“Settles what?” Tom pushed.
“It means, my lovely, that you are the one who is going to save us from the great evil.”
“Wha... Me... I can’t... But...Evil... No...” Tom stammered.
“Nicely put dear,” said Rita, picking up two plates of cake. Garren held out a hand to take one, but ignoring him completely, she put one on the floor and sat on the dining chair facing Tom. “Frank, cakie,” she called and began munching the other helping.
The tabby cat jumped down from the sideboard where he sat with his porcelain pussy pals, and strolled over to the plate with his tail in the air, looking smugly at Garren as he passed. He was about to tuck into the cake when the old Grandfather clock in the corner began to make a noise. The cat looked up from his plate, ran over and sat down directly in front of the clock. It was approaching the top of the hour, and the gears inside were turning ready to start the hourly chime. Cogs whirred. Gears clicked. Wheels turned and just as everyone expected to hear the deep resounding chime - a little door opened in the wooden case, just above the clock face and a tiny battered stuffed bird popped out and feebly cheeped four times before disappearing back into the body of the clock. The cat stood up on his hind legs, hopped about for a second waving his front paws around, before doing a complete backflip. Then, with the show over for another hour, he returned to his cake.
“Oh, he loves that old clock, he does,” cooed the old woman. “Does that every time. Don’t know what he would do if he ever caught that cuckoo.”
Tom looked at Garren, exasperated.
“Rita,” said Garren gently.
The old woman sighed and put her plate on the table. Tom and Garren heard a soft click as the witch reached underneath the table and triggered some hidden mechanism. She pulled on the middle leg on her side of the table, and it pivoted from the bottom, revealing a hollow centre. Rita plunged her hand into the top of the leg, emerging with several rolls of parchment.
“Rita,” said Garren, shocked. “Those aren’t the lost scrolls of the ancients, are they?”
“Nope,” said the witch, indignantly. “I never lost ’em. I thinks of ’em more as the pinched scrolls of the Ancients.”
“You are so bad, you know that, don’t you?” Garren said. “Everyone has been looking for those scrolls for over two hundred years.”
“Just keeping ’em safe,” she answered. “Now, how much does he know?
“Almost nothing,” Garren replied. “Although he does appear to have a natural talent for magic.”
“Hmm, he would,” the old lady mumbled unrolling the scroll. “Better start from the beginning then.” Turning her attention to the boy, she cleared her throat and began.
“Many thousands of millennia ago, before any living creature walked these lands, before grass carpeted the plains or trees sprang from the ground, there was no magic. The world was all barren and not a very nice place at all. Then from the fires in the depths of the world, the first spark of mystical energy came together with indestructible elements, bonded and began to grow, getting stronger and stronger. Eventually, they grew into an egg out of which, after many hundreds of years the first dragon emerged. Illemborn she was called. Illemborn burrowed and clawed her way through the ground, finally emerging here, at the foot of Mount Iragoth. She brought magic with her into the world, spreading its life-giving influence across the land. Illemborn, it is written, spread her great wings, and the ground turned green with lush grass. Much nicer. She shaped the lands and made sure that everything was just right for the little critters to evolve into the bigger critters. When she was satisfied everything was just right, and she weren’t needed no more, she left for the stars to take magic to other worlds.
“In the thousands of centuries that followed a great race of people evolved known as the Ancient Ones. In their long reign over this world, they became very well versed in magic and became the Guardians of the immense power that came into the world with the great dragon.
“They built the monastery around the place where Illemborn tunnelled to the surface, a deep hole leading to the fires at the centre of the world; the Well of Fire it’s called. It’s the only place where a genuinely magical object can be destroyed.
“The Ancients also discovered the terrible secrets of pure magic. They found how it could be used to level mountains, command the elements, destroy whole worlds, snuff out life and create it again with the wave of a hand and it terrified them. They saw in a jiffy how, in the wrong hands it could be used to bring slavery, misery and death. And indeed, it wasn’t long before one of them gave in to temptation and tried to use the power for his own ends. But it consumed him, darkness took him over, and he almost destroyed this world. Baphomet was his name.
“The Ancients did everything they could to try and stop him, and many of ’em lost their lives in the war that followed. But, eventually, a great hero came to their aid, ended the war and stopped the ‘Fury’, as they called ’im. They couldn’t destroy the beggar, you see, ’im bein’ so strong, so they imprisoned him in a silver sphere and hid it deep underground. The location was kept secret, and it was protected with spells and enchantments so it could never be found.
“Well after that they knew something had to be done to ensure the same thing never happened again. The Ancients summoned the Great Dragon and told her what’d been goin’ on.
“So, Illemborn created a book, the Dragon’s Tome, to hold the secrets of the most powerful magic and enchanted it so that it could never be read without a key. The Tome was kept here at Iragoth, and the key was split into thirteen pieces, one for each of the thirteen elders. They all had to be in agreement before the power of the Tome could be used.
“All was just dandy for many centuries until the new races began to come here from your world, where men became aware of magical beings and persecuted them out of fear. There were so many humans in your world that in the end, the peace-loving immortals left and came here.
“By this time most of the Ancients had left to explore the stars and other realms. The few who remained became more and more concerned that the new races would find the Tome, unlock the secrets and succumb to the evil that almost destroyed the world all those years ago. So they decided to lock away the book in the stone vaults beneath the monastery and hide the key where they were sure no one would ever find it; in the body of a righteous host, on your world.
“Now, a few years ago, the Tome was discovered by a stranger. He couldn’t read the terrible secrets it contained, but he was able to siphon off some of its power, giving him the oomph to take over the monastery and enslave the population of our little town. Since then, Balfour has been obsessed with finding the key that was hidden all that time ago. He suspects it was hidden in your world, but he lacks these few scrolls of Ancient records, what I’s managed to keep hidden from him here. They would tell him what to look for and how to use it.”
“But how does this affect me?” asked Tom.
“The prophecy,” the witch replied, unrolling the scroll.
“In the earliest years of Frock in the third age of Capricorn,” she read, “Tomar, the Great Knight of ancient battles, and bearer of the Key of Iragoth will come in childhood innocence, bringing light to the great darkness that shrouds the world. Slavery will be ended, famine will cease, the imprisoned shall be released... and so on, you know the usual saviour of the world stuff.”
“But I still don’t get what this has to do with me?” said Tom.
“Oh blimey, he ain’t the brightest star in the sky, is he?” said the witch to Garren. “You’re the Great Knight, you prune.”
“Me!” exclaimed Tom, jumping up out of his chair and startling Frank, who leapt on to Garren’s lap. “I’m not a knight. My name is Knight, Thomas Knight. I’ve never been in any ancient battles, and the only key I’ve got is to our front door.”
“Well,” said the witch, irritably. “These prophecies are open to interpretation, you know. And anyway, these Ancients might have been bloomin’ c
lever with the magic and all that, but their spelling was atrocious. No, honestly. You need a degree in cryptography just to read the damn thing. Tomar, Thomas it’s close enough,” she shrugged.
“Rita, the prophesy stated that the saviour would come in the age of Capricorn, we are still in Sagittarius. Are you absolutely sure he is the one?” Garren asked.
“Yes. Definitely. Absolutely. He passed the test. Look at my telescope,” she declared. “Anyway, the first year of Capricorn is only a week away. The Ancients were never known for the accuracy of their calendars.” She paused, and her face began to look worried. “But there is always the possibility that our current predicament is not the darkness they foretold, but just the prelude to it.”
“What do you mean?” asked Garren alarmed.
“I’ve read and re-read the ancient scriptures, and I’ve never been truly convinced that Balfour is the great evil. I can feel it in my old bones. Something is coming. Something much worse. And it chills me to my very soul.”
A silence descended on the room for a moment, everyone avoiding looking at everyone else. Then suddenly the witch sprang up and said, “Are you sure you won’t have some tea? It won’t take a jiffy.”
The two guests declined, and Tom asked again about the key he was supposed to have.
“Don’t you understand,” said the old lady. “The key don’t fit no lock. It’s like a cypher or code, but a magical one. It was hidden in your world in a place where it could not be found; inside a human. Down the centuries the key has passed from one person to another, without them ever knowing about it. The key is inside your head, deary. You are the key.”
Tom sat back down, flabbergasted. “I’m the key,” he said, trying to convince himself. “But I don’t know anything.”
“And you won’t till you come into contact with the Tome,” said Garren. Then turning to Rita. “What should we do?”
“Well it’s no use killing him, the key will just move on,” she said, ignoring the boy’s gulp. “We can’t send him back to his own world. The only thing we have going for us is that Balfour don’t know what he’s a looking for. I reckons that if we can get the Tome away from him and use it to open the portal back to nipper’s world, we could send both of them through it. Balfour would lose his power and young Tomar here, could hide the book on his side where no one knows of its existence.”
“Aren’t you worried I might use it like that Bathmat bloke?” asked the boy.
“No, if you were a wrong un, the key would never have chosen you. As far as that’s concerned I would trust you with anything, even Frank.” The tabby looked at her and meowed his objection.
“How are we going to get it away from him?” asked Garren.
“I’m just your ideas witch, how you do it is your own affair. But that is what you are going to have to do and do it quick an’ all. It’s only a matter of time before he works out what the key is.”
“Is there no other way?” Garren said, hopefully.
“Yes,” replied Rita with a smile. “Get the book and get the boy and chuck ’em both in the well and everyone would be safe.”
“Stuff that!” said Tom loudly. “If there are so many upset people around, why not get them to rebel, storm the monastery and take the book?”
“We don’t know who is on his side,” said Garren. “If he gets tipped off, he would be able to crush us all in an instant. No, the fewer people who know about this, the better. There is a way we can get into the monastery, or at least there was, I don’t know if he has discovered it. It won’t be easy.” He got up.
“Rita, can I use your mirror?”
“This is not the time to check your hair,” said Tom. He had not expected Garren to be vain.
Rita nodded. Garren stood before the mirror with his staff in his hand.
“Valcris Kalmar, hear me,” he said, looking at the mirror. At once, his staff illuminated the mirror, and Garren’s reflection shimmered for a moment in a haze of mist that existed only in the glass. Then as Garren’s face was completely obscured by the fog, another face materialised. It was thin and pale and belonged to a young man of about twenty, with short curly black hair.
“Garren,” said the face. “How are you, my old friend?” The accent was Eastern European, Tom was sure.
“Greetings Val,” Garren replied. “Are you busy at the moment?”
“Not at all, my friend. I’m just doing the washing up.” He held up two wet rubber-gloved hands.
“Got a bit of a quest on, wondered if you were interested?” said Garren.
“Ah,” the face in the mirror beamed. “Dangerous?”
“Very.”
“Wonderful! Put me down for it.”
“Thank you, old friend. Can you contact our other friends, and if they are willing, we shall meet tonight in the tavern?” said Garren.
“Consider it done. Till tonight then.” With a wave of a soapy yellow hand, the mist engulfed Valcris, and Garren’s face reappeared in the mirror.
“Cool! You got video phones,” said Tom, impressed.
“Thank you, Rita,” Garren said, ignoring the strange reference. “Come, Tom, we have to prepare.”
“You take care, and remember what I said, there may be worse things to come before we get out of this,” said Rita, showing them to the door.
“Thank you,” Tom said.
“What a polite boy,” said the witch, touching him on the cheek with a gnarled old hand. “Dress warmly, won’t you. Garren, don’t you go forgetting my Hummingbugs next time.”
The two robed figures made their way out into the sunshine and along the path to the gate. Once through the gate and back into the cold, snowy street, they turned and waved at the witch, then went back the way they came.
“Well Frank, this is it. There goes our last hope for the evil yet to come. One thing is for sure: when it gets here it’ll make Balfour look like a stroppy schoolgirl... Tut, he is so young, poor lad.”
“Meow,” said Frank.
Chapter 5
A Meeting in the Tavern
Warm, wood-smoked air mixed with the smells of ale and rich pipe smoke welcomed Tom and Garren as they opened the door of the tavern and stepped out of the cold winter evening.
After leaving Rita’s cottage earlier that afternoon, they walked back through the village, stopping at a grocer’s store to stock up on supplies of hard biscuits, jam, cheese and salted meat. Garren explained that if they were going on a journey, they would need supplies that would not perish quickly and would be easy to carry.
By the time they returned to Garren’s cottage, the last light of day had just faded only to be replaced with the dim glow from the oil-burning street lamps. To Tom’s utter amazement, they were lit by what looked like a small child with long bat-like wings flitting from lamp to lamp.
At Garren’s bidding, Tom stoked the dying embers of the fire in the stove and added a few logs while the cleric busied himself making a meal of hot broth and fresh bread. After that they left for the tavern to meet Garren’s friends, who they hoped would agree to help them.
“Hello,” said Garren to the young man behind the bar. Tom’s eyes were drawn to the enormous red boil on the very tip of his nose. It was milky white on the top and looked ready to erupt at any moment. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” said the barman, brushing his long golden hair behind a tall pointed ear. “I’m Blond.”
“Yes,” Garren replied. “I can see that.”
“No, my name is Blond. Short for Blonduraihenglyn Pixydyke. See?”
“Ah, yes. I see why you prefer Blond. Nice to meet you, Blond,” Garren said. “May I have a Thorn Rum and a fruit punch for my young friend here, please.”
“Got any ID?” asked the young barman.
“It’s alright, Blond, I’ll serve this gentleman,” said a stout little fellow, emerging from the back room. “Hello Garren, you haven’t been in here for a while. Thought you’d defected to the Unicorn’s Horn.”
> “I’d never desert an old friend, Ted. Besides, I’ve heard they buy the cheap stuff and pour it into expensive bottles,” said Garren, with a sly smile.
“Good grief,” said the landlord, looking nervously at his stock. “Who would do such a deplorable thing?... Um... I’ll get your drinks.” He scurried quickly away, returning after a few moments with two goblets. “Sorry about young Blond, by the way. He’s very keen. Daft as a moonstruck manticore, but keen.”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Garren said, paying for the drinks. He and Tom found a table in the corner beside one of the two large fireplaces, where they had the least chance of being overheard.
The bar they were in was quite a long room with the bar itself taking up the middle of the stone wall opposite the door. Either end of the room was a large stone fireplace with a chimney breast reaching up to the oak-beamed ceiling and a roaring fire blazing away in each. Either side of the fireplaces were alcoves with tables separated from the one behind by tall wooden screens. There were tables with bench seats dotted around the middle of the room and stools placed at the bar. At the opposite end of the room, a group of people were talking loudly and drinking from large flagons. An old man with a scarf and a very floppy hat sat smoking a pipe. Most of the smoke was collecting under the brim of his hat, giving the impression that his head was disappearing into a cloud.
The only other person in the tavern was an elderly, straggly grey-haired old lady wrapped in a grubby green shawl. She too was smoking a pipe, of the long clay variety, which hung from the side of her mouth. She was in the alcove opposite Tom and Garren, busily knitting, balls of wool rolling around at her feet.
“Cor, that’s better,” said Tom stretching his feet out before the fire to thaw out. “I’m beginning to get some feeling back now.”
“Careful you don’t get chilblains,” warned Garren.
“You sound like my Gran,” said Tom. “What are chilblains anyway?”
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