They said their goodbyes and left the three remaining comrades to wrap up against the cold, before following. On the way out, Garren thanked Ted for his hospitality. Ted was pinning a notice up on the bar post.
Wanted
Sensible Bar Staff
Apply to Landlord
When the last of them had left, and the door had shut out the cold night, the old woman put aside her knitting needles and rose from her chair. She shuffled over to the table where the group had been sitting and bending down, she retrieved a ball of dull green wool which had been kicked there by Dan as he came rushing in. From the centre of the yarn, she removed a purple sphere, about an inch in diameter. She looked at its faint glow before putting it to her ear. She listened intently for a minute, before gathering up her knitting into a canvas bag and hurriedly leaving the tavern.
“Ribbit,” croaked a large green toad angrily as the woman narrowly missed treading on it as she left.
She ignored it and strode off into the snowy night, with nothing more than a green knitted shawl to keep out the cold.
“Ribbit,” croaked the toad again as the big pus-filled boil on the very end of its nose burst.
Chapter 6
Betrayed
The Well Chamber's big oak doors were blasted open by such a force of anger that their enormous ancient iron hinges almost gave way. The unfortunate guard inside who, but for his unusual agility, very nearly became a stain on one of the tapestries hanging on either side of the entrance.
“Master, what has happened?” cried Cox, following Balfour as he stormed through the doors, throwing his cloak down in temper.
“It’s gone,” Balfour shouted. He stomped up to the far end of the hall, banging his leg on a bench as he passed.
He cursed the offending furniture and, his anger getting the better of him, he drew his wand and pointed it at the defenceless seat. “Obliteratum!” he shouted. A bolt of red light shot from the wand and hit the bench. It immediately exploded into a cloud of black dust that hung in the air for a moment before settling on the floor. The irate man jumped up on to the raised dais and threw himself down in his throne. “I was so close before. The Orb of Casther indicated I was almost upon it when last I ventured into the other realm, but as I closed in it moved away. This time the orb remained completely inert. It has gone.”
“How can it move, Master?” asked the young man.
“Someone must be moving it, but why? How can anyone in that world know of its existence? It was supposed to have been hidden there, by the last of the Ancients.”
“Perhaps someone from here, someone who knows you are looking for the key has travelled to the other realm to keep it from you,” Cox guessed.
“Fool!” Balfour retorted. “Only I can open a portal and then only with the power of the Tome,” he gestured at the pulpit.
The chamber was the size of a large parish church, complete with a balustrade to separate the nave from the raised chancel. Behind this ornately carved balustrade, was the Well of Fire around which the entire building had been constructed. Surrounded by a low stone wall, the well was about fifteen feet across. Smoke from the fires at the centre of the world rose from it and curled up towards the high ceiling, escaping through a hole in the conical roof. On the right of the well stood the newly added throne, where Balfour sat to address his followers and bestow judgement on those accused of breaking his harsh laws. On the left was a pulpit with seven winding steps leading up to the lectern at the top. On the lectern lay the sorcerer’s most prized possession; a large leather-bound book with a faded picture of a dragon on the cover: The Dragon’s Tome.
Balfour grabbed the bannisters and pulled himself up the pulpit steps two at a time. He opened the ancient book and looked for the thousandth time at the unintelligible characters which seemed to move about on the page.
“Is it possible it is being protected by an Ancient?” Balfour mused. “Did one go with it, I wonder. The orb was endowed with ancient magic to locate the key, wherever it may be hidden. So why when I entered that world, on this occasion, did it give me no sign when it was previously so forthcoming?”
“I cannot say, Excellency,” Cox answered. “Maybe we could ask the...” he was cut off by a loud bang on the door.
The guard who had previously come perilously close to being added to the decor by the enormous doors was now standing a little further to the side, firmly holding his faithful pike. He opened the door a little and peered out. Outside was a similar well-rounded guard, with a similar pike and similar red eyes peering nervously out of a similar yellow-skinned face below a similar short horn.
“Who goes there?” asked the first guard.
“A poor messenger in a state of dishevelment, who comes on an errand from the village,” came the answer.
“How comes he?”
“On a donkey sent by Mahab the informer.”
“Is he in possession of the secret code?”
“Test him.”
The door was opened a little wider to reveal a scrawny youth in tatty clothes with a green knitted bobble hat and scarf.
“Give me the secret code,” said the guard.
“The golden chappie’s worn a pillow,” the boy recited.
“Er, come again,” said the guard, looking confused.
“’Ang on,” the lad fumbled in a pocket and came out with a crumpled piece of paper. He smoothed it out and silently mouthed the words. “Oh, sorry,” he said, addressing the guard. “Eh-hem. The golden chapiter adorns the pillar.”
“Wait, while I make my report.” The guard slammed the door shut and marched up to the rail in front of the throne.
“Excellency, A poor messenger in a state....” he began.
“I HEARD,” bellowed Balfour. “Tell him to go away, I have more important matters to attend to.”
The guard turned and marched back to the door, opened it and addressed the youth, “Guv says bog off.” He was about to slam the door when the lad leapt forward and stuck his foot in the rapidly narrowing gap, an action he regretted a moment later for two reasons. The first was that the outer guard grabbed him by the scarf and almost throttled him.
“Ere, you can’t do dat,” he said.
The second reason was that the door was extremely large, extremely heavy, and when it hit his foot, it extremely hurt.
“They’re coming to rob his Existancy. Me mam said,” he rasped.
“Guard,” called Balfour. “Admit him.”
The outer guard dropped the lad, who fell on his knees trying to loosen the woolly scarf and let some air into his gasping lungs. He just managed to get his breath as the inner guard grabbed the knitted garment, dragged him to his feet and frogmarched him up to the rail before the throne.
“Who are you, and what is this robbery of which you speak?” Balfour demanded.
The scarlet-faced boy, having been released a second time, grabbed the rail to steady himself. Removing his scarf completely to prevent further strangulation, he looked up at the seated figure.
“I’m Horace,” he gasped. “Son of Mahab. She sent me to warn you that someone’s a-comin'.”
“Go on,” Balfour said.
“Last nigh’ me mam was in’t tavern, like usual when these folk came in and started talkin’ see. As me mam’s a loyal servant, as wot I am an’ all, she slipped a harkenstone under their table to find out wot they was up to.” He was getting into his stride now. “Now it turns out as this nipper’s turned up, not so old as me, but he’s this knight, see, the one wot was told of in the ancient legend, who’s gonna rid the world of all the dark and turn the lights on. Bit daft that, how’s we gonna get to sleep if it’s light all the time? Any road this knight and his mates are gonna sneak up a tunnel and break into your castle and nick a gnome, then take it back where he came from and hide it so you won’t never be able to get to it and use its power ever again,” Horace finished triumphantly.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Balfour scoffed. “The legend of the child-
knight is just a tale told to chil...Gnome?”
“Eh?”
“You said gnome. They are going to steal a gnome.”
“Yep, that’s righ’. I thought it a bit strange, I mean them little beggars bite an’ all. And you wouldn’t keep ’im quiet while you were trying to sneak ’im out t’castle,” said Horace, scratching his head.
“You mean Tome, you imbecile,” Balfour said, exasperated.
“Sure it’s Gnome,” said the boy.
“Tome,” Balfour exclaimed pointing at the lectern.” Tome... The book.”
“Ohhhhh,” said Horace with a look of revelation. “That would make more sense. You’d never hide a gnome for long.”
“Good grief,” Balfour said. “Who was with this knight?”
“Me mam said Garren the Cleric, Valcris Kelmar, an’ two who she didn’t know, but one was a fairy. Oh, and they are goin’ to get the seer to give ’em an ’and an’ all.”
Balfour jumped down from the pulpit and began to pace, his mind sifting through this new information and coming up with questions he needed the answers to. Who was the stranger? Could there be any truth in the old legend of the knight? Was there a tunnel leading to the monastery? Was the stranger responsible for him losing track of the key? Did he have the key with him? That would explain why he’d lost track of it in the other realm. He was determined to find answers.
“Cox,” he called. His hands splayed on the wall of the smouldering well. “Fetch me my orb, fetch it now.”
The handsome young man bounded over to the travelling cloak, discarded by his master when he stormed in through the door. Fumbling inside it for a moment he withdrew a round object, the size of a plum and raced over to the waiting man who snatched it from him. Holding the dark crystal in the palm of his hand, he muttered the incantation, “Resigno Nota.” In the very centre of the orb, a flame sparked into life and began to burn. But unlike a normal flame which makes every attempt to reach the sky, this flame burned on its side. As the tall man turned, so did the flickering light, always pointing to the south.
“Cox,” he cried. “It’s here. That is why the orb failed me in the other world. The key has been brought here. But wait. If this knight or saviour has opened a portal from that world, then he has power indeed. Unless the key gives him power as the Tome does for me,” he paused. “We must proceed with caution Cox.”
“Master let me send the Guardians out in force to apprehend these thieves and remove this threat now before they have time to do any damage. We have the element of surprise. They do not know we are aware of them,” Cox said.
“No,” Balfour replied thoughtfully. “The Guardians must not be distracted from their task. They must find the cavern. That is of the greatest importance. No, I will deal with our new friends, but first I need a little more information. You find me that secret tunnel, tear the monastery apart brick by brick if you have to, just find it.” He was about to leave the Well Chamber when Horace caught his eye. He was still standing by the rail in front of the throne, scarf in hand, gazing around the room trying not to listen to what was going on around him.
“Now,” said Balfour, sweetly. “We mustn’t take the chance that any of our plans may be discussed outside the monastery.”
Horace’s attention snapped back to what was being said. “Don’ you worry Exceptancy, I don’ ear nuffin. You can rely on me.”
“I’m sure I can. But there are people out there, unscrupulous people, who would use deceitful, underhanded methods of coercion to compel you to disclose our stratagem.” Balfour said, slipping a fatherly arm around the young man’s grubby shoulder.
“Eh?” replied the uncomfortable youth.
“Truth spells or potions,” Balfour explained.
“Oh.”
“No, I think, as a reward of merit, you will join my happy little band of loyal followers here,” Balfour said.
“Oh, right. Thanks an’ all that but me mam sort of relies on me, see,” Horace said.
“She will be so proud of you when she hears,” Balfour reasoned.
“Ah, but who’ll chop the firewood?”
“There is no longer any need to worry about that. In fact, there is no longer any need to worry about anything.” Tightening his grip around the youth’s neck, quick as a flash, he whipped out his wand and touched the blue jewel at the end to Horace’s forehead. “Adsentio,” he said. The gem lit up, and Horace’s face went blank, his eyes staring without emotion.
“Guard,” Balfour called. “Escort our new Guardian to the robing room and see he is properly attired before placing him in the care of Bartok.”
Chapter 7
The Quest Begins
As the early morning sun began to peep over the trees to the east and gingerly feel its way into the cold blue sky, Tom and Garren stepped out from the warmth of the little cottage, into the Christmas card scene of undisturbed snow.
“Jees that’s cold,” Tom gasped as the powdery snow found its way to his exposed toes through his sandals.
“You are not moaning about your cold feet again, are you?” asked Garren, turning the big black key in the door.
“It’s all right for you, you have those boot things,” Tom complained, pointing at the large fur-lined boots Garren wore. They appeared to be made of some thick-skinned animal that had been turned inside out.
“I only have one pair, and anyway, they did not fit you. You have extraordinarily large feet for a person your size.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my feet,” said Tom defensively, “except that they are bloomin’ cold.”
“Let us walk quickly then, to warm them a little,” Garren suggested, heaving his duffel over his shoulder and striding briskly off through the crisp snow. Tom shouldered his own pack and followed.
The pair took the same route they had taken the previous day which led them into the heart of the village, past Rita’s perpetual summertime cottage. In the witches garden, a light morning dew lay on the many-coloured petals unfurling to greet the warm day. In the little square, the tavern occupied one side with shops on the adjacent sides. Opposite stood the town hall which served as council chambers, administrative centre, theatre and where the Women’s Institute met every Wednesday afternoon (half-day closing).
Unlike the previous evening, the square itself was far from empty. Even at this early hour, the street traders were busy setting up their stalls selling a variety of items from fruit and veg to baskets and bags. The curfew meant the street vendors lost a whole hour’s trading, so everywhere they were rushing about setting up their stalls as quickly as possible to make up for lost time. All this hustle and bustle went on under the watchful gaze of the shiny new bronze statue of a man, standing high on a pedestal with fatherly arms outstretched in welcome. A polished brass plaque on the base said in bold letters:
His Excellency the Great Count Balfour
Defender of Magic
Much to the residents' annoyance, this new addition to the square replaced a rather lovely fountain that cascaded water from the mouth of Illemborn, the Great Dragon, into a pond full of brightly coloured Choral Fish. The brightly coloured fish would come to the surface and sing a haunting melody for anyone who would feed them. They literally sang for their supper.
Garren led the way to one of the stalls, in front of which a large metal brazier blazed away, radiating its warmth to the bench that encircled it. Stools surrounded the bench, two of which were already occupied. Lyca and Dan were sat warming themselves by the fire. They both had steaming goblets and wooden dishes in front of them.
“Time for some breakfast, I think,” said Garren, nodding to their waiting companions. “Do you like hog?”
“Er, yeah I guess so,” said Tom revelling in the wonderful smells coming from the stall.
“Good morning,” said Garren to the dwarf, whose eyes could be seen peering over the wheeled cart that served as his stall. “Two hog rolls and two goblets of spiced mead, please.”
“You want the hog
cooked?” asked the dwarf in a squeaky voice. Tom thought that a strange question.
“Yes please,” replied Garren without hesitation.
“Two an’ half groats,” said the dwarf. Taking a huge curved knife, he sliced meat from a cooked animal suspended on a spit over a tray of red hot coals. Taking the sizzling meat, the little creature inserted it into pre-cut bread rolls and slopped a dollop of sage and apple paste on for flavour. Slapping them on to wooden dishes, he all but threw them on the counter, Tom just managing to catch his before it slid off the other side. The stall-holder produced two goblets from beneath the counter and dipped them in a steaming pot that hung on the end of the spit then placed them on the top a little more gently, but still slopping some of the hot liquid on to the wooden surface.
Garren placed three coins from a leather pouch on the counter, thanked the dwarf and carried his breakfast over to the bench. Tom followed sitting down next to Lyca.
“Pleasant fellow ain’t he?” she said. Tom noticed the look of disgust as she looked down at his breakfast. She glanced at Dan who was noisily scoffing his hog roll, grease running down his chin. “Animal,” she said.
“You can talk,” Dan retorted through a mouthful of roll.
“Don’t you like hog?” Tom asked.
She swallowed hard. “Hog is fine; I just can’t stomach cooked meat.”
Tom looked at her plate and saw that the meat inside her roll was pink, cold and quite raw. He turned his nose up. “You eat it raw?” he said.
“Course I do, none of my lot can go near cooked meat without wanting to barf.”
Tom instinctively moved his plate out of the way. “What lot?” he asked.
“Werewolves,” she said matter-of-factly. “That’s why I wear gloves all the time,” she waved a gloved hand in the air. “So I don’t accidentally scratch anyone. Can’t keep my nails down, see. Every time I cut them, within an hour, they are back just as long as before. Handy for playing the lute though.
“Course I’m a born werewolf,” she continued, taking a bite of her raw breakfast, “not a turned one, ya know. My Mam was one, Dad too, but not till after they were married,” she grinned.
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