passion69 allowed the Master his way in.
Suddenly something pulled at Gwilym’s insides; a crucifying70 clench gripped him. A torture so potent71, so life-sapping72, he fell stricken to his knees. Clutching his head in an unworldly73 agony, an unpleasant, thick, metallic taste seeped onto his tongue.
Stumbling, weakened, he rose, turning fearlessly, expecting to face his foe74 – but saw no one. Again another searing pain floored him. Blundering75 about and disorientated, he staggered and leant against a tacky76, wet wall, blood now trickling from his mouth.
Wheeling77 around in torment, Gwilym sagged78 to the ground, agonised. Only by drawing from his deepest strength did he manage to drag himself upright, but then another expert blow landed, flooring him again. Reeling, he lay stunned, searching for this supreme assailant79. Yet the passage where he lay in agony presented no physical80 opponent81. No tangible Master fought this fight. No one stood before him. The deplorable82 demon83 was afflicting84 him internally85. Dewi was attacking him from the inside, and his brutally86 effective87 methods had broken him. Thoughts of the gem, and Claire alone upstairs, desperately filled his mind as he spiralled88 into oblivion89.
Just seconds away, Owain raced on, heading for the stairs that led to the exhibition hall. He must stop the glass case being cut. The bracelet must not be lost again; he had lived with that calamity90 before. Sprinting, he skidded round a slippery, sharp corner, staggering to maintain his balance. The flickering wall lamps finally failed, plunging the passage into darkness. Fumbling for his torch, he slowed, spotting a listless91, humped shape lying on the ground. An outline of a person, not moving, one far too still.
‘Gwilym?’ he whispered. ‘Gwilym!’ he cried in anguish92, sinking to his knees.
Shocked and feeling for a heartbeat, he scanned Gwilym for injuries; a cursory93 inspection revealed nothing obvious. A few superficial94 grazes95 should not trouble such a knight, but then what plagued96 Gwilym so?
‘Gwilym?’ he pleaded. ‘What is it? What afflicts you? Gwilym, speak!’ Owain shook his friend gently. ‘Gwilym?’
‘Dewi,’ wheezed97 Gwilym, struggling to open his eyes. ‘He is …’ but the venerable98 knight could say no more.
Owain held Gwilym in desperation, knowing the Master had hijacked99 the Cutter and defeated the strongest of knights. In turmoil100, he knew he must leave this noble knight, his friend, to an unknown destiny101 in order to save the Cutter.
Then a wild howl escaped his own throat. Racked102 with pain, immobilised103 in twisting agony, he, too, collapsed, writhing beside his friend. Dewi’s strength had grown throughout his years of longing to repossess104 the bracelet. Never had these knights encountered this abhorrent105, maybe lethal106, tactic, clawing and ripping at their very core.
Owain succumbed107 quickly. Powerless, he touched his fellow knight one last time. ‘Gwilym, you are stronger than this tyrant108. You are mightier109 than he. Gwilym, please, please …’ beseeched110 Owain as his voice fell away to nothing, his body broken.
9. Hearing Things
As Claire glanced back at the basement’s closed door, she stifled a cough, spluttering as her heart pummelled1 her chest, as if its rhythm was thrown askew2. Gwilym had pursued the Master, abandoning3 her to fend for herself4.
So far, unable to move, she’d achieved nothing. Anxiety gnawed her stomach, twisting the emptiness as weakness consumed5 her. She trembled, unable to assemble6 her thoughts.
What had Gwilym said? She tried to remember. Detached7 from reality, she envisaged knights toiling8 in suffocating mines, sacrificing9 everything to find the magical Welsh gold. She pictured Rebecca, her Mum and Dad, Jayne’s warm smile and Ben beaming at his winner’s medals. Their images waltzed10 in frivolous11 merriment12, dizzying her head. Then, reality kicked back in, and cruel, salty tears washed the images clear away, blurring her vision as they did.
This morning she’d been Claire Cadwallader, a schoolgirl. What had she become? Some knight’s ‘niece’ with ‘Instinct’, capable of remarkable feats? She didn’t know, and she didn’t believe it, and now she faced an unknown, imminent test – alone.
Managing to take tiny steps, she ducked amongst the exhibits, avoiding being seen by the two security guards at the other end of the hall. One guard held a boy she recognised from Rebecca’s year. There was no sign of the rest of Rebecca’s class.
She dropped onto all fours and inched13 prudently14 forward, zigzagging around cabinets and stands, her knees gathering a collection of dusty grit as she crawled across the wide hall towards the office that held her sister. Reaching the other side, she rested against the wall between two shelves, steeling herself to move further along to the office.
Eventually, she broke cover and crawled up close to the office door, her heart beating in her throat. Paling15, she froze after her shoulder banged hard against the doorframe.
‘Ow!’ She’d bitten her lip so hard it bled. Licking the blood away, she awaited discovery but, thank goodness, none came. Her knotted16 shoulders slackened17 in relief as a long, silent sigh escaped her lungs.
Stalling18, consumed by fear and indecision19, she bit her nails and vacantly20 regarded some ugly vases in a nearby case. She crouched half-upright and turned to face the door that stood between her and Rebecca. Teetering21, she reached for the handle but, unable to bring herself to turn it, retreated. She leant back against the wall, frustrated22 and annoyed, and sank down onto her backside. As she landed, she accidentally whipped her head sideways, catching her temple on the doorframe with a thud. It hurt.
‘Ouch!’ she yelped, rubbing the sizeable23 lump that instantaneously24 popped up. Curling into a ball, she rested her cheek against the wooden frame, tears brimming as she massaged25 the sore lump.
Below, in the basement, in the haze of his thoughts, Gwilym caught sight of the tall, slender26 beauty tenderly27 cradling her baby. A low, misty sun tinted her skin the hue of pale gold. She beamed in wonder towards her loving prince; proud, devoted28 parents of an heir29 born to become a wise and fair ruler. Her shimmering blonde tresses30 tumbled to her waist, casually tousled31; they floated like feathers, caressing32 the folds of her ivory33 robe34. An image of a doting mother and loving wife. A vision of enduring union, which cruelly faded away.
Gwilym blinked; his reluctant, heavy lids fought to open. He dredged35 his fogged brain, scouring for another glimpse o
f the woman whose tenuous36 image had entered his mind. He prised his eyelids apart, forcing them to focus. When they finally cooperated37, he lifted his head, but the image of the divine38 incantation39 had melted away. The vision that had been there, the mirage40, was gone.
‘Owain?’ he whispered. ‘Owain?’ he tried again.
Gwilym blinked and saw his friend and fellow knight lying beside him. Pushing the ground for support, Gwilym feebly41 laboured42 to his knees. Too weak to stand, he leant, crumpled, against the wall, disabled43. Slowly, very slowly, the fog in his brain lifted enough for him to think more clearly. Mercifully44, the beginnings of strength seeped into his beleaguered body.
‘Owain, Owain, you must try,’ he urged in a sudden blaze45 of clarity46. ‘He has not the might47 for the two of us. He cannot overthrow48 us if we join together; he cannot win.’
Gwilym realised the Master’s aggressive force had been diluted49 significantly between the two knights; his strength, sliced in half, was inferior50. One-on-one, the traitorous brother, Dewi, was hugely competent51, yet he could not smite52 both knights together. Combined53, Gwilym was certain Owain and he could prevail.
‘Owain, picture a victory, a shield, a defence no force can foil54,’ he implored55. ‘You are a Knight Hawk, a warrior56. Quell57 your emotion and fight,’ he encouraged, desperately trying to revive58 his friend. ‘Together we can thwart59 this dark Master. His evil cannot penetrate60 our minds if we unite61. Please, Owain, please hear me.’
A faint frown rippled across Owain’s forehead as he stirred, moaning.
‘Owain, he is using our minds to inflict62 terror on our bodies. He has insufficient63 strength for two. Join with me; build a wall; we can shut him out,’ begged Gwilym, squeezing his friend’s hand.