The Cadwaladr Quests

by S L Ager

  As the Master drew nigh87, sending the temperature in the passageway to scorching levels, Evans believed he was out of time. Turning his head away so as not to look his assailant in the eye, he pressed his thumb onto the Time-Tangler and waited for the Master’s forthcoming88 onslaught. Resigned89 to this destiny, devoid90 of energy, his knees buckled beneath him.

  He fell with a deafening crack and was propelled91 backwards at bullet-like speed, his back smacking into the wall. Dazed and in a stupefied92 heap, a brilliant flash blinded him. Shooting out between his clenched fingers, strips of incandescent93 light flooded the passage with flowing rods94 of fluorescent green. A circle of emerald lasers burst from the jewel’s centre, their unerring95 symmetrical96 rays converging97 to a single point in the centre of the door ahead.

  Fighting unconsciousness, Evans gripped the Time-Tangler in his palm. A mini vortex98, no bigger than a swirl of water escaping a small plughole99, appeared from the core100 of the green dot projecting onto the door. Expanding outwards, its speed and velocity101 drew in dirt and dust particles102, which whirled and twisted, obscuring the passageway as a tornado103 of grit and grime lashed at his face, pelting him with a hail104 of tiny stones.

  Summoning105 his last drop of physical and mental strength, Evans hurled himself head first at the intersecting106 lasers. As his feet left the ground, he flew like a rag doll and was sucked into the vortex through the door.

  Catapulted through time, then thrown into a disorientated heap onto a floor, Evans pushed the Time-Tangler back into his pocket and groped107 in the dark for clues as to where he was. The dust and smell told him he was in one of the museum’s familiar side rooms. Patting at the low, crowded shelves, he prayed he’d landed in the right one.

  Pushing himself onto his knees, steadying his dizziness, he felt along the rows of shelving. He fingered archived items, reading their shapes from memory, and he recognised the collection. He was a fastidious108 curator, and he soon realised this was the correct room.

  After pulling himself precariously onto his feet, he reached for the delicate fairy and took one arrow from her quiver. Gripping it in his fist, he patted the wall with his other hand, feeling for the door, when suddenly, with a resounding crash, it flew open, and a faint light flicked on.

  Evans collapsed, his legs liquefying109 with fear, because towering in the doorway before him was the Master. Now face to face with Dewi, he knew it was all over. Cowering110 beneath his captor111, Evans grasped the tiny arrow tighter in his fist. As Dewi took a menacing112 stride closer to him, Evans watched helplessly as the Master’s eyes swept the room. Then, as if to bait113 him, Dewi cackled, and made his move.

  Recoiling, Evans screamed, shielding his face with his hands, the arrow falling to the floor. But no strike fell. No blows rained down from above.

  Evans peeked bewilderedly114 through his trembling fingers. Totally ignoring him, the Master turned to face the shelves, his hands hovering in peculiar floating motions above the objects.

  But why? thought Evans. Why has Dewi not attacked me and taken the Cutter?

  Drawn by the slight warmth emanating from his waistcoat pocket, Evans reached into it for the faceless watch. The stone, now smooth and no longer pulsating, glowed the faintest fading green. Suddenly, injected115 with a rush of hope, Evans found his answer. The Master could not see him, as the Time-Tangler had brought them to the same place but in different times – time was still tangling them both.

  Before the stone could stop glowing, before the jaws of time snapped back to the present, Evans stuffed the Time-Tangler back into his pocket and snatched the arrow from the floor. Crawling to the door, without looking back, he stood and fled the room, heading for the long, bleak116 tunnels, taking one half of the Cutter with him.

  Now, hours later, as he lay frozen, his mind drifting from memories back into the present, relief coursed117 through Robert Evans’s veins as he felt the tiny arrow still gripped in his fist. Had he failed, Dewi would have detected both halves of the Cutter and succeeded in stealing the Gwalch Gem bracelet.

  But what price had Evans paid for his ambitions118 to deliver half of the Cutter to its rightful recipient119? The imperative120 delivery that would restore121 him to a great man; the delivery that remained unaccomplished122.

  His future now see-sawing precariously in an unpredictable123 balance, Evans lay immobile beneath the gargantuan124 foundations125 of the headquarters126 of the world’s most progressive127 tech128 company, Via-Corp. At the forefront129 of artificial intelligence130, its enigmatic131 but reclusive132 president, David Lewis, had amassed133 a fortune134 and was heralded135 as one of the century’s greatest innovators136 and philanthropists137. Modest, seldom seen in public, he declined all interviews138.

  Via-Corp often stole news headlines139 for its shunning of convention140, extolling141 its unorthodox142 enticement143 of youngsters still in school, emphasising they no longer needed costly144 degrees to flourish145. Disadvantaged146 but gifted147 children whose parents could neither dream of nor afford elite148 universities were encouraged to train there, and Via-Corp also sponsored149 refugees150 escaping from war-torn151 countries.

  Flaunting152 an audacious self-belief, Lewis had brazenly153 constructed154 futuristic155 offices in obscure156, deprived157 areas, bypassing158 the predictable, affluent towns and cities normally favoured by the giant corporates159. If a candidate160 passed the Via-Corp intelligence tests, state-of-the-art on-site accommodation161 came as part of a seductive162 and lucrative163 salary164 package. All this ensured the future talent of his company, which was radically165 disrupting166 the employment167 practices168 of young people. No longer did students have to follow the well-trodden path to success; they could come and join the Via-Corp family. It all seemed perfect.

  Oblivious to the time slipping dangerously by, Robert Evans eventually prised one sticky eyelid open, hoping his pupils would soon adjust to the dark. He waited. Would his fate169 be such a futile waste? Was his destiny to perish170 alone, unfound171 and forgotten, down here in the emptiness of the tunnels he had designed?

  Unable to move, he winced as an industrious172 army of ants marched fervently173 across his cheeks. A vehement174 multitude175 of legs tickled and irritated intensely, but his arms were incapable of swiping them off. Blinking madly, he blew sharp wafts176 of rank177 air up through brittle178, cracked lips, trying hopelessly to fan these persistent foot soldiers away.

  Continuing to blow, he directed his rapid, stale breaths onto his solidified179 hands. The faster he blew, the more his head whirled and his ears buzzed. A fuzzy black image seemed to dart by, startling him with flashes of colour. Almond-shaped lanterns180 of yellow-green light briefly confused his eyes. Dizzying, he slowed his breaths; he could lose consciousness181 and hallucinate182 again if he exerted himself this strenuously183 so soon. But he must thaw184 his fingers. Verging185 on hypothermia186, he forced himself to inhale deeper, puffing the tepid187 warmth onto his solid fists.

  Suddenly he flinched, startled by spherical188 drops of water dripping onto his taut face. Desperate to slake189 his thirst, he winced, twisting his stiff neck towards the falling drips, and opening his parched mouth, gratefully catching a few.

  Eventually, Evans’s body defrosted sufficiently, and he hauled himself up to a stoop. In these low tunnels, reaching his destination190 would be an arduous191 undertaking192, yet he would not squander193 this one chance by deviating194 from his plan. He would heave himself there if it killed him.

  Strangely, hunger didn’t hamper195 him, although an intolerable196 thirst and debilitating197 weakness dramatically198 hindered his progress. Thankfully, his knowledge of his underground engineering had stayed with him. With one hand buttressed199 firmly against the earthy tunnel, and the other grasping the Cutter, he limped along the dark tunnels, deeper into the vast foundations. Spitting foul200-tasting grime from his dehydrated201 mouth, he wondered how long he had been down there. Oxygen deprivation clouded his senses and judgement202. He c
raved203 the smell of the invigorating204 Welsh mountain air. He yearned for the shine of simple sunlight to nourish205 and energise206 his sallow207 skin. The gratuitous208 luxuries appreciable209 only when withheld, he wanted those back.

  Above ground, Via-Corp’s headquarters weren’t simply an office block; they sprawled into a small, bustling town made up of busy Via-Corp devotees210. Evans sought the epicentre211, the zenith212, where the most-committed213 personnel214 proffered215 their lives to David Lewis.

  Suddenly his fingers glanced216 against sleek217, glacial218 steel. He let out a yelp. Elated219, he knew he must be near. Metal and ducting220 meant one thing: he had reached the tower. Falling to his knees with relief and exhaustion, he had feared his demise221 was nigh. But thankfully, he had not forgotten how to navigate his own tunnels. Triumphant, he had arrived.

  At least, he had thought so. For out of nowhere, rising resplendently222 vertical, loomed a vast wall of ominous grey metal, an unexpected, towering, endless monolith223. The smug expression slowly slipped from his lips. Nothing but a solid barricade of fortified224 titanium225-steel alloy226 rose and spread, stretching perpetually227 beyond his scope228 of vision. A majestic edifice229 built solely to keep the undesirables from the doors of Via-Corp’s secret core. Dumbfounded, he inspected the stark metal’s cold expanse for clues of an entrance. There were none.

  Broken, he slumped back down as a self-pitying230 tear traced231 another dirty line down his hollow cheekbone. He closed his eyes, reminiscing232 about his lauded233 past as he capitulated into what felt like certain defeat.

  Evans’s dedication234 to mapping this mesh of underground passages where he now lay spanned many years. It enabled Instinctives to move unobserved using old underground shafts235. Without these, the knights would find it ruinously236 difficult to outwit Mal-Instinctives. Ably Evans had kept most of these routes hidden for centuries. The earliest tunnels, the knights had excavated237 themselves; later they used metal, slate and coal mines beneath the mountains and hills of Snowdonia. Thanks to Evans’s ingenuity238 and expertise239, their tentacles240 reached most major241 towns and cities, even under some seas. A labyrinth of protection, movement and escapology242 stretching to all corners of the earth, rigorously243 and painstakingly developed over time and known by only the most select244 honoured and trusted knights.

  Aeons245 ago, Robert Evans had been appointed246 chief247 counsel248 advocate249 and architectural250 advisor251 in the realm252 of Prince Llywelyn. He had designed and calculated magnificent structures, built castles, negotiated253 treaties254 and drawn up complex legal255 agreements for the prince. He had been a brilliant man held in high esteem256 as a royal courtier and servant257 of the Crown. Wherever Llywelyn had gone, Robert Evans had followed several unobtrusive steps behind. Prior to the pairing of the Gwalch Gem and the Welsh gold, Evans had occupied this position. When the full potency of the bracelet had been realised, Llywelyn’s dependence258 on Evans had increased further; his presence had become vital, almost indispensable259.

  However, jealousy can be virulent260 and savagely261 detrimental262, clouding263 the judgement of even the wisest, most scholarly264 men. Llywelyn had suspected certain courtiers coveted the bracelet, so Evans had acted as his undercover265 informant266, his secret agent267, there to serve the prince unfailingly268. Evans had planted a network of masterly spies, sleuthing269 eyes and ears who informed him day and night, an army of moles270 to scour the deepest, darkest corners of Llywelyn’s realm, relaying271 any covert hearsay, or coded messages of treason272.

  Llywelyn had bestowed273 the gift of Instinct and Longevity274 on only his outstanding275 knights. This prestige276 and glory277 had remained Evans’s greatest and most cherished honour, furthering his ardent278 compulsion279 to loyally serve the great prince and his memory, always.

  But little had he, or indeed anyone, dreamed it would be those closest to the prince, the very people in whom Llywelyn and he, Evans, had placed their implicit280 trust, who would falter and conspire281 to steal the bracelet. The conspirators282 had been the innermost283 royal kin, the prince’s wife and brother, Dewi. Both would cruelly betray and abandon Llywelyn in such a way as to scar him, indelibly, and make him slay284 his dutiful285 and innocent hound, Gelert.

  Evans could never have foreseen the identity of the traitors. Not even the greatest detective286 nor informant287 could have chaperoned288 and monitored every move of the prince’s wife and brother. Yet Evans felt that Llywelyn had somehow held him responsible for their deeds. From that moment on, he had fallen out of favour289 with the prince. He had no longer ridden out with Llywelyn, nor had he been invited to dine at the prince’s table. His counsel had no longer been called upon, and the prince had ceased to value his opinion.

  From then on, in a turmoil of anger, remorse290 and guilt, he had sweated and suffered, strategically291 planning and plotting his network of tunnels. Toiling endlessly to create something Llywelyn would be proud of, he had scribbled, sketched292, shaded and refined293 multiple drawings and charts. He had then diligently294 mapped them onto exquisite, luxurious295 parchments296 to prevent them from perishing over the years. Tortuously297 he had masterminded298 and overseen299 the excavations, creating trails to confound all except the Knights Hawk. Only they would find their way through these endless warrens300 of moist, earthy underpasses301. He, Evans, was the maestro302 of this subterranean maze, and Llywelyn and Gwilym Cadwaladr should be grateful to him.

  Now, in these fading moments slumped under the foundations of Via-Corp, he spent not one second reminiscing about his wife; he mourned303 only his personal loss. Alas, he would not become celebrated304 again, holding the position of esteemed prominence305 and gravitas306 he once had. His family life, in truth, had become a well-rehearsed pantomime307. A carefully cultivated facade308 comprising309 a veneer of pretence310, an outward fiction311, a sham312 so well practised, in truth, an abysmal313 lie. He cared only for his stately314 pride and how he ranked amongst others, their sentiments315 and opinions all important. Sadly, his wife Marjorie’s complicit316 behaviour too often condoned and sanctioned317 his deceitful selfishness. Rather than confronting his self-serving lies, she turned a cowardly eye to his bullying and obsessive pursuit318 of glory and reverence319. His compulsive320, narcissistic321 drive322 and self-centred323 need for applause324 by those in higher, privileged positions had indisputably325 ruined his family, tearing326 them asunder327. Still, they hid it very well.

  As he slipped away into the beckoning white light that appeared before him, he grieved328 only for his failure to repeal329 his relegation330, and the inability331 to gain the exoneration332 and recognition he felt he so greatly deserved. He mourned only the loss of title and prestige that failure to deliver the Cutter would leave. To him, this legacy333 was worse than death itself.

  Until this moment, he had spurned334 all stories of a heavenly335 brilliance appearing to beckon the dying into a painless, unsullied336 utopia337. Yet this ethereal338 light suggested such a welcome clemency339 and called him so compassionately that it endowed340 a tangible calm over his craven conscience. As its luminescence increased, he exhaled deeply and awaited his perceived harmony341. Tangling time twice, he felt certain, had killed him.

  But his departure from this world seemed to be taking longer than he anticipated. As an escalating342 heat warmed his face, he opened a faltering343 eye and saw a ray of dazzling white light, momentarily blinding him. Certain of his imminent death, he felt the intense heat scorch his skin. However, the searing pain abruptly hurled him back from self-pitying indulgence344 and he realised he was well and truly alive.

  Almost disappointed, he scrabbled up onto his quivering knees. The ray of powerful light expanded into an overwhelmingly brilliant, spellbinding rectangle. Hiding his face behind his trembling fingers, he peeked through their gaps, squinting at the ghostly345 human form that had materialised346 from a misty vapour347.

  ‘Evans, do you have it?’

  A measured yet intimidat
ing voice sliced through the stillness.

  Jarred into reality, he straightened, awkwardly forcing his body upright. He stared speechlessly, spellbound348 by the apparition349 that lingered in the doorway. He parted his dry and shrivelled lips, but they refused to form words.

  ‘Evans, do you have it?’ repeated the feminine, husky voice in a low purr, a hint of agitation350 and menace seeping into its intonation351.

  Awestruck352, Evans blinked, trying to focus on the form contoured353 by the beam.

  ‘Evans, speak will you, man!’ The threat was no longer veiled; the voice spat in a demonic354 hiss. ‘Did you obtain the Cutter?’ it interrogated355.

  Evans’s stomach lurched as he mustered enough air to articulate a piteous356 and indistinct ‘Yes.’ Cowering lower and suppressing the urge to vomit357, he repeated a quavering358 ‘Yes, I have it.’

  ‘Ahhhh! Good man.’ The irate359 voice promptly returned to its even, constant pitch – a mixture of silk and stone.

  The lofty360 yet beautiful outline approached, moving towards a quailing361 Evans. He squealed a timorous362 squeak. Trembling, he lifted his clasped fist towards her and squeaked again.

  ‘Open your hand, Evans,’ ordered the domineering363 voice.

  Evans’s hand trembled so vigorously364 he feared its contents would fly awry365; he could not risk that calamity.

  ‘Forgive me, ma’am; my ordeal overwhelms me somewhat,’ said Evans, buying himself some time as he recovered his dignity366. ‘It is here,’ he said, uncurling his fist and offering it up submissively367.

  The tall figure’s elegant hand reached out and grasped Evans’s wrist, steadying the shake.

  ‘Hold still, man, or we shall lose it. Give it to me now!’ she demanded, her tone as severe368 as before.

  ‘Please take it, ma’am; I fear I cannot hold steady any longer,’ he answered with righteous supplication369. Embellishing370 for better effect, he keeled371 sideways, acting light-headed372.