Residual: The Gray-Matter Chronicles Book 3 (The Matter Chronicles 6)

by P. G. Thomas

  Lauren looked down to the ground, “There’s one thing.”

  Mirtza stepped forward, wiping away his tears, “John’s instructions were specific. After the portal disappears, we are to disassemble the machine, and having the gold melted, mixed with more and re-melted three times. It will be no more.”

  “My word, to you in granite I carve,” added Gayne.

  She looked at John, “This is the—”

  He nodded, “The machine can never bring us back. Even if they didn’t melt it down, the self-destruct mechanism will stop it from ever working again, so there’ll be no residual effects of our visit here.” However, he also saw Lauren’s hand caressing her abdomen.

  In the days before their departure, Ryan had visited the school to clean up the stroller, and they then placed the three smiling babies into their seats. Lacking the purple jumpers from that fateful day, Lauren had found a seamstress to make similar that the triplets were now dressed in.

  Engaging the master switch, John commanded the magic with his mind. Open a portal to my office, adding the date and time.

  The machine began to purr, and when the large ring raised, it began to shimmer.

  Steve picked up the front of the stroller, looked at Ryan. “When you were at Ironhouse, did you ever find out what they were going to name me?”

  “No, but I made one suggestion: PITA.”

  “Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?”

  “It means pain in the ass. Bond villains always talk—what the hell were you thinking?”

  When the ring was upright, the image in the office stabilized, and John quickly checked the calendar and clock hanging on the wall. When he was sure, he stepped through.

  As he did, Lauren asked, “About Tranquil and Fury? Didn’t you think they acted strange?” However, her mind was in two worlds; stepping across,asshe had reached down to her pocket, she felt the last remaining piece of the God Wood staff.

  Standing in his office, John smiled, “They grew up watching you and Logan, so you were their role models. How did you expect them to act?”

  Logan smiled stepping through. “Burn—hey wait a minute.”

  As Eric helped Steve with the stroller, he asked, “So, PITA, what did you do at Ironhouse?”

  “We traded war stories.”

  The three crossed the threshold, carrying the stroller, and the last words heard were from Eric, “You traded what?”

  The salt water released from the simple mechanism, shorting out the components, and the image disappeared.

  *******

  Gayne with Mirtza walked out into the hall where the elves waited.

  Mirtza wiped away his tears, “My friends, the legends are gone.”

  Gayne also wiped away his tears, “I have made arrangements for a crew to start tomorrow.”

  Panry looked at Jacping, “You will watch in the room.” Then he turned to the rest: Oxron Icefeather, Cethail Highbreeze, Erust Huntinghawk, Babartin and Careel Dawnfalcon. “You shall guard this door and not let any enter.” Then he turned to Jasmine, “What did you not tell me?”

  The next morning Panry and Jasmine were smiling, holding hands walking down the hall. In the distance, they saw Gayne standing outside of the room with a crew of twelve, being ready to disassemble the machine. When the door opened, Gayne screamed, and they ran to him. The room was absent of the machine, and lying dead in the corner, Jacping.

  Jasmine and Panry both cursed at the same time, “ZYMSE!”

  Here ends the Gray-Matter Chronicles.

  A note to the readers;

  If you are reading this, as an author, I have achieved success, having entertained you for days. My intent was to write a trilogy that was a fresh, fast-paced adventure, including unique characters, odd circumstances, unusual events, and with an exceptional, original story line. Should you agree, please leave a review because they generate exposure (allowing me to advertise), and in turn, produce sales. Even though I have no delusions of becoming rich, I would like to recoup my investment, and that is only possible by support from readers who leave reviews. To date, I am averaging one review for every 250 people who have read, purchased, or acquired it for free. However, without reviews, it falls quickly into the Amazon basement, being harder to find.

  If you were lucky enough to pick up all 6 books for free, I beg you to leave a review. The purpose of that promotion is both gain readers and to increase the book rating. When thousands of people download them, it helps to create a presence for the books, but when reviews fail to materialize, my efforts are relocated to the shelves of obscurity.

  While I was hoping to be able to afford a better editor for the next trilogy, as it stands right now, I may not even be able to afford covers. Being different from most authors, when I publish a trilogy, all three books are released at the same time so that you do not have to wait. Is that not the kind of author you want to support?

  In closing, please leave a review.

  Sincerely,

  P.G. Thomas

  A preview of what is to come

  Zack was standing in the first forest, “Look, you guys just can’t call me here like this.”

  “Master of Feathers and Furs,” began Fury. “Yes, we can.”

  “Dude, when Mother made her offer, I turned her down.”

  “A luxury she can no longer afford to extend to you,” added Tranquil.

  “I don’t want any part of this, Dudette God.”

  He heard the elderly motherly voice. You will help.

  “What does she want?”

  Fury smiled, “There is a problem in the Bright Coast that bears fur.”

  “As such, you are the best suited to deal with it,” added Tranquil.

  After Zack had stepped through a portal, Fury turned to his sister, “Of the elf?”

  “Our decision can wait as time we all have.”

  *******

  Zymse looked at the machine, as a black snake of smoke curled around his arm. “You saw how he activated it? Oh, I am so glad.” Looking down to where his other hand should be, he watched the Dharvile magic slowly rebuilding it, “and there is more Jahammer magic buried here. That much? Yes, if I had known, we would have extracted it first, but that is behind us.” Then he watched the unclean, poorly dressed individual enter into his cave, setting down a meager, undercooked meal before scurrying outside. “For now, these simple hill people will serve us, but soon we will find the lost magic, and then we will visit the legends,” and he began to laugh.

  *******

  The sign above the biker roadhouse bar proclaimed the weekly ‘Battle of the Bands.’ However, they were unable to read the sign, as that knowledge was provided by their guide, who was currently absent.

  Bor Ironhouse led Jaykil to the offending noise, “Battle strange it is.”

  “Bands, here does that clans mean?”

  “Know this I do not.”

  They both walked up the steps, dressed in leather armor overtop of the thin mithril protection, with their great axes resting on their shoulders. Outside of the door stood two bikers, six feet tall with short beards, and wearing denim: pants, shirts, and vests.

  The first one looked down at the two, “You new here?”

  Even though they had applied translation ointment, Bor simply nodded.

  “Where are your mounts,” and the doorman nodded towards the motorcycles lined up in front.

  “Left them in stables we did,” replied Bor.

  The first biker looked to the second, “Do we let them in?”

  “With that much leather, they must be out of state.” He then opened the door, “Check your weapons inside.”

  Entering, Bor looked at his ax, dragging his thumb along the sharp edge, and watched the blood run down it. Then somebody grabbed it, handing him a piece of paper, but even though Bor failed to understand what was happening, he did not consider it a fair exchange.

  “Hey, bro, no weapons allowed. We need to keep the peace, and you’ll get it back when you leave.”

>   As the band took to the stage, the bar filled with either noise or music, depending on your tastes. Bor thought back to the Hall of the Mourning King, and looking at Jaykil, he screamed above the music. “THE KINGS INFLUENCE IS GREAT. YOUR WEAPON SURRENDER.”

  After Jaykil had done so, the two found an empty table.

  A waitress walked over, leaned in close, “Whatcha want?”

  “Beer.”

  Feeling the stares, Jaykil leaned towards Bor, “Mother right she was. Fit in not we do.”

  “WHAT?”

  He leaned in closer, “MOTHER RIGHT SHE WAS, FIT IN WE DO NOT!”

  When two large mugs appeared in front of them, Bor quickly grabbed his, taking a drink, but then spit it out. “BEER I ORDERED, PONY URINE DRINK I WIL NOT.”

  The waitress wiped the froth from her face, fuming while she walked away.

  Bor leaned over to Jaykil, “STRANGE THIS PLACE IS.” When he looked up, he saw an angered face looking down.

  “WHAT’S YOUR DAMN PROBLEM?”

  Reaching for his ax, its absence added to Bor’s frustration, “BEER I ORDER, WATER YOU BRING ME, IF THAT.”

  “I DON’T SEE ANY PATCHES ON YOUR BACKS, ARE YOU BIKERS?”

  “BUY QUEERS WE ARE NOT, WARRIORS WE ARE!” replied Bor.

  It took a second for the manager to register the words, and then he laughed. “WARRIORS? HAVEN’T SEEN YOUR CLAN IN THESE PARTS IN A WHILE.”

  Bor smiled, slapping Jaykil’s back, “HEARD OF US THEY HAVE.”

  The manager looked at the waitress, “TEQUILA, THE GOOD STUFF.” Then he looked back to Bor, “YOU GUYS ARE LEGENDS.”

  “THE GREAT PLAY, SEEN IT YOU HAVE HERE?” shouted Bor.

  “NO, THEY BROKE UP A FEW YEARS AGO.”

  After the waitress had placed a bottle with three glasses on the table, the manager filled them, and then took a drink. Of all the foreign things Bor and Jaykil had seen, this one did not require translation ointment, and each quickly drained the small mouthful.

  Bor’s eyes lit up, “GOOD, BUT GLASS TOO SMALL IT IS.”

  “ARE YOU CHALLENGING ME?”

  Bor nodded, “CHALLENGE.”

  The manager looked at the waitress. “THREE MUGS,” then turned back to the two, “SO WHY ARE THE WARRIORS IN TOWN?”

  “BATTLE WE EXPECT NOT.”

  “WHERE ARE YOUR AXES?”

  “AT DOOR, TOLD TO LEAVE THEM WE WERE,” replied Jaykil.

  The waitress set down three large frosted mugs, “SORRY, BOSS, THAT’S ALL WE HAVE RIGHT NOW.”

  Not caring, he filled all three. Then he winked at the waitress, “THEY’RE SMALL AND WILL BE PUKING HALF WAY DOWN.” Picking up his mug of Tequila, he started to drink, keeping his eyes on the two short Warrior bikers. He was less than half-done when Bor slammed his mug down.

  Then Jaykil did the same, his eyes intense, as if fuelled by fresh oxygen from a new forge bellows, and exclaimed, “ANOTHER!”

  The manager set down his quarter-filled mug, “IF…IF THEY CAN PAY…PLAY. LETS THEM.” Then his head collided with the table.

  She pointed to the back of the bar, “TELL THEM SLICK SAID IT WAS OKAY, BUT SOMEBODY HAS TO PAY.”

  Reaching into his pocket, Bor placed three gold coins on the table, “ENOUGH THAT BE?”

  She smiled, “HONEY, AFTER YOU’RE DONE PLAYING, YOU COME BACK AND SEE ME.”

  Jaykil followed Bor to the back, “HOW CAN BATTLE THIS BE? NO WEAPONS DO I SEEE.”

  “STRANGE THEIR CUSTOMS ARE, BUT IRONHOUSE WE ARE, AND BROTHERS FIND WE MUST. TRUST MOTHER WE WILL.”

  Approaching the stage door, a different biker held it open for them, allowing them to enter the quieter back. “RING MY EARS DO,” then Jaykil saw everybody looking at him, “Do what should we?”

  Bor saw too tall leather-clad individuals, having long beards, enter a room, holding cases that looked like very large battle-axes. “Talk to them we need to.”

  After they had entered, the occupants were less than receptive. “You’re not the groupies we ordered.”

  Bor walked up to the first, “This does be from….group pie special,” and handed the first a small clay figurine, giving the same to the second.

  The two biker musicians looked at the small offerings in their hands. “GET OUT OF HERE,” but suddenly going quiet, they began to fade away, and the two clay figurines dropped to the floor. After Bor had picked up the first, Jaykil picked up the second. Clutching them in their hands, they began to grow in size, changing in appearance

  Bor, standing six feet tall, stroked his three-foot long beard, “Bro, this doesn’t feel right.”

  Jaykil, being the same height, was wobbling in place, “Bro, I hear you, but now we don’t stand up…I mean out.”

  Walking over to the cases, Bor opened them, pulling out the bass guitars inside, and after he had closed both, gave one to Jaykil. “Bros John and Eric we need to save.”

  “What?”

  “Ma told us both. Sound and look different we would, to blend in.”

  “Ma, Mother? This appearance is strange, and your words sound—odd,” replied Jaykil.

  Then both walked out of the back, headed to the front door, and handed them the papers for their great axes. Standing in the foyer, their great axes grew by over two feet, which they placed into the guitar cases. Once outside, they walked up to the line of motorcycles.

  Bor pointed, “Bro, I think those are our ponies.”

  “They don’t have legs.”

  “Ma warned us we would have problems with understanding, but dude, we’re Ironhouse, and our band members need us.”

  Searching his pockets, Jaykil found the keys, stuffed the guitar case into the obvious holder, and pulled out the sheathed shotgun. “Bro, they have odd weapons.”

  “We don’t have time for that,” and Bor stuffed his cased ax into the back, straddled the Harley, pulled out his keys, putting them in the ignition switch. Pushing the kickstand back, he brought the strange beast to life that roared with anticipation when he shifted from neutral, increasing the gas. “Bards back home ain’t ever going to understand these.” Then he pulled out the odd mechanism the strange female had given him. He saw the lights that represented John and Eric, and the one that showed his location. “Let’s ride Bro.” Releasing the brake, he screamed with excitement when the motorbike raced out onto the street, followed by Jaykil.

  About the trilogy

  Book 1: Even though I had originally planned to end the trilogy with the book one conclusion, the absence of subplots prevented that. However, liking the ending so much, I was unable to abandon it, so I made the first book a stand-alone novel; a first for a trilogy I believe. The second reason is slightly more complicated. In the first trilogy, it is my belief that I made an emotional connection with the readers when two prominent characters met with an untimely ending. What I am desperately attempting to avoid is becoming predictable, as too many authors habitually recycle the same plot, creating events that are easy to foresee. So in book one, there is a great deal of tragedy, yet in book two it has all been undone, hopefully creating a sense of jubilation. In essence, I wanted you to experience the un-killing of the characters.

  This book also presented a unique opportunity. Like many stories, I kept offering hope, but as quick as I presented it, I would take it away. Towards the end, when things should be turning to the characters favor, they never do. In fact, everything becomes even bleaker. By the time you hit the last two chapters, most would be wondering if I had lost my mind. Even though I wanted to write a story where the bad guys win, I had no intentions of finishing it. It also created a unique déjà vu storyline, so hopefully, every time a character had a flashback in the following books, you also experienced it with them.

  Granite Guardians & magic: For anybody who does not believe in magic, I can tell you first hand that it does exist—for me at least. In the first trilogy, I always wanted to have an elite dwarven fighting unit, but there was no place to incorporate it. Thus, when Lauren arrived in boo
k two without her Earth Guard, it seemed like the perfect place. However, as I started to write the story, I accidently turned on Ryan’s gift too early, resulting in making the trollmares stronger than I originally planned. Therefore, in order to make the dwarves superior to them, it was necessary to gift them back Father’s runes, but I had no idea on where it was going to take me. The rest of their story: the ancient history, the Granite Peace, Zymse’s using it to start a war, interning their beards in the mountain, the Mourning King, the Battle of Nevermore, and such were all born in the story. None of those facets had been thought of before the story began. So, as I said in my notes in the first trilogy advised, my stories are a collaboration between the story, the characters, and myself. For me, it is not telling a story, as I actually live it out in my imagination.

  The final battle sequence: Simply put, I wanted the readers to be as exhausted as the characters. Therefore, I apologize to anybody who started reading at the halfway mark before they went to bed, and I hope you were not late for work or school the next day.

  I hope you have enjoyed this story, and will support me with reviews. To encourage this, I have included a sample of the sequel that I am currently working on.

  Sincerely

  P.G. Thomas