Ellen Under The Stairs

by John Stockmyer

  Ellen Under The Stairs

  Book #3 in the Bandworld Series

  John G. Stockmyer

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2010 John G. Stockmyer

  Discover other titles by John G. Stockmyer at www.johnstockmyer.com/books

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please return to Smashwords.com to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

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  About this Smashwords Edition

  This version of the book you are reading is a product of the automatic file-conversion process used at Smashwords.com. As a result, much of the original formatting has been stripped out, or simplified. If you want to read a version that looks much more like a traditional printed book (with a table of contents, proper chapter breaks, and text formatted for maximum readability), you may get it (for free) from the author's web site. To download the lovingly hand-coded version of this book in .epub or .mobi format, visit the author's web site at www.johnstockmyer.com/books

  NOTE: This is the third of 10+ books in the Bandworld Series. Book #1 is Under The Stairs. Book #2 is Back Under The Stairs. The first three books are free. The other books in the series can be purchased for $5.00 each at the author's web site.

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  Acknowledgements

  Cover Art: Peter Ziomek

  Peter Ziomek is a graphic designer, comic book artist and instructor in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Peter received his B.S. in Graphic Design from Eastern New Mexico University in Portales, New Mexico. He lived in Chicago for 14 years before moving to New Mexico in 1995. He is currently the Vice President and active creator with the New Mexico self publishers group 7000 B.C. He uses a combination of digital and traditional media to create works that range in style from cartoon to realistic. Influences include two-dimensional patterns, the original Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle comics, The Simpson's comics, Jeff Smith's Bone and brother Paul Ziomek. He is currently co-creating an all-ages comic book entitled "Fakin' the Funk" with Paul Ziomek. You can check out Peter's work at: www.overthetopcomics.com and www.7000bc.com.

  Ebook Conversion: John L. Stockmyer

  John L. Stockmyer is an Associate Professor of Marketing at Eastern New Mexico University in Portales, New Mexico. In his spare time, he dabbles in ecommerce, audio-book production and eBook design. He is also an avid disc golfer. His current ambition is to help talented "undiscovered" authors (like his dad) find an audience through the use of non-traditional media and innovative technology. Thank you for helping us shake up the publishing industry!

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  Chapter 1

  Pfnaravin cursed! Above and ahead of him, echoing along the sweating stone corridor of this crumbling pile called Hero Castle came the shouts of soldiers, the dogs of war Pfnaravin had unleashed on the pretend-Mage of Stil-de-grain, John-Lyon.

  John-Lyon with the green eyes and yellow hair of that abominable other land, was headed for the stone turret room, the gateway between worlds.

  Pfnaravin allowed himself a pinched-mouth smile.

  There could be little doubt that, running with the false Mage were the men who'd freed him. The sailor, Coluth, who John-Lyon had dubbed Admiral. Possibly the girl, Platinia.

  As Pfnaravin flogged his old man's bones to limp after the soldiers' shouts, he thought about the girl.

  Small. Slender. Dark.

  Did she have a kind of sorcery? The marrow of him said so.

  Not that it mattered. Pfnaravin, Crystal-Mage of Malachite, would soon have both of them within his power!

  Pfnaravin cursed again! Even though the green Crystal at his neck thrummed with dark Wizardry, he felt ... tired.

  Age.

  A thing to be feared, even by a Crystal-Mage.

  The tingle of Crystal force spidering his skin, Pfnaravin clawed his way forward, the ox-hide soles of his boots scraping the rough stone floor. Though lightly robed, the thrill of the chase protected him from the castle's chill.

  Up, ever up, he trailed his human hounds. Past silent rooms, his path lighted by the cool flames of the eternally burning torches angled near the stone hallway's ceiling.

  Excited shouts ahead; the bark of dogs who'd treed their prey!

  The chase near it's end, Pfnaravin allowed himself a hint of smile, deep lines splitting his cheeks into leathered plates.

  So near, yet ... so out of breath.

  Gasping in the castle's rancid air, brushing his long, grey hair from his faded eyes, he was thankful to be in a lighter pulling place like Stil-de-grain, than in his home Band of Malachite.

  Even with less Band sickness, he'd be exhausted after this business was concluded.

  Pausing to catch his breath, he smelled old dust and creeping rot in this little used corridor.

  Ahead, a cry!

  Fingering up the iron chain around his neck, the Mage stroked the smooth circle of his flat green Gem. To build more power.

  His beloved Crystal! Newly restored to him!

  Since the young Mage ahead had somehow lost the gold Disk of Stil-de-grain, the youth's only power lay in knowledge of the other world, a place replacing magic with machines. While trapped there, great as he was, Pfnaravin could work no wonders -- even simple Wizardry that slaveys could perform. Fire magic. Cooking magic. Nor was there healing in the light of that place, its illumination coming, not from a revolving eye at world center, but from a blazing circle in the sky!

  Again! This time, a scream!

  Warned, Pfnaravin barely crept ahead, his white robe of Cinnabar silk pooling about his feet, the moist corridor pinching in, its grimy ceiling dipping low.

  Rounding a bend, he saw his squad of soldiers up ahead. Found them mysteriously stopped -- a pile of blazing fire stones back-lighting them in the narrow hall.

  No. Not fire stones!

  Approaching cautiously, the old Mage saw that the tongues of fire ate chairs, tables, dressers. Saw, then smelled, what the other world had taught him was called smoke.

  Lying in shadow at the sides of the corridor, he noticed other soldiers, dressed in the short, white tunics of the Stil-de-grain military, the men moaning, their skin red, blistered.

  In a flash, it came to him! They had confronted otherworldly fire! Flames that spit out a terrible heat --- a threat to man and beast!

  Ten. Fifteen soldiers stood as if paralyzed before this unknown magic.

  One turned. Whirled back to shout, "It is the Mage!," all looking, their eyes wild with fear.

  "Stand at attention!" Pfnaravin commanded, the men straightening, the force of his presence steadying them.

  "Great Lord," stammered the troop's white-faced officer, "We can go no farther. The Mage we pursue has built here a great magic!"

  "Fools!," cried Pfnaravin "He is a Mage no longer. The hot flames before you are a trick, nothing more."

  "But ...."

  "Notice that this fire eats only wood and cloth. When the wood is gone, this fire dies with it."

  The soldiers' looks told him they were unconvinced, their eyes staring.

  "It is unlike the cool fire of magic," Pfnaravin continued, pointing at a torch glowing near the cramped ceiling. "This fire burns with heat, yes. But it is impermanent."

  What Pfnaravin kept to himself was that the fire-phenomenon before them could consume the world!, the young Mage dangerous, even without his stolen Crystal.

  "You ... and you!" Pfnaravin stabbed a twisted finger at the nearest men. "Search back along the corridor for other fur
nishing. Bring chairs to use to push this fire from the corridor into a side-room ahead. If you refrain from touching these flames, they cannot harm you."

  Eager to retreat from the raging fire, the solders sprang to do the Mage's bidding, returning with chairs and tables.

  "Use what you have brought as shields. Push them against the fire ahead. Clear a path!"

  Moving forward reluctantly, testing carefully to confirm that, if they avoided the flames they would feel no pain, the squad began to push the burning furniture parts to either side, making a path down the corridor's center.

  "Now!" Pfnaravin shouted, ordering the pack to move ahead.

  Too frightened of him to disobey, the group's commander edged forward to mince through the hole, the others finding the courage to follow, Pfnaravin trailing.

  Past the dying fire, at full run again, rounding a final crimp in the narrow hall, the soldiers thumped into the tower room, Pfnaravin striding after them, the lead soldiers slipping to a stop on the room's wet-moss floor, the circular room more turret than tower, its thick walls incised with wedges, arrow-slits chiseled to the outside.

  The room glowed from the golden sky of Stil-de-grain, light shafts streaming through a jagged hole in the room's ceiling.

  The yellow color of this band's light still apt to take him unawares, Pfnaravin realized how much he missed the bright green firmament of his home Band. Missed Malachite heat.

  As for the heavier pull of the Malachite Band ....

  Pfnaravin wrenched his mind from those distant thoughts.

  Returning to the present, a glance told him the room was ... empty ... roofing tiles shattered to the floor. Since the room had a single entry point, it was clear the fugitives had vanished through the roof hole.

  In a rage at the realization his prey had escaped, Pfnaravin pointed the stiffened fingers of both hands to unleash a Crystal-blast of electro psychic power, the green bolt careening off the walls, cracking out chips of stone, the lightning-stroke striking down a soldier who had strayed from the pack.

  No matter. The fighter's dismembered body would remind the others of the deadly force an enraged Crystal-Mage could command.

  Quieting, the Mage saw, as in a vision, what had happened. Those who had freed John-Lyon from Pfnaravin's iron cage were Coluth's sailors, sailors never far from ropes, all escaping through the roof-hole.

  Yes! On the floor was the rope, a grapnel at one end.

  No .....

  The Mage stroked his disk to extend his Crystal-enhanced senses.

  Though some had climbed the rope, John-Lyon had not, his bag of otherworldly tricks including passage ... home. Even without his golden Crystal, the former Mage had built enough transformation fluid to bridge the gap between the worlds.

  For a moment, Pfnaravin thought of using Crystal-generation to follow ..... But only for a moment.

  Muttering to himself, he shook his head.

  Even such thoughts were dangerous. For in that other place he would be powerless, Mage Crystals unable to leave this world. He would again be trapped there. Subject to aging. And to what were called diseases.

  No!

  A sobering thought. While Pfnaravin must remain, John-Lyon could journey between worlds if he wished.

  To stop the young Mage from returning, Pfnaravin would order slaveys to seal this room's only passage!

  And yet .....

  A smile creased the hardened face-plates of the wizened sage.

  To find his lost Crystal, John-Lyon must return, and to this room, the gateway between worlds.

  The youth returning to reclaim his Mage-Gem, Pfnaravin would arrange John-Lyon's death, but in such a way that Pfnaravin would be the first to touch the Stil-de-grain Gem, thereby adding its power to that of the green Crystal of Malachite.

  Pfnaravin had been on the wrong scent. His true path must be to befriend this otherworlder, starting with John-Lyon's friends. The sailor Coluth. The youth Golden. The girl Platinia. Do this to let all know that the arrest of the young Mage was the result of lying informers, soon to be executed. That John-Lyon would be welcomed back with song and ceremony.

  "Out!" Pfnaravin shouted at the others, once more aware of their presence. "Remove ... that!

  With an imperial point, Pfnaravin indicated the Crystal-shattered body of the dead fighter.

  Scrambling to follow the Mage's command, soldiers bent to collect the scattered body parts of their unfortunate comrade.

  "If John-Lyon returns, he is to be welcomed. A feast to be held in his honor. As a first preparation, a search must be made for the young Mage's friends, Coluth and the others, so that I can appoint them to their former positions of high honor.

  Though looking shocked, the soldiers nodded their understanding.

  "Spread the world to all, that John-Lyon is to have our every assistance upon his return."

  "Yes, high Lord," said the squad Head, fist smartly slanted across the golden crest-ribbon appropriate to his command.

  "Go."

  And they went, bearing the grisly body parts, supporting their flame-hurt comrades, the squad's tread falling away to silence.

  But would John-Lyon return? All depended on it.

  Ah! A way to know.

  Zwicia. The Weird of Bice. Another friend of John-Lyon, now housed below.

  Weirds had their larger Crystals in which they saw the past, present, and at times the future. Coming from Pfnaravin's home band of Malachite, he would make Zwicia predict the return of John-Lyon if he must crack every bone of her disgusting body!

  Welcome back, John-Lyon of the other world! Welcome to Bandworld where Pfnaravin's magic reigned supreme!

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  Chapter 2

  Over the edge! Then whirling, spinning! Having the horrid feeling of inversion, of being sucked dry! And all the while, tumbling beside him, Platinia, the girl falling with him through the static electric throat of the passage between there and ... here.

  With a disorienting thud, John Lyon found himself pitched into darkness, the girl sprawled beside him, the hand-cranked static electric generator painful under his twisted body.

  Suddenly, everything was quiet.

  The smell was of ... dust.

  Near him, Platinia moaned.

  Forcing an unnaturally heavy hand away from his body, John felt for Platinia to assure himself that the girl was there beside him in that cramped hole.

  Where was he?

  Disorientation. What he always felt at such a time. At ... such a time as ... what?

  John was beginning to have sensation again; his mind tugging at the edges of his memory.

  He was ... home. In the tight, black cavity under the front stairs, squeezed into the wedge-shaped storage space, the compartment he'd discovered to be the gateway between here, and what John had come to think of as the "other reality."

  Medieval.

  Magical.

  Though John made an effort, he could barely move, Platinia groaning again in the dark.

  Band sickness.

  That's what people on the other side called it. For it was becoming clearer that John had just returned from Bandworld, a place where countries were called Bands because each nation circled the planet like rings on an archery target, the inhabitants of Band countries experiencing different gravitational pulls.

  Paul ....

  John was so debilitated he had to flog his memory

  Describing the other world to Paul Hamilton -- John's friend and colleague at Hill-top College -- had Paul speculating that the other "reality" was round, but pancake flat. A planet with a dome over it to contain its atmosphere. An artificial creation.

  What had Paul called it? ..... A terrarium world. Constructed by ... God knows who.

  John had told Paul about the legend that a "Hero" had found the pathway to their world, the Hero returning to his own time and place with the concepts that formed band worlds' medieval civilization.

  No sense of time, those benighted people. According to them,
everything happened in the "long ago." Which could be a month. A year. A century.

  John wasn't making much sense. But didn't care. As heavy as he felt, he was content, for the moment, to stay where he was.

  He felt ... heavy ... because he'd come back from Stil-de-grain: a "light pulling" band. He'd also spent time in Realgar -- a place with even weaker gravity. John coming from a "heavy gravity" planet like earth, he'd enjoyed a "weight lifter's" advantage over those reared in the moon-like "pull" of Bandworld.

  But it was murder coming home.

  He'd adjust to it. He had before. It was just that the transformation wasn't easy.

  Gravitational shifting was why, when traveling from lighter "weight" bands to heavier ones in their own world, the people of the other reality thought of the leaden way they felt as "sickness." Band sickness.

  Paul had warned him to stay away from the other world. But John had gone anyway -- why, he couldn't recall just yet. It'd come to him.

  All he could remember at the moment, was that he'd once again bluffed his way into being Crystal-Mage of Stil-de-grain, his celebrity leading to his imprisonment by Pfnaravin, the embittered Mage of Malachite. If Coluth, Golden, and a couple of Coluth's sailors hadn't slipped into Hero Castle and gotten John out of that cage ....

  John's mind was wandering ....

  Platinia moaned again, John feeling sorry for the tiny, black haired girl. So small, so slender he'd first taken her to be a child, only to discover she was a young woman. From the first time he'd met her, he'd seen it as his duty to protect her. Why, he wasn't sure. In Platinia's presence, he was never certain about what motivated him; had even thought she might have a kind of hold over him; had cast a spell on him.