Sentinel: Book One of The Sentinel Trilogy

by Joshua Winning

  Nicholas smiled.

  “My, but if that isn’t the first time you’ve smiled in days,” Tabatha gushed.

  Before he could think anything of it, she opened the box.

  *

  Sam Wilkins arrived mid-afternoon and Nicholas was grateful for his company. They sat on a bench in the small, sun-dappled back garden. The fresh air, mingled with the giddy perfume of the flowers, improved Nicholas’s mood.

  “I trust things aren’t too unbearable with young Tabatha?” Sam asked, eyes twinkling beneath the rim of the fedora.

  “It’s fine,” Nicholas said, though Sam had a point. Tabatha’s incessant fawning had become increasingly trying as the days wore on. Still, her kind words had helped, and Nicholas couldn’t bring himself to complain about her, no matter how aggravating she sometimes was.

  “Good, good.”

  Sam removed the fedora and placed it on his knee, wiping his brow with a handkerchief.

  “And you’re well? No more nightmares?”

  Nicholas shook his head. He inwardly cursed Tabatha for telling Sam about the bad dreams; the last thing he wanted was for him to think he was some kind of bed-wetting kid. But Tabatha had heard him crying out in his sleep more than once and clearly felt it important to inform Sam.

  “It’s a struggle, lad, I can’t put it any plainer than that,” Sam sighed. “You need anything, you come straight to me.”

  “I know, thanks,” Nicholas said. “I’m okay.”

  “Good to hear,” Sam replied. “You’ve got your mother’s strength. Never let anything get her down, that woman. Not even when she and your father were scraping a living and barely making ends meet.” He paused briefly before adding: “As pleasant as your company may be, I must admit to having an ulterior motive. It’s rather important, in fact.”

  Nicholas’s insides shrivelled into a ball – he had a nagging feeling that they were about to discuss the funeral.

  “Important?” he asked reluctantly.

  “Oh, yes.” Sam gave him a business-like nod. “You see, I received a letter this morning.” He pulled a battered white envelope from his shirt pocket and passed it to the boy. Nicholas turned it over in his hands, the sun catching brightly across the white paper and momentarily blinding him. Then the envelope came back into focus.

  “It’s... it’s my dad’s handwriting,” Nicholas uttered in shock. He looked at Sam expectantly. “Does this mean–”

  “I’m afraid the letter was posted before the incident,” Sam explained. “It involves you, however. Go ahead and read it.”

  With trembling hands, Nicholas pulled a folded sheet of paper from the envelope and began to read.

  Dearest Samuel,

  As you know, Anita and I are to travel east tomorrow. Though it pains us to leave him, Nicholas is to stay in Cambridge. We had no choice in the matter.

  I wish to ask you a favour. Though I hope that nothing hinders this trip, Anita and I worry. There is talk; we have spoken of this before. The rumours have unsettled us both and we fear that something terrible will come to pass.

  Samuel, if when you read this news has reached you that something has happened to us, I want you to take Nicholas into your care. We’ve discussed this before, I know. He mustn’t stay in Cambridge; it is too dangerous a place. Take him east – take him to whom we intend to reach.

  In you I trust my life, and the life of my son. I pray that all runs smoothly for us, and that I will see you again.

  May the Guardian bless you.

  Maxwell

  Nicholas swallowed the lump that had lodged in his throat.

  “Th–they knew?” he murmured. “They knew that something was going to happen to them?”

  “Clearly they suspected...” Sam began. He cleared his own throat. “What has happened has happened; we cannot change it.”

  “But, what is he talking about? Who were they going to see?” Nicholas’s head was spinning. “They told me they were visiting an old friend, but they didn’t say where or who. And this letter makes it sound like… like they didn’t have a choice.”

  Why hadn’t he paid more attention when his parents had left that evening? He knew why. He’d been looking forward to having the house to himself; there had even been talk of a party. He hadn’t even bothered to ask where his parents were going. It hadn’t interested him.

  Sam turned to contemplate the garden for a moment, his quick blue eyes troubled. “There are things in this world that are quite... secret, Nicholas,” he began softly. They watched a bird hop from the overgrown pond onto a small boulder in the undergrowth. “Things that most people are oblivious to. Forgive me, it was not my intention to confuse you. But, you see, what your father alludes to in that letter is both very important, and very dangerous. If it had fallen into the wrong hands… I’m surprised he even sent it. An act of desperation, perhaps...” The elderly man shuddered and Nicholas felt a slow, slithering unease creep through him.

  He gripped the letter tightly.

  “But what is he talking about? What’s a Guardian? Where were they going?”

  “The lady I believe they were visiting is somebody very special indeed,” Sam said, and Nicholas noticed the old man smile faintly. “Your parents knew a lady in the east, though you won’t remember meeting her – you were very young. She is your godmother. It is my belief that your godmother and the friend your father mentioned to you are in fact one and the same.”

  “So... I’m going to have to live with her?” Nicholas asked. He felt more out of control than ever. Everything was happening so quickly and he didn’t seem to have a say in any of it. All he wanted was his parents back. He hadn’t even noticed the humdrum routine of everyday life before. Now it was gone, replaced with overwhelming uncertainty, he craved it. The lemon squares his mum used to bake. His dad’s bad jokes. But they were the one thing he couldn’t have, and never would.

  Sam seemed to struggle with this for a moment. Then he offered sagely: “I believe it is important that we do as your father asked – he always knew how to best handle situations like these.”

  “But I’ve never even heard of her before,” Nicholas argued. “Mum and Dad never mentioned her.”

  “In time, lad,” Sam said, a smile crumpling the corners of his mouth. “Don’t worry about such things. We’re all going to take care of you.”

  Nicholas frowned, worried. He stared down at the letter, re-reading it quickly, searching for anything that he might have missed. “I still don’t understand why, if he knew something was going to happen, all he could think about was me,” he murmured.

  Sam rested a hand on Nicholas’s shoulder. “Love knows no bounds,” he said plainly. As he said it, though, Nicholas detected something else in the man’s voice, something strained. He couldn’t think what it meant.

  They sat quietly for a few moments. Nicholas shivered, aware that a chill had entered the garden, and the pair looked up in unison. An angry black cloud was unfurling across the afternoon sun like a colossal inkblot. The day grew dark and thunder grumbled.

  “The heat wave has broken, then,” Sam commented, returning the fedora to his head. “We had best get inside.”

  Nicholas got to his feet, hurriedly pocketing the letter as rain began to drum from above. It was only a matter of seconds before they were drenched. Hurrying to the back door, he and Sam hastened into the kitchen and Nicholas forced the door closed against a gust of wind.

  “Well, that was rather unexpected.” Sam shook water from the brim of his hat. “Our summers really never improve, do they?”

  “What a pair you two are!” a voice shrieked behind them. Tabatha was standing in the doorway. “Like a couple of drowned rats!”

  “Hello again, Miss Blittmore,” Sam greeted her genially. “I apologise for the briefness of my visit, but I had better be moving before it worsens out there.”

  “Oh Mr Wilkins, you won’t stay for a cup of tea?” Tabatha looked disappointed. She seized a tea towel from the counter and began
to rub vigorously at Nicholas’s tangle of wet hair. He scowled and darted out of her reach.

  “Another time, thank you, Miss Blittmore,” Sam replied. “There’s no rest for the wicked, you know. I must be very wicked indeed; there always seems to be something on the go.” He strode to the kitchen door, then stopped and turned stiffly. “Ah, and the matter of the funeral. I’ve spoken to a priest at a quaint church that I know Anita was fond of. I’ll phone you within the day with the necessary details.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Wilkins,” Tabatha said, putting an arm around Nicholas’s shoulders. The boy moved away to peer out at the rain-lashed garden.

  Sam nodded and then tipped his hat. “I’ll show myself out. Goodbye.”

  “’Bye,” Nicholas murmured, still peering through the kitchen window. Snow was fluttering into the garden.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Whispers

  SHE HAD MANY NAMES. BUT OF them all, those numerous titles and adoring epithets, the one that He had chosen for her was the one she cherished. It had suited her even before it had been uttered, and as it stung the air for the first time, she had embraced it as her own. From then on it evoked fear and love in the hearts of all who crossed her path.

  Malika.

  A flash of lightning lit the cemetery. Gravestones erupted from the ground like snaggle teeth to grind at the night air, and in that briefest of moments something was silhouetted amid them. A cloaked figure.

  It wove between the stones, twin pricks of light glinting in the shadows cast by a hood.

  Above, an elemental purr disturbed the heavens. The winds stirred, moaning about the graves to mock the long-silenced voices of their occupants.

  The cloaked form approached a mausoleum and produced an intricate key. It was slotted into a corroded lock, then twisted with a grating protest of metal. With a final thunk the lock complied.

  Pausing in the open doorway, the figure raised pale hands and the hood was cast back with a sigh. A mass of lustrous red hair slithered over cloak-clad shoulders.

  The storm fell silent.

  Porcelain skin gleamed. Blood-red lips were full with defiance.

  Malika.

  She swung the door shut and bent to examine the interior of the crypt.

  “Charming, still,” she murmured mellifluously.

  In this dank place, the walls were infested with unnatural, spiny weeds. They clutched jealously at every stone, having prospered despite the lack of nourishing sunlight.

  Malika glided over to a sarcophagus, the tomb’s sole resident.

  The tip of her tongue dabbed her lips and when she pressed her hands to the cold surface a delicious shiver travelled through her.

  “The power has dwindled none,” she whispered. “Even when such time has passed.”

  The colour rose in her cheeks as she studied the symbols carved into the rough surface – a dead language long forgotten. Its mere presence soothed. It was only now, scrutinising these words after so many years, that she realised what had been missing. They reminded her of times long past; back when she had not stalked the shadows alone.

  Now was the time to change that. Summoning her strength, she prised open the sarcophagus. The cover-stone skated sideways, hinged at one end.

  Malika peered down.

  This was no ordinary grave. No rotted cadaver dreamed here.

  The sarcophagus was bottomless. A flight of steps plunged down into darkness. Malika breathed in the pungent stink that came roving from below. It was the scent of death and decay, of years of torment and agony. Before she could stop it, a delighted laugh spilled from her throat.

  The shadows recoiled.

  “How could I forget?” she murmured in caramel tones. “Forgive me my absence, I have returned now, at the waking of the world’s darkest era.”

  Like a ghost, Malika swept over the side of the sarcophagus. The darkness below was solid like a shapeless, living thing, but to her eyes there was no dark. Her cat-like eyes picked out the stairs all the way to the bottom and her footsteps rang out as she descended.

  There came no answering sounds; she had not expected any. It had been many decades since her last visit and she had sealed the mausoleum herself. That had been during the Second World War, when the earth had rocked as bombs were sent to scar the face of the world. She had revelled in that time, watching with glee as the petty humans fought, maimed and killed each other. Blood had flowed and she had soaked up the chaos eagerly from the sidelines.

  The stone steps came to an end.

  She hissed a foreign-sounding word and her command struck out like a whip. Fire erupted in an iron bowl held aloft by stone. There came another eruption. And another. And another, until the cavernous area below the graveyard was at last revealed to her, bathed in angry orange flickers.

  It was vast, stretching further than even she could see. Pillars like trees, spreading upwards into a dark canopy of shadow.

  Malika stepped into the hallowed chamber, moving resolutely. Water trickled down the columns, and at last she came to what she had been seeking; that which her heart ached to behold.

  An immense stone effigy towered over her. It bore the face of a monster – fang-filled jaws snarled, beady eyes stared and horns curved up out of a bulging forehead to disappear into the stone wall.

  Malika’s breast heaved as she studied the carving. She raised her trembling hands and untied the cloak that smothered her form.

  It came away at her shoulders, rippling to the floor. There, before the looming image of her God, she became absolute in her beauty. A crimson dress fell to her feet. Here and there pieces of the fabric were embroidered with tiny diamonds. The firelight ignited her pallid complexion and she was radiant.

  Unable to contain herself any longer, Malika threw her arms up, fingers stretched out. She spoke words that few would understand now – a tumult of syllables and rhythms that were both beautiful and tragic. Her voice was forceful, demanding. And in the ghostly draft that made the fires flicker there came an answer.

  Malika paused, casting about the cavern. Then, barely perceptible on the air, little more than a whisper, heaved the tone of another voice.

  The flames in the black bowls spat. The ground shuddered and stirred even the pillars. The world groaned under a sudden great weight.

  Malika fell silent.

  Icy waves sighed from the effigy’s open maw. There, in the recess of the statue’s yawning mouth, two points of white light had appeared.

  For a moment, Malika stood frozen, her arms still raised. The blood thrummed deafeningly in her ears. She could feel the eyes watching her. Penetrating. Tasting every inch of her. It took her a moment to compose herself. Such time had passed since she had basked in the presence of a higher being, one greater in power and authority than she, that she momentarily forgot herself.

  Dropping her arms to her side, she fell to her knees and uttered: “My Lord.”

  The bright pricks of light needled out from the dark.

  “Malika,” guttered a throaty voice.

  The woman raised her head. “It is I, Lord, your ever-loyal disciple.”

  “An age has passed since our last meeting.”

  “Many ages, my Lord,” Malika replied.

  “The Light has taken purchase of so many years?”

  “It has,” Malika consented. She rose, limbs flexing like a lioness’s, gaining in confidence. “But change surges above, carried on a wind of unease. The world is slipping, my Lord. It teeters on the brink. Corruption lays ruin to even the sturdiest of foundations, and the Light’s hold on order is loosening.”

  “You come bearing agreeable news.”

  “The world is much changed,” Malika continued. “The evil of Man blooms and sin stalks the streets like never before.”

  “Has the world indeed fallen so?” A coughing laugh made the flames spit. “Then my Rising has come not a moment too soon. The world is yet ready for a new array, a new leader and a new chaos.”

  Malika smiled darkly.<
br />
  “You have done well, Malika,” the voice wheezed. “Many would not have remained faithful when confronted daily with the despicable presence of Man. Such pitiful woes.”

  “It was the knowledge of your return that nourished me through the bleakest of nights,” Malika burred softly. “I live only to serve Diltraa.”

  “I am indebted for a servant as loyal as thee.”

  In the dark of the open maw a twisted form was hunched.

  It sucked in tentative, rattling breaths.

  “Even now other servants infiltrate the world,” Malika informed him. “Those whose sole desire is to bring forth the bedlam so long ago promised. Across England, Sentinels are being destroyed. And with every one that dies, the blanket of darkness musters its weight. Soon it will eclipse all.”

  “It is indeed a time for rejoicing. But not so swift,” said the whisper. The eyes glittered. “We must exercise caution. The Vaktarin prevails; I feel her presence and power even from here. No doubt Esus still guides her.”

  “But their grip slackens with every Sentinel silenced; we can overthrow them,” Malika persisted eagerly, hands clenched into fists. “Without the eyes of the Sentinels, the Vaktarin and Esus are defenceless.”

  The pinpricks blazed.

  In their shallow bowls the flames burst upward, showering livid sparks onto the ground.

  “Do not underestimate Them! Blind confidence will land daggers in your back and poison in your veins.”

  Malika bowed quickly. “Forgive me, my Lord. I will do anything that you ask.”

  “You will,” Diltraa spat. The flames dwindled. “I require a vessel; something that I may travel in undetected.”

  “Anything, my Lord,” Malika agreed keenly. “Ask of me anything, and it shall be yours.”

  “I sense something quite suitable. It resides in the town above, less than a mile from here.”

  Malika nodded and bowed once more. “I shall obtain it for you, my Lord.”

  The eyes burned expectantly in the gloom.