by S McPherson
His fingers are almost touching it when it’s snatched away by an invisible force. He looks up, furious to see Amethyst standing by the entrance, the map rolling into her outstretched hand, her lilac eyes glowing.
‘Don’t do anything silly, Milo,’ she says, reproachfully, ‘you don’t want to end up dead.’
As she turns and leaves, Milo snarls, ‘There are worst things.’
Lying on the floor, the soggy end of my shirt clenched between my lips, I hear the return of the creature, see the light of its glowing green eyes before it comes into view. I slowly sit. More water? The grate slides back and my heart races, as if competing in a sprint.
‘Yes?’ I ask, my voice coming out much stronger than I feel.
‘Food,’ the creature hisses, emptying a bucket of scraps onto the ground. I’m stunned. My stomach gurgles with delight as I dive onto the pile of uncooked sludge, too famished to care. It’s meat, I realise as I rip into it, its odour foul, its taste bitter, its texture chewy. I bite into it again, telling myself that bad food is better than no food, and then I bite into something hard. A bone?
I gip, frozen in horror. A bone, yes, but not just any old bone: a knuckle. I trail my fingers over the meat, counting one, two, three, four fingers and a half-stub where the thumb was, the thumb now swirling around in my mouth. I heave. With no effort on my side, I retch out the human thumb, sick oozing from my mouth and dribbling onto my feet as I drop the severed hand to the ground. Staggering back, I stumble into a corner of my dungeon, as far away from the mess as possible.
Unmoving and unseeing, cold shock seizes me for a good few minutes, my thoughts grinding to a halt. Then I hear a gentle thud and feel a gust of wind. Lifting my pounding head, I see an Exlathar has landed before me.
I watch, frozen. The creature bends down and begins devouring the remains I’ve squandered. I can only press myself further into my corner, wanting nothing more than to disappear, to soak into the earth like the water did not long ago.
Then I hear a faint noise, a siren, getting louder and louder until its blaring shriek almost seems to be in the hole with us. I look up then back at the Exlathar who I realise is staring at me, its eyes no longer a luminous green but a sinister shade of red.
THE ORIGIN
‘I cannot believe my mother actually agreed to letting us leave,’ Jude says, baffled, as he stumbles out of the fireplace behind Lexovia and into the now cosy cottage. Thanks to the enchantments he and Dezaray placed on the house, the chimney is now soot free and they emerge as clean as when they left Feranvil.
Lexovia laughs, ‘For no more than an hour, mind. And you’re only here because I need someone to show me the way.’
‘Oh, I know.’ Jude shakes his head, pressing a few keys on the out-of-tune piano. ‘Wait; an hour?’
‘Yep.’
‘But it’ll take us about an hour to get there.’
Lexovia frowns, ‘I haven’t come this close just to give up now, and your mum’s placed a tracking spell on us, so she can bring us back if we don’t return within the hour; information or not.’ She pauses for a moment to think. ‘Do you know where the tavern is? Exactly?’
‘I know how to get there, but I’ve no idea what area it’s in.’
‘What’s the closest thing you remember?’.
Jude thinks hard. ‘The Piccadilly Nursery just off Hampton Street,’ he says at last. ‘It was about fifteen minutes from the pub. What are you thinking?’
Lexovia draws nearer. ‘I’m going to teleport us.’
Jude steps back. ‘Teleport? In broad daylight? Is R.U.O.E. ringing any bells?’
Lexovia eyes him, seeming bored. ‘I don’t have time for bells and whistles.’
Jude purses his lips, taking a step towards her and placing a hand on her shoulder. ‘No, I don’t suppose you do,’ and in an instant they are gone in a blaze of amber.
They arrive outside Piccadilly Nursery, the sound of children cavorting in the playground louder than the horns of the overworked parents trying to get in and out of parking spaces. They are all so distracted that they don’t notice the unconventional arrival of Jude and Lexovia.
‘This way,’ Jude says, indicating an empty country road with a flick of his head.
Eager winds rock the rickety bridge, swinging it like a hammock in a hurricane. Jude gulps. It is not so much the slight height that bothers him but more the idea of falling through the rotted planks and cracking his head open on one of the many rocks below.
‘We have to cross this,’ he says, apprehensively.
‘You wimp,’ Lexovia scolds, but fondly, then takes his hand and teleports them to the other side of the bridge.
‘Thanks,’ Jude grumbles when they are once again whole, then looks around, making sure no one is running at them with pitchforks and blazing torches. Thankfully, no one is around, something that then sets alarm bells ringing in his mind. Though it wasn’t overly crowded the last time he was here, there had at least been some people about, riding bicycles, taking walks and enjoying the sun. Now, though, the quaint courtyard appears deserted.
Jude stares at the pub where Michaela works. Nothing seems out of place, everything perfect—perhaps too perfect. Cautiously, he heads over to the pub’s door and pushes it open.
Expecting to see a few lone customers and the bald, stout man behind the counter, Jude is further put-off when he finds the place empty.
‘This place is a bit of a ghost town isn’t it?’ Lexovia says.
Jude shakes his head. ‘It wasn’t.’
Something is wrong, and Jude looks warily about, Lexovia doubling in size to her Fuerté form, her ochre eyes shining.
‘What’s happened here?’ Jude wonders aloud, passing the vacant tables in search of any signs of life.
‘Jude,’ Lexovia calls, and he sees she’s now abandoned her Fuerté form and is leaning over the bar, staring down at something. As Jude gets closer, he notices a limp arm on the floor, extending out from behind the bar. It looks disturbingly like the bald, stout man’s.
The walls seem to close in on Jude and he gasps, breathless. Lexovia, clearly possessing a thicker skin, jumps over the counter and lands in a crouch by the body.
‘He has a hole in him,’ she says softly, confused. ‘A perfect circle in the middle of his head.’
Jude covers his mouth, willing his rampant stomach to holdfast just a little while longer.
‘He’s been shot,’ he gags.
Lexovia rises to her feet. ‘Shot,’ she repeats, thoughtfully.
A crash coming from the kitchen startles them and they both rush into the room, coming to a screeching halt when they find a mixing bowl still spinning where it fell, a trail of red smeared across the tiled floor. Stealthily, they follow its path, soon discovering Michaela lying in a pool of blood, barely breathing. Jude rushes to her side, concern overriding his initial panic. He scans her body, looking for some sign of injury, then sees a knife protruding from her chest. She coughs and a splutter of blood gurgles from the stab wound.
‘Michaela,’ he gasps, but she only gazes unseeingly up at the ceiling. ‘We have to help her.’
Lexovia comes beside him, waving her hands over the wound, her fingers sparking amber, her eyes ablaze. The wound glows, the blood seeming to burn orange. Lexovia murmurs under her breath, and slowly the knife withdraws as the wound closes around it. Michaela gasps, her face contorted, as the knife finally clatters to the stained tiles.
She inhales deeply, wincing at the lingering pain, when Lexovia and Jude help her sit up.
‘Thank you,’ she gulps. ‘Thank you very much.’ She starts to smile at Lexovia but stops cold, leaning away as though Lexovia were contagious. ‘Your ears,’ she whispers.
Lexovia lifts a hand, instinctively going to hide the points of her ears with strands of her wayward hair, but then seems to decide against it. ‘My name is Lexovia Trice,’ she says, letting her hair fall away even more, revealing the full points of her ears. Michaela’s eyes widen, leav
ing no doubt she already knows when Lexovia adds: ‘I am the last Elentrice.’
‘Your friend,’ Michaela croaks, staring at Jude, ‘she is the counterpart?’
Jude nods. ‘Michaela? What happened here?’
‘The two of you will die,’ Michaela says, returning her unblinking attention to Lexovia, eyeing the inferno of her eyes and the jut of her ears as though they were weapons aimed squarely at her.
‘Dezaray is in Coldivor,’ Lexovia gently explains, ‘taken by the Exlathars.’
Concern rolls fleetingly across Michaela’s face. ‘So she is already dead.’
Lexovia shakes her head. ‘Possibly not. We think the Exlathars took her so I would have to leave; the lesser of two evils, so to speak.’
Michaela once again looks between them. ‘And you have come here; why?’
‘Because Coldivor needs you.’
‘Me?’ Michaela scoffs.
‘We’re hoping you know more than you’ve already told us,’ Lexovia insists, ‘maybe even something you don’t realise you know.’
Michaela hesitates, her hand absently rubbing the area where the knife had been, her eyes inadvertently landing upon it, clearly distracting her.
‘Michaela? What happened here?’ Jude urges.
‘This is all a result of the last time I helped you,’ she scowls, clambering to her feet. ‘I won’t be making that mistake again.’
‘Not at this rate,’ Lexovia snaps, now standing before her. ‘R.U.O.E. think you’re dead. What do you suppose they’ll do when they find out you aren’t, that they’ve failed? Pat you on the back and say “Good game”?’
Michaela’s lips purse, the sullen pout of someone who knows they have been beaten.
‘Your best bet is to come with us,’ Lexovia urges. ‘There are many of us where we stay, Coltis and Corporeal who will fight against R.U.O.E. together.
‘They aren’t just threatening you for your promised silence anymore,’ Jude points out, gesturing at the scene around them. ‘They want to silence us all—permanently. Ignorance may have worked way back when, but today’s a different story.’
Shaking, Michaela looks down, steadily unfolding a piece of paper she had clenched unseen in her fist, sticky with blood. She delicately peels it open.
‘They shoved this in my mouth, to keep me from screaming.’ Michaela’s lip twitch, the beginnings of a smirk or a frown. ‘I ripped it out and screamed anyway. I screamed and screamed and they laughed. Nobody was coming for me.’
‘What is it?’ Lexovia asks.
Michaela shrugs. ‘They just said “Let this be a warning to the rest of you”,’ and she glances down at the now unfolded paper. ‘It’s a list,’ and she passes it to them.
Jude and Lexovia peer at the blood-spattered sheet, reading down a list of names, each marked with a cross, names none of them know; that is, until they reach the last: number thirty-six.
‘Michaela Tranzuta!’ Jude exclaims.
The top of the sheet reads ‘Rid Us of Evil’ with the subheading ‘First Encounters’.
‘Who are these other people?’ Lexovia wonders.
‘More Coltis, I’ll bet,’ Jude spits. ‘More who didn’t follow the rules.’
‘They’re eliminating us,’ Michaela hardly whispers.
‘So,’ Lexovia ventures, ‘what are you going to do about it?’
Michaela woops and cries out the entire way down the winding mud slide leading into Feranvil, blinking but not making sense of anything. She comes skidding out the other end. Shocked and exhilarated, wet grass staining her backside. She clutches the dull ache in her chest as strong hands haul her to her feet. She gazes back at the patch of grass she’s just slid across.
A magical land in Islon; who would have thought?
‘David, this is Michaela Tranzuta,’ Jude announces proudly to the man who just helped Michaela to her feet. ‘Michaela, this is one of Feranvil’s shield makers, David.’ and he dusts off his grass stained hands.
Clearly stunned, David’s eyes search Michaela’s and then he salutes, ‘S’a pleasure,’ and returns to helping the others rebuild the shield around Feranvil.
‘Brilliant isn’t it?’ Lexovia says, coming up beside them. Michaela is at a loss for words, deciding to say nothing as she follows Jude and Lexovia across a narrow road towards a converted barn with the name ‘Feranvil Farm Bar and Grill’ hanging on a wooden sign above its door.
They push their way in and just when she thought she couldn’t be more out of sorts, Michaela has to marvel at the life she finds inside the bar. Lexovia wasn’t kidding. Corporeals laugh and share tales with dwarfed Ochis and bright-eyed Teltreporthis, and is that a giant in the corner?
Peeling her eyes away from the extraordinary scene, Michaela stumbles after Jude and Lexovia, following them to a gossiping blonde standing behind the bar. The woman does a double take when she sees Michaela, clearly recognising the dark complexion and shocking purple eyes as bright as Michel Tranzuta’s had been.
‘Michaela Tranzuta, I presume,’ she says smoothly.
Everyone at the bar falls silent, gawking at their new visitor. The news spreads like wildfire and soon the upbeat folk music is switched off, countless eyes turning to stare in Michaela’s direction. She shifts uncomfortably; usually, being associated with her grandfather would lead to ridicule and violence, but these people seem to stare in admiration.
‘Alright, alright!’ Mrs Edwards booms, recovering herself. ‘Everybody out.’ Nobody moves, still gawking with unveiled curiosity. ‘Now!’
Grumbling, the customers pack up their stuff and make their way outside. It isn’t a cold night and a few decide to sit by the moat near the farmhouse. Michaela watches, astounded at how many people there are down here. All this time she had thought she was only one of a handful who remembered the good old days.
After ushering everyone out and locking the door, Mrs Edwards returns to the bar, ‘Right,’ she smiles, ‘Jude, get our guest a drink. I’ll go and call the Makers.’
The arrival of a Tranzuta causes a flurry amongst the farm folk and throughout the night they each eagerly press their faces to the windows of the Bar & Grill, craning to see through the latticed windows.
Even the Makers are awestruck at first, expressing their deep honour and upmost respect.
‘No matter what anyone says, they can’t deny we wouldn’t be here today without your grandfather,’ Fawn states, clunking his pint mug against Clays.
‘That’s right,’ Clay enthuses. ‘He was a genius, through and through.’
Michaela smiles, accepting their kind words no matter how much they make her stomach squirm and her toes curl.
You’re not in Islon anymore, she tells herself, but it doesn’t deplete the edge of anxiety and fear she still feels.
At last they move on to what brought them all together: the Rid Us of Evil organisation. Sitting huddled around tables they have pushed together, they speculate over what they think they know, the blood-stained list of names lying in front of them.
‘So, these are the ones we’ve already lost,’ and Fawn sighs, rubbing his temples.
‘All but one,’ Michaela says, her lips contorting as she eyes her own name, a feeling she can’t quite place coming over her; relief? fear? perhaps both.
‘I don’t understand,’ Jude says, thoughtfully, seeming to be addressing the table more than anyone in particular.
‘What seems to be amiss?’ asks Fawn.
‘Why now?’ Jude frowns. ‘For years, they’ve been happy with pretending the Coltis don’t exist; arresting a few lawbreakers. Why the sudden hatred?’
‘I imagine the Elenfar has sparked some concern,’ Fawn shrugs, ‘although their hatred for us is not as sudden as you might think.’
Jude looks up, his brow furrowed. ‘I thought R.U.O.E. were set up when the Vildacruz took over. What’s hate got to do with it?’
Deetry snorts, ‘The Corporeal despised us yonks ago, ever since they weren’t let into Coldivor during s
ome big war or other.’ She waves a lofty hand. ‘We was the enemy, leaving them on this war-torn side, condemning them to die.’
‘I heard about that,’ Lexovia nods. ‘When the Corporeal crossed into Coldivor during the first war, The Great Plague killed thousands leading to the discovery that counterparts cannot exist in the same realm.’
‘Exactly.’ Pebble smacks the table. ‘So when the second war came, the Court didn’t let them into our world, to prevent another outbreak. But in their minds we weren’t saving them, just saving ourselves. That’s when R.U.O.E. was born, hell-bent on revenge.’ She slips out of her seat, swift like a cobra, circling the table as she speaks, meeting each and every eye. ‘They didn’t call themselves R.U.O.E., though. They didn’t call themselves anything back then. At the time, they was nothing we couldn’t handle; a few lousy threats and a bit of vandalism here and there when the portal opened.’
‘And then of course, the Vildacruz came,’ Buzdreedle growls, anger sparking in his beady eyes. ‘When they reigned, the Corporeal found their opportunity to pay us back.’
‘Crossing of the portal was banned,’ Pebble says, snapping her fingers, ‘and this time for keeps.’
‘R.U.O.E. went from more than just a clan of miscreants to becoming an official organisation of the government.’
‘With a fancy name and everything,’ Pebble says, bouncing back to Buzdreedle what seems like another ball in some game of verbal ping pong.
‘They had free-reign.’ Buzdreedle stands up on his chair and hops onto the table. ‘By any means necessary, they were to prevent anyone and anything from passing the portal.’
‘Which they did, quite well. For a while they patrolled every portal opening. Ruling them woods with an iron fist,’ Pebble jeers, waving her clenched hand in the air, ‘but sure enough, the hype wore down. No one was crossing anymore and all seemed well. The occasional sweep was enough, and sometimes, but not often, they arrested someone.’