The Other Side (Thomas Skinner Book 1)

by S. I. Anderson

  He came to the final door and like the many before, it opened. In the room beyond lay the table. Men in armour stood on both sides, looking larger in life. Tom didn’t stop at the door and he didn’t look up at the faces of steel. He ran as fast as he could, stopping only as he reached the end.

  He spotted the wand almost instantly, but he didn’t reach for it. He dropped to his knees, exhausted and gasping for breath. He lowered his head and rested his body as his mind raced.

  Everything Zarlock was filled with magic unexplainable, they had said. The months of dreams had led to this moment and he was afraid. Things would change if he picked the wand up. Would he be the heir? Would the secrets of the wand tie him forever with the Zarlocks?

  Cindy had come to take him home. He could leave all of this behind – the school, the Le Fays, the werewolves. He had almost died twice today. What else lay in wait for him?

  He knew what the Zarlocks meant to so many. If he picked up the wand, became the heir, they would not let him go. They would keep him here, Lord of Camelot as Saafir had said, trapped forever.

  Did he want to go home? He hadn’t exactly had a great time on the Other Side. But he had family there, and no one wanted to kill him. Two important points, and yet they couldn’t help him decide.

  Confused and unsure of what he wanted, Tom raised his head. The wand was mostly green. The tip was thin. A strip of silver swirled down it, coming to a stop at the silver handle. It wasn’t very fancy or large, but it had appeal.

  And in the end, it was curiosity that decided it for him. The Zarlocks wanted him to have the wand, to be their heir. He didn’t fully understand what that meant, but there was only one way to find out. He reached for the wand.

  Nothing happened. He held it up, swished and swashed, and still nothing. And then it flung him back. He landed on the floor, metres away from the table, the wand still in his hand. Something from within it was spreading through his arm and into his body.

  He could hear clicking and clanking as it passed through his joints. It should have hurt. It sounded like his bones were breaking. But once it was finished, his body only felt sore and his muscles a little sensitive.

  There was a sound in his head, a constant pounding, getting louder and louder. He shook his head, trying to rid it. It didn’t work. He stood up and his eyes drifted towards the door.

  He knew why he couldn’t shake the noise away. It wasn’t in his head. The pounding was that of Artur’s paws as they touched the ground. The wolf was alive and he was coming for him.

  Tom wondered if that meant Shera was dead. The tiger had been on top, winning, before he left. Galloping on his four legs, Artur came in view. The left side of his face was covered in blood and there were large scratch marks all over his body. Patches of fur were missing all over.

  The wolf was still quite far. Tom shouldn’t have noticed the blood, the missing fur, the scratch marks, but he did. He could even see the air coming out of Artur’s nostrils. And the pounding as his feet touched the ground, he could hear it.

  His hearing and sight were suddenly so much better. But they wouldn’t save him from the wolf. Tom remembered the staff on the table. It hadn’t ended well the last time he tried using one. But it was either fight or flight – and there was nowhere to run.

  His feet moved much faster than he was used to and he tumbled forward, surprised by their speed, unable to control them. Artur was in the room and he jumped off the ground, his mouth open. The table was out of reach, but Tom desperately stretched his hand out anyway.

  The staff flew at him. He caught it deftly, surprising himself, and turned to see Artur descending upon him. He had to fill the staff with magic but, not knowing how, he wished it to happen.

  The wolf’s jaws were open wide. Its teeth were sharp and long. They were coming straight for his neck. Tom couldn’t wait any longer. He swung the staff, aiming for Artur’s head.

  It connected.

  The wolf howled as the staff forced his head away. The rest of its body still came crashing into him. Tom pushed it away and scrambled to his feet. He wondered if it was a good time to run. He glanced at the door. It was too far away and he was unsure of his feet.

  Artur shook his head and growled. But he didn’t charge. He stayed back, suddenly wary. The wolf circled him, stopping as he stood in the way of the door. It was calculating, planning its next move, waiting for the right moment. Tom had his staff ready but he didn’t think it would be as easy again. He had caught Artur off-guard that time. It was a different prospect now with the beast hounding him like prey.

  As he backed away from the encroaching wolf, Tom came up against the table. There was a shield on it. As Artur charged, he picked it up with his free hand and ducked down, trying to hide behind it.

  He felt the shield heat up. And then it began to expand around him, protecting him on all sides by thick metal. Tom couldn’t see the wolf anymore, but he felt him as he hit the metal with a loud clatter.

  The shield shrunk back to its normal size as Tom moved away from the table. He spotted Artur laying on his side looking exhausted, his mouth open and his tongue hanging loose. The wolf got up and growled but his eyes wavered, and he made no attempt to fight.

  They both turned to face the door at the sound of thudding footsteps. Tom feared more wolves, but what came running into the room did not have brown fur, it was black and white.

  It was Shera.

  The tiger ran straight for the wolf. Artur had regained his composure, but he seemed to be in no mood for anymore battles and he ran for the door. Shera stopped and sat up like a guard dog, letting him go, watching.

  Tom held the shield in front of his body defensively as the tiger strolled toward him. He still had the staff, but he didn’t point it at Shera, he held it limply by his side. He didn’t want to fight it. This was the Zarlocks’ pet.

  He wondered what he was doing as he dropped to his knees and let go of both the staff and shield. He was defenceless as the tiger came face to face with him. The tiger’s nose touched his chest and sniffed.

  A moment later, having decided, the tiger licked him on the face. Tom wrapped his arms around Shera’s neck as the tiger continued to lick. After a while, it pulled away and crouched onto all four knees, invitingly.

  At some point in his battle with the wolf, Tom had lost hold of the wand. He spotted it lying at the far end of the room, beneath a man in armour. He held his hand out. The wand flew into it and he tucked it inside his cloak.

  Tom grabbed the shield in one hand, the staff in the other, and he climbed onto Shera. And that was how Saafir, Cindy and the twins saw him as he came out of the House of Zarlock, riding on the back of the white tiger.

  Chapter 37

  “You look... different,” Jenna said.

  Tom felt different. He felt good, alive, as if he had just risen from a lifelong slumber and finally he was fully awake. His body seemed to have changed too. He felt taller and less clumsy. His sight had improved; everything was more defined, better coloured. It was odd – he had never needed glasses before.

  “What happened here?” So much for his better sight, he thought, as he only just noticed Saafir standing over what looked like the body of a man. His eyes widened. It was the body of a man. A dead, mutilated man covered in blood. “Where did he come from?”

  “One of Artur’s wolves,” Saafir said. “He made it through before the portal closed. They had Shera cornered before Artur left to run after you. Shera killed it and,” he looked up from the body, “it changed into a human...” He stared at Tom now, eyes squinting. “You look different.”

  Tom nodded. He felt it too. He loved his body, so much so that he wanted to shout it out loud. He slid off the back of Shera and let go of his shield and staff to stretch. His arms, his legs, his body, everything felt so... powerful. He reached over his shoulder to feel his back and the hump that distinguished it.

  There was nothing there. He knew why he felt taller. With the hump gone, his back was strai
ght.

  “What happened in there?” Saafir asked.

  They listened silently as he told them how he ran for the room where the wand lay. As he picked it up, it flung him back. Artur the wolf appeared; he managed to hold him off using the staff and shield until Shera came to his rescue.

  “Are you their heir now?” Gemma asked.

  Tom shrugged. He didn’t know. That part was still a puzzle to him. He had done what they wanted; he had picked up the wand. He thought something might happen when he did, and something did happen. He wondered now if it was the wand that made him feel like this, if it gave him powers of sort, made him stronger, faster.

  Why had they chosen him? The wand could have been given to anyone. Why him? And what was he supposed to do now?

  “The Zarlocks... have you been to see them?”

  It was Cindy who spoke. She sat on the ground, her back supported by the twins. Breathing normally with her eyes open and the blood cleaned from her face, she didn’t look too bad.

  “No,” Tom said softly.

  He wasn’t particularly keen on seeing them either. If Kayvan was right and they were dead and had been for many years now... he shuddered at the thought of their decomposed bodies lying in that room.

  “Can we see?” Gemma asked. “They could be alive,” she added.

  That was what they had thought, after returning from the seer’s, that the Zarlocks were still alive. But Kayvan had said otherwise. It was the house that was alive, he had said. And Tom couldn’t help but think he was right. There was something about the place, and it wasn’t just the way the doors opened for him.

  Gemma could be right too. Maybe the Zarlocks were alive. If there was one thing he knew, it was that you could never be sure of what was or wasn’t, or what could be or couldn’t. Not much of a lesson when you thought about it.

  They left Cindy behind, resting on her back, staring up at the sky. She insisted she would be fine. Tom led the way into the house through the halls, the corridors, and up the spiral staircase without pausing even once. It was as if he had lived here his whole life. He assumed it might have had something to do with the countless nights he had spent in it.

  He paused as they stepped off the staircase and onto the landing. He had spent most of those nights running away from something. He didn’t think it was here, the thing that killed the Zarlocks, but it was still quite a creepy place to be.

  “Why have you stopped?”

  “Are we lost?”

  Tom started to move. They were almost there. It wouldn’t make much sense to turn back now. He stopped again, this time as he stood at their door. With his hand resting on the door handle, he wondered if he really wanted to go in. If the Zarlocks were alive, it didn’t make any sense for them to be in that room, sitting about, doing nothing.

  And if they weren’t alive, then there were two horribly decayed bodies lying on a bed. Was that something he wanted to see?

  Again, it was curiosity that decided it for him.

  He opened the door and walked in.

  It was a large room, elegant but mostly empty. Even before they reached the bed he saw the two bodies lying there, unmoving. And as he came closer, he saw the blood that soaked the bed and floor around it.

  It should have dried, the blood on the floor, but it hadn’t. It looked fresh. And as he stood over the bed, looking down at the bodies, he couldn’t help but be astounded by how well preserved they were.

  “W-what’s that?” Jenna stammered.

  The Zarlocks were in bed, their heads on the pillows, looking at what should have been each other. But their view was obstructed. A third head lay in-between.

  “Is that a baby?”

  It was. A perfectly preserved new-born lay with the Zarlocks. Tom had a bad feeling about this. “Why is there a baby?” he asked.

  As if to answer, the bedside drawer opened and out rolled a black ball.

  “That’s a...” Jenna said.

  “It is...” Saafir said.

  They all knew what it was, Tom included. He had used one on his first day at the school in the headmaster’s office. It had shown him a part of Atlantis’ history. Gemma picked it up cautiously and, when nothing happened, she poked it and then blew on it.

  Still nothing happened, so she passed it to Jenna who stared at it studiously before she rubbed on it. No images burst forth. She shrugged and held it out to Saafir.

  “What am I supposed to do with it?”

  “If I knew, I would have done it myself,” she snapped at him.

  He took it off her reluctantly and poked at it too. “Well, it is solid enough,” he said and a grin formed on his lips before he caught Jenna glaring at him. He hastily chucked it towards Tom. “Here you go.”

  Tom stretched his arms out to catch the ball. As his fingers touched it the ball lit up. The room filled with colour, sound and life.

  An old man sat in his chair with a book in hand, reading intently. The doors opened and in walked a young man in armour. He took long quick strides and, stopping a good distance before the old man, he kneeled.

  “My lord,” he waited patiently.

  The old man did not look at him. He continued to read. As he finished the page and turned it over slowly, he briefly glanced up. “What news do you bring?”

  “My lord, I am the bearer of bad news,” the kneeling man said.

  The old man nodded knowingly. He continued to read and as he finished the page and turned it over, he spoke again. “How did they die?”

  “Their carriage-”

  “Another accident?”

  “It would seem so, my lord.”

  “It would seem so...” the old man repeated softly.

  There was a table, long, wide, and laden with dishes, ready to be feasted upon. But only the old man and an old woman sat there, and neither ate.

  “Will you do nothing?” the woman asked, her voice demanding yet soft.

  “What can I do?”

  “Something!” her voice rose. “How can you sit back and watch them die?” She began to sob. “Something,” she said through tears. “You must do something.” The woman’s voice was soft again.

  The old man did not reply. His silence signalled his resignation. The woman’s tears dried. For a moment it seemed the conversation was over. They both suddenly seemed to notice the food and they began to eat. But it was a facade, a temporary break.

  She began to cry again. “You are a Zarlock,” she said through her tears, “you must do something.”

  “What can I do against this? It comes during the hours of dark; it leaves always an accident. The hounds, who find a scent, howl and squirm away in fright. What can anyone do against this?” the old man asked. The woman’s sounds of crying grew, but he took no notice and continued, his voice growing firm, angry, no longer passive. “If there were a war, I would lead the armies, battle on the plains of Al Kanathra, battle with honour and they would see the power of Zarlock, the might of Zarlock. But this?” the old man asked, disgusted. “Killing the old, killing the young? Killing them in the dark when they are unaware? Cowards!” the old man shouted. “It will come for us and when it does, it will see the might of Zarlock,” he said vengefully.

  The woman dried her eyes and sat back in her chair. A moment of silence passed as the man chewed on his food, as the woman stared up at the ceiling.

  “We are but an old man and woman, nearing our time of death. If it ever does come for us, what will be the point of your might then, my lord? What will you have saved? With no heir of our own-” She broke into tears, unable to finish her sentence.

  The old man sighed. “What will you have me do?”

  She did not reply. She simply continued to cry.

  The old man stood on a balcony and stared out at the waterfall before him when the old woman rushed out. She was happy and the wide smile she bore brought the hint of one on his worn face.

  “You have good news?” he asked.

  “I do,” she said, still smiling.
<
br />   “Will you tell me this good news?” he asked, his lips rising a little at both ends.

  She nodded and then waited some before saying, “You will have an heir.” The old man’s eyes widened and he stared at her face and then at her stomach before returning to her face. He was lost for words and she laughed. Nodding she added, “It is a boy.”

  He reached forward, pulled her close and held her in an embrace. They hugged and tears began to run down from first his and then her eyes. “No one can know of this,” the old man said as he pulled away. “We must keep it a secret. We can tell none.”

  The tears were still running down the woman’s cheeks but the smile disappeared. “There is none left to tell,” she said bitterly. “What kind of a world will he be born into?” she added, worriedly.

  “We will keep him safe,” he promised as he pulled her close again.

  They were in the room. The old woman was lying in bed. Low murmurs of pain escaped her lips. The old man sat next to her, comforting her. He held her hand with one of his, and ran his fingers through her hair with the other.

  “Can you not just take it out of me?” she asked.

  “You are doing great,” he laughed. “Just a few more pushes.”

  “I think I have pushed enough, thank you,” the old woman said sourly. “If he wants to stay in there so much he is more than welcome to.”

  He smiled and squeezed her shoulder. She pushed again, reluctantly acknowledging her unfavourable position in the battle with her stubborn and yet unborn son. The old man stopped smiling, his hand tightened around hers and he looked towards the door.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  His face was absent, the cheerfulness of earlier gone, the joy of being a father disappeared. He stood up, his face now a mask of worry and dread, his eyes showing fear. She pulled on his hand and he turned to look at her.