The Time Hunters and the Sword of Ages

by carl ashmore

  The Time Hunters

  and the

  Sword of Ages

  Carl Ashmore

  For Lisa and Alice

  For Kath, Caitlin and Eleanor

  For Athina

  For Jane and Finn

  In memory of Bernard Ashmore, John Lindenberger and Cameron Waugh

  Acknowledgements

  Mum, Aud, Rob, Mache, Gabe, Liz and Isla, Gingerlily, Frenchie and the Fantastic Four, Kay, Vanessa, Kay, Kim, Libby, Tej, Amy, Sarah and Matthew Wise, Joo / Julie Stacey, Rob and Leah, Mike Eldred, Emma Sly, Emily Grantham, Dawn Hills, Jamie, Ann Astrop, Mark and Helen Marcia Donkin, Andy Taylor and the Stoke on Trent College Film crew of 1996, Isabel and Zac, Michael Fleming, Amanda Fleming, Velma Rasmussen, Caitlynn Clewlow, Phil Jones, Ben Peyton, Kathryn Marriott, Mark Baddeley, Sally Parsons, Mel Green and Isabella, Grady Adams, Heather B Moon Author, Steph Weston, Fred and Ann Moyer McCann, Steph Weston, Dean and Ethan Yurke, Max Andrew, Lola and Emma Grace Roberts Dinsley, Daisy and Markus, Rachel and Henry, Louie and Evie McKay, Holly Beddow, Kelly Ann Inman, Lilly Ann Sidwell, Alex Rockemer, Caralyn Beattie, Lily Thraves, Sarah Lily and Isaac, Wendy Morris and Kira, Susan Watson, Lesley, Cheryl Ann, Shiloh, Austin, Wyatt and Dakota, Kayleigh and Archie, Simon Parker, Simon and Alexander McGovern, Rosie and Alex.

  Thanks to Graham Worthington for audio support with the Book Trailer. Please check out www.autumnlungs.com

  Thanks to Sean Cusack for help with the cover design.

  Thanks to Richard Litherland for his animation work on the forthcoming Book Trailer.

  Cover Design: Dreamtime.com/Andreus

  Character Artwork by Giles Livesy – www.pawcasso.co.uk

  Chapters

  Chapter 1: The Modern Prometheus

  Chapter 2: Cat on a Hot School Roof

  Chapter 3: Falling Down

  Chapter 4: At the Hop

  Chapter 5: Broken Glass, Broken Lives

  Chapter 6: Hold your Horses

  Chapter 7: Pig Out

  Chapter 8: The Celestial Stowaway

  Chapter 9: The Ship of Ghosts

  Chapter 10: Morogh MacDougal

  Chapter 11: Going... Going... Gone

  Chapter 12: Numbing Numbers

  Chapter 13: Destination Unknown

  Chapter 14: Big Bad John

  Chapter 15: Not in Nottingham

  Chapter 16: The Rescuers

  Chapter 17: Questions and Answers

  Chapter 18: The Long Trek

  Chapter 19: From Boy to Maniac

  Chapter 20: Siege

  Chapter 21: Under Loch and Key

  Chapter 22: Revelation and Revulsion

  Chapter 23: The Point of No Return

  Chapter 24: The King's Speech

  Chapter 25: Dreams Never End

  Chapter 26: Past, Present and Future

  Chapter 27: The Road to Urquhart

  Chapter 28: The Fallen of Ascalon

  Chapter 29: The Chamber

  Chapter 30: The Kraken Wakes

  Chapter 31: Surrender

  Chapter 32: The Road's End

  Chapter 33: Farewell to a Friend

  Epilogue: Name and Shame

  Chapter 1

  The Modern Prometheus

  Darmstadt, Germany. 1714

  Otto Kruger’s eyes snapped open. At once, his senses were assaulted with information: the bitter scent of disinfectant; the sight of the rutted stone ceiling above; the purr of a machine humming softly to his left. Remaining still, he took a moment to process this new environment.

  Where was he?

  The last thing he remembered was being helped into a time machine outside a pirate tavern on Nassau, arriving at a Gerathnium facility somewhere in the Kamchatka Peninsula in Medieval Russia, before being transported, drifting in and out of consciousness, to an underground room. But more than the events, he remembered the pain, the unspeakable pain, as the blood spilled from his severed arm like an unstoppable tap.

  His head blazed with fury as he recalled the swordfight that had resulted in the loss of his right arm – the clash with that insufferable groundsman, Will Shakelock. And then another memory joined the others, his last before this very point: he was lying on a rusty bed, barely large enough to cover his massive frame. An unseen syringe propelled the anaesthetic into his body, sending him into a merciful oblivion, as the words of his employer, Emerson Drake, met his ears.

  ‘You will live, Otto. I told you, I reward those most loyal to me. I shall rebuild you, better than before, better than anyone that has come before. You will consider these events a blessing, I promise you …’

  But how long ago was that? He had no idea.

  It was then he heard that same voice again. ‘Welcome back, Otto.’

  Kruger turned his head. Emerson Drake was standing there, a self-satisfied smile set on his thin lips.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘How do you feel?’

  Kruger took a second to answer. ‘Good.’

  Drake’s eyes narrowed. ‘Just … good?’

  Kruger sensed his employer had expected a different answer. And now he was fully conscious, he could understand why. Good didn’t begin to describe it. He felt magnificent. The pain had gone, replaced by an innate raw power he’d never felt before.

  Kruger pushed himself up. As he did, his icy green eyes fell on his right side. Grafted seamlessly to his elbow was a silver arm, identical in size and weight to the one he had lost.

  ‘Do you approve?’ Drake asked.

  Kruger didn’t answer. Instead, he raised his enormous silver hand and balled his fingers into a fist. The deep scar on his right cheek was cast in a silvery hue. Slowly, his mouth formed the following words, ‘I do, sir.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Drake replied. ‘The arm is made from a polynythene carbonite alloy, and attached via the somatosensory system, to the premotor cortex region of your brain. Essentially, it will feel and function precisely as your old arm did. With one notable exception, you can now punch a hole in a wall without feeling a thing.’

  Kruger glanced at the wall opposite as if keen to try this out.

  ‘And I trust you won’t mind that I made a few other modifications whilst you were asleep – sensory and corporeal augmentations that make you unique.’

  Kruger looked confused.

  Drake responded with a smirk. ‘You are now stronger, faster, more agile than any man alive.’ He paused. ‘In short, I’ve made you super-human…’

  Kruger was about to respond when he noticed two men in the far corner of the room. The first, slim and elegantly dressed in a flowing robe, had a high forehead and thick black hair that spiralled down in tight curls. He was staring back at Kruger, mesmerised. His mouth was ajar, as if wishing to express words of approval but unable to find the confidence to do so. The second, a middle-aged man with a striking gold and white striped tie had a warm, generous face, but wore a very different expression - as pale as stone, he looked petrified.

  ‘Ah, of course,’ Drake said. ‘Otto, may I introduce you to these two gentlemen?’ He nodded at the curly haired man. ‘This is Johann Konrad Dippel, our esteemed host. Indeed, we currently inhabit a room in the western tower of his magnificent castle. Mister Dippel has been an Associate of mine for some time now, and I consider him to possess one of the most deviant minds of the early eighteenth century.’

  Dippel clearly considered this a great compliment. ‘Danke schön, Mister Drake,’ he said, before bowing at Kruger. ‘My house is yours, Herr Kruger.’

  Drake turned to the other man, who was making an effort to contain his trembling body from the others. ‘And this is Arthur Kingsley Porter – Professor at Harvard Unive
rsity, and without doubt one of the most eminent scholars of medieval architecture in the twentieth century.’

  Porter looked too scared to respond.

  Drake gave an ugly smile. ‘I’m afraid Mister Porter had to be coerced into making the time-trip, but I did feel he should see this wonderful castle. After all, it is indisputably one of the most renowned specimens in history, there’s no question about that. Have you found it interesting, Mister Porter?’

  The man gave an anxious nod. ‘Y-yes,’ he replied in an American accent.

  ‘I am glad,’ Drake replied. ‘Anyway, Otto, would you care to stand? I’m keen to see just how successful the surgery has been.’

  With a swift turn, Kruger dropped his legs to the floor. He pushed himself on to his feet. At six foot five, he dwarfed everyone in the room.

  ‘And do you feel fit enough to get back to work?’ Drake asked. ‘I have some thoughts on the fourth Eden Relic, and I think you might appreciate where the trail is leading.’

  ‘I welcome it, sir.’

  Drake gave a nod of satisfaction. ‘Excellent. Then it seems our work here is done.’ He turned to Dippel. ‘Mister Dippel, thank you again for your hospitality.’

  ‘You honour this house with your patronage, sire,’ Dippel replied.

  ‘And Mister Porter,’ Drake said. ‘I assume you wish to return to your time and your charming wife, Lucy?’

  Hope flickered in Porter’s eyes. ‘Yes … please. Very much.’

  Drake pondered this for a moment. ‘I’m afraid that won’t be happening,’ he said. ‘You see … you’re a friend of Percy Halifax, are you not?’ He spat out the name like the words scorched his tongue.

  Porter said nothing as if fearful of giving the wrong answer.

  ‘I know you are,’ Drake confirmed. ‘But what you’re not aware of is that Percy Halifax is a time traveller, just like me … or that a few months ago, I told him if he continued to try and thwart my activities, I would punish his friends and family.’ Turning into the light, his face fell into silhouette. ‘I’m afraid he didn’t listen…’

  A horrific realisation spread across Porter’s face.

  Drake glanced at Kruger. ‘Otto, would you give Mister Porter a hand in showing the dangers of befriending Percy Halifax.’

  Without hesitation, Kruger marched across the room. Before Porter could shout an objection, Kruger’s silver hand seized his throat, crushing his windpipe, transforming his intended scream into a muffled, desperate wheeze.

  Kruger hoisted Porter into the air.

  Porter kicked wildly, his fingers clawing at Kruger’s hand, but it was to no avail. Kruger’s grip tightened like a vice, choking the air from his lungs.

  Drake watched it all with a cold detachment. He looked uninterested, bored even. ‘I could suggest you choose better friends in the future, Mister Porter,’ he said. ‘But then again … you have no future.’ He nodded at Kruger.

  Like a child throwing a ragdoll, Kruger hurled Porter at the far wall, ten feet away or so. Porter smashed into the stonework, before crashing to the ground, twisted and lifeless.

  Drake looked at Kruger, who seemed shocked at his newfound strength. ‘You seem to have made a full recovery, Otto?’

  ‘I think so, sir.’

  ‘Then I suggest we leave this time zone,’ Drake replied. ‘I intend to be very busy in the coming months, so I’d like you to go on a time-trip for me, a very important trip.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  Drake smiled. ‘You know, Otto, I’ve always appreciated your ability to follow orders. And you never question, you never ask for anything in return.’

  ‘Ah, but this time there is something, sir.’

  Drake looked surprised. ‘Really? Continue …’

  Kruger’s voice fell to an ominous snarl. ‘I want the groundsman. I want him to suffer like no other.’

  ‘Of course you do.’ Drake shrugged indifferently. ‘Then Shakelock’s fate is in your hands.’ He turned to Dippel. ‘I’ll have to erase this tower from history, Dippel. I’ve left too much of a mark for it to continue to exist.’

  ‘I will not object, sire,’ Dippel replied.

  ‘I know. Actually, in the future, some credit you with destroying this tower yourself in a failed experiment using nitroglycerine.’

  ‘Nitroglycerine?’ Dippel replied, puzzled. ‘And what is that?’

  ‘It’s an explosive liquid,’ Drake replied. ‘However, as Ascanio Sobrero doesn’t invent it until 1847, many considered this an impossible claim. Ironically, it’s nitroglycerine I intend to use to blow this place to oblivion.’ He chuckled. ‘Isn’t it fascinating how the actions of the time traveller today can influence the minds of tomorrow?’

  ‘And, Otto, let me tell you another story, one that also intertwines the castle and the life of our host. I said earlier this castle was a renowned specimen – well, its name is Burg Frankenstein. Does that ring any bells?’

  Kruger nodded. ‘It certainly does, sir.’

  ‘I thought it might. In a hundred years time a young woman, Mary Shelley, will visit Burg Frankenstein, and conceive an idea that will later become arguably the most famous horror novel of any age. And, furthermore, do you know whom many believe was the inspiration for Miss Shelley’s protagonist, the scientist, Victor Frankenstein?’ He nodded at Dippel. ‘None other than Mister Dippel himself. Now isn’t that amusing?’

  Kruger remained stone-faced. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But the real irony is, with my recent experiments at the castle, it’s conceivably me who is the actual figure on which she based her tragic hero.’ Drake laughed. ‘And if that’s the case you know what that makes you, don’t you?’

  For the first time since he had gained consciousness, Kruger’s face was split with a smile. He glanced over at Porter’s corpse before looking back at Drake.

  ‘That would make me the monster, sir…’

  Chapter 2

  Cat on a Hot School Roof

  Becky Mellor was fed up. She’d been sitting on a hard bench in a draughty corridor, staring at the clock opposite, which ticked so slowly she felt certain a spiteful teacher had rigged it deliberately to extend the school day.

  Only an hour earlier, pupils had swarmed out of Coppenhill High School, desperate to start their Easter holidays. But not her. She was stuck here waiting for her brother, Joe, who had been given detention for fighting with an older boy. Granted, the fight had been with Steven ‘The Mallet’ Hallet, a notorious bully, and the only person she knew with a chin like a coconut, but that didn’t alter the fact she had plans, and remaining at school one second longer than she had to wasn’t one of them.

  With a frown, she looked down at the coin in her hand. Well, if truth were told, it wasn’t exactly in her hand - it hovered about an inch above it, spinning like a carousel, her shoulders hunched in an arc, shielding it from sight of any unwelcome witness. And this was one of the many astonishing things about Becky Mellor. She was telekinetic: she could move objects with her mind.

  She had developed this gift the previous summer on a trip to Ancient Greece with her time travelling Uncle Percy, but, at the time, had no capacity to control where and when it occurred. Since then, however, she had learned to master it, and now it came as naturally as breathing.

  As a rule, she avoided using these powers – the last thing she wanted was to draw attention to herself, but every now and again she couldn’t resist. Only the previous week, in the school canteen, she overheard Debbie Crabtree telling her buck-toothed friend, Melinda Palmer, that Becky’s hair looked like seaweed, until for some inexplicable reason, Debbie’s plate of Spaghetti Bolognese rose off the table and slammed into her face like a custard pie, starting the rumour a poltergeist haunted the school. Another time, she discovered Joe had emptied her tub of moisturiser and replaced it with marmalade. In revenge, she sent a toilet brush flying into his bedroom to beat him round the head until he begged her forgiveness.

  Becky glanced up at the clock again. She
exhaled a despondent sigh. What made matters worse was that she knew Uncle Percy was in the visitors’ car park, waiting to escort her and Joe to what promised to be another wonderful week at Bowen Hall. Furthermore, Uncle Percy had said something during a recent phone call that had intrigued her to the point of obsession. His words still reverberated in her head.

  ‘I really can’t wait for you to see what’s happened. It’s a sight to behold. In fact, if I may employ your vernacular for a moment, it’s “totally awesome...”’

  But when Becky pressed him for more information he refused to answer, insisting its true impact came from witnessing it first hand. She couldn’t imagine what it might be. After all, everything at Bowen Hall was awesome as far as she was concerned – from the magnificent Jacobean building, to its array of remarkable inhabitants: Maria and Jacob, the housekeeper and butler; Will Shakelock, the groundsman; Milly and Sabian, the Sabre-tooth Tigers; and Gump and Peggy, the Triceratops and snow-white winged horse.

  So what could make him react like that? She couldn’t wait to find out.

  Impatiently, she glanced down the dimly lit corridor hoping for Joe’s athletic figure to appear. She looked back at the coin, concentrated hard and watched it spin faster and faster, until its edge blurred into a silvery cloud. Then, from her left, she heard an unfamiliar voice.

  ‘Are you camping here for the night?’

  Momentarily flustered, Becky let the coin fall into the palm of her hand, hoping the passer by hadn’t noticed. Looking up, she saw a tall boy emerge from the gloom, a floppy black fringe framing his handsome face. He was wearing a tracksuit and carried a sports bag across his shoulders. She recognised him at once. Dan Hardman was in the year above her, a brilliant athlete, captain of his year’s football team and widely accepted as the hottest boy in Year 10.

  Becky was lost for words. ‘Err, I - I’m waiting for someone,’ she replied weakly.