by Eli Ingle
Text, illustrations, poem and cover art copyright © 2017 by Eli Ingle
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
All characters, events and locations in this book are purely fictional and a work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead or to places or events are entirely coincidental.
A catalogue of this book is available from the British Library
First Printed, 2017 in the United Kingdom
ISBN: 978-0-9934746-2-0
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Pepino Publishing
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For my Family,
I don’t know what I would do without you.
Through the doorway,
They have passed,
The two that went can’t come back.
The Darkness creeps,
And fills the land,
Poisoning all under his watchful hand.
Chapter One
It was unlike Frivlok to trust a subordinate. The statement, however, was misleading. Whilst his companions believed a lifelong habit had been altered without being mentioned, Frivlok was merely keeping his cards close to his chest. Closer than normal, anyway. He, in fact, trusted no-one but himself. Whilst he took his two companions into his confidence, he trusted them no more than the Light Ones. The Commander and the Shapeshifter, of course, had no idea of this – if they had realised, they would surely not have allowed Frivlok to command them as he did. Indeed, if they had known how mistrustful he was of them, they would probably have left his company altogether. The Three were not even supposed to be travelling together. Ancient laws that bound them indicated that it was far more advantageous if they worked alone. That said, in the over-world in which they currently found themselves, they were no longer bound by the laws that had forged them. Where the Three originally came from was a little-known and closely guarded secret. The millennium of being trapped in the Dark Realm, as well as how they had been cast there in the first place, had all but wiped the demons’ memories of how they had arrived there. The Three remembered but spoke of it to no-one. Not even each other. They were afraid. And rightly so. Darker things than themselves lay there. And that was a thought no-one wanted to entertain for any amount of time.
The Commander and the Shapeshifter knew of Frivlok’s mistrust of others. So when it was announced that Frivlok wished to meet with them, they were incredibly surprised to see a veru crouching behind his throne. A veru was the lowest of the low in no uncertain terms. One of those deformed little goblinesque creatures that wandered around the Dark Realm, picking off the scraps of meat left behind and being kicked in the ribs by every other creature there.
Frivlok spoke. They listened.
“Gentlemen, tonight we walk abroad.”
“What,” asked the Commander, pointing behind the throne, “is that thing doing there?”
The Shapeshifter moved his pale, orb-like eyes to where the Commander pointed. His expression did not change. Then again, it rarely did.
“I see you have spotted our little friend,” Frivlok said, baring his pointed grey teeth. “Come out brother. We wish to see you in the open.”
The veru took a few tentative steps towards the right side of the throne, wringing its hands together and looking down at the floor. It knew better than to look anyone in the eyes. Its head bobbed up and down like a nervous tic.
“Does it speak?” the Commander asked curtly. He appeared repulsed by the thing.
“It does,” replied Frivlok, “when we give it permission.” He winked. “Go on, you may speak.”
“Th-th-thank you sir, sirs, sir.” It bobbed its head several times in the general direction of each of the Three.
“Enough of that,” snapped Frivlok. “Tell your story and make it quick.”
“Yes sir, thank you, sir. Well sir, sir, sir—”
“Stop it.”
“Yes sir, I mean!” The veru was babbling. It had no idea how to deal with its promotion. From being the lowliest creature in the Dark Realm to being surrounded by three demons considered as gods. The Commander rested his huge hand on the pommel of his sword, the tendons lining the back as he fought the urge to unsheathe it and decapitate the creature. “I was kindly selected by my Lord Frivlok for a special mission. He suspects that the Light Ones, the evil rat children, are planning on going to Endirin, that terrible place from so long ago. He believes that they have things there that they need. And he knows that it would be bad if they got them and—”
“We know of this,” said the Shapeshifter, in a voice like the wind sighing through rocks. “Tell of your role.”
“Yes, sir. Well, Frivlok knew that you must get here and he did not know how to get there. So he asked me to find a way.” The Commander raised an eyebrow but remained silent. “So I went looking and I searched everywhere and read many things and always stayed out of the way because if anyone saw me in the libraries I would have been reported and hurt.”
“And your point is?” asked the Commander, clearly losing patience again.
“Enough, veru,” said Frivlok, laying a hand on the creature’s shoulder. “And the point is, we have found a way to get there.”
“Indeed?” asked the Shapeshifter. “It seems I may have underestimated your abilities, veru. You have my thanks.”
“He’ll have my thanks as well, I’m sure,” said the Commander, “when I see this place with my own eyes.”
“Oh do not be so mistrustful, sir,” replied Frivlok. “Do you really think our little friend here would lie to us?” He put an arm around its misshapen shoulder. “Does he not know that if he has caused the tiniest error or mistake that we won’t strap him up in one of our favourite little laboratories and do the most terrible, evil, wrong things possibly imaginable until he dies a horrible, horrible death?” Every word was said with an expanding smile and an encouraging poke in the chest. The veru bobbed its head with so much comprehension that it sneezed and sent a thick ribbon of snot twirling towards the floor. Frivlok’s smile vanished. “Stand. We leave now.”
“We do?” asked the Commander.
“Yes, we do,” scowled Frivlok.
“What of my legions?”
“They will be waiting for you on our return and should our plans go as expected – and I see no reason why they should not – you will be able to call on them. Come, the hour grows late.”
The Three aligned themselves in a row and walked towards the door at the end of the hall. The veru hobbled behind them, its misshapen clawed feet clicking on the black marble.
They opened the doors out into the cool and empty hallway of the palace.
“Do you wish to collect anything before we leave?” Frivlok asked. “We will be absent for some time.”
“I am always prepared in full gear and weaponry, sir,” said the Commander, standing straight. Frivlok eyed him.
“Yes, don’t I know it. You?” he directed his gaze towards the Shapeshifter.
“I need for nothing, sir,” he replied. “Should the journey prove arduous I may alter my form but otherwise we may proceed at your pleasure.”
“Good, then you can accompany me as we collect the one thing we can
not possibly leave without.”
Chapter Two
“You need to stand up for yourself,” said Rona, as she held a handkerchief to Rigel’s split lip. Rigel scowled as his already stinging pride stung worse for her remarks.
“I can stand up for myself,” he snapped, pulling the handkerchief off her. She did not try to stop him.
“Like you have for the rest of the week?” she asked gently.
Rigel slumped against the wall as he pondered the last seven days. After their initial introductions at the Institute, they had been escorted to their rooms and then briefed on how the place worked.
The Institute offered an unbelievably diverse set of courses for the students to undertake. The education was privately funded by either the students or their relatives (in Rigel’s and Rona’s cases, due to their special status as Light Ones, their education was being fully funded by the Royals, Alcor and Mizar). The students were of all ages – ranging from children younger than Rigel and Rona to elderly people who looked to be going on eighty or more – and came from a variety of backgrounds. The lesson topics and quantity were completely dependent on what the student felt like studying and the tutors were willing to run their classes regardless of whether one student or forty showed up. The subjects ranged from sword fighting, orienteering, and wilderness survival to subjects whose names Rigel could barely comprehend. Laurie had advised them to take several that he believed would be useful, but after reading everything that was available, Rigel was considering adding to the list.
Their miserable week and Rigel’s split lip were the result of a group of students who had seemed to dislike them before they had even met. This had surprised the Light Ones because, whilst they had never presumed they would be settled long enough to make friends, they had always seemed to get along with the people they met. The hostility they had encountered therefore seemed all the more unpleasant because of its alien nature. The main culprits were a set of twins slightly older than Rigel and Rona. The twins were incredibly good looking and were model students, always scoring at the top of the class. The tutors seemed to be delighted with them and their test scores gave them every reason to be. When they were out of sight, however, it was a different story. The model students became model bullies. The fact that the tutors seemed to have no idea about this other side of the twins’ personality offended Rigel almost as much as their actual behaviour.
After they had finished lunch, the group had converged on Rigel, shoved him around until he fell to the floor and bashed his face – hence the split lip. Rigel wanted to report them. Rona was smarter; she knew their game and how easily they would slip out of getting into trouble. Apparently, she had another plan, but she had yet to reveal it.
“Where’s Laurie when you need him?” grumbled Rigel. Laurie, Tink, Opal, Quimby and L’aroche were the pilots who had navigated through a hole in space to collect Rigel from Earth. They were currently running some kind of recon mission. Rigel had not seen them since the day the Light Ones were left at the Institute. It was an unpleasant feeling not having them around. Laurie and the crew were the only family he had ever known.
“I’m sure he’d beat up some children for us,” Rona joked. “You’ve got me, what are you complaining about?” She winked. “Come on, or we’ll be late for weapons class,” she said, helping him to his feet. He grumbled but did not resist.
Their delay had found the corridors empty as everyone else made their way to their respective classes. Hurrying along, their footfalls made no echoes as each step was absorbed by the heavy carpet. Taking a left at a cross path, they arrived at a heavy door at the end of the corridor.
Outside, the air was cool against Rigel’s sweaty brow. He rubbed a sleeve against it, looking down below them. A wooden scaffold of steps led down to a stone courtyard. The scene below was one of utter chaos, although after speaking to the masters in charge, he knew that it was a carefully orchestrated chaos; the rhythm had a strange grace. On a stage at the head of the courtyard, Captain Arentec, the weapons master, stood observing the scene, her hands clasped behind her back. Standing just behind and to the left, the bandit Jhoan Silvers also observed, although his hands were resting on the handles of his pistols as though he were eager to join the melee. The students, as the Light Ones had now come to expect, were a range of ages and genders. The weapons class consisted of either teaching the students how to handle and use certain weapons or, as today, giving them wooden swords, padded arrows and guns with soft bullets and setting them against each other until there was a victor, with the automatic guns and crossbows that lined the walls firing more soft ammunition into the crowd all the while, just to add to the impression of real combat. Even as Rigel watched, a young man brandishing a sword ran towards an opponent but was mowed down by a gun that locked onto his position. Blasted with the soft bullets, he fell to the floor. The masters were strict about cheaters: hitting the floor result in disqualification.
“You’re late,” announced Jhoan, speaking through a tin loudspeaker.
“Shall we wait until the next round?” called back Rona.
The bandit paused before answering. “No, jump in. Combat is unpredictable – it could happen. But you’ll have to arm yourselves from the bodies – all the racks are empty.” He turned from them and watched the fray again.
“Together or apart?” asked Rigel.
“Apart. We need to see if it’s possible,” Rona replied, making Rigel nod. Last time they had partnered up, they had wiped the floor with everyone.
Rigel ran down the scaffold stairs, pausing before reaching the bottom. Rona was hastier. Jumping over a body, she rugby-tackled a boy to the floor, punched him in the face, pulled the sword off his startled body and stabbed him in the stomach. The boy grunted and pretended to die. Grinning wickedly, Rona stood up and dived into the crowd. Rigel shook his head. She could be vicious when the mood took her. Taking a deep breath, he scanned the floor for bodies. At the other side of the courtyard was a lady lying on her side, a short wooden dagger and gun held loosely in her hands.
Rigel jumped off the stairs and hit the ground running. The automatic gun locked onto him and fired, sending the soft bullets bouncing off the ground as they pursued him.
Sliding along the floor, he bumped into the lady and prised the weapon out of her fingers. Checking it was loaded, he lifted the gun and shot a pair of brawlers in the chest. They fell to the floor, making the appropriate death noises. As they fell, an old woman brandishing a spear spotted him and charged, screeching wildly. Without enough time to reload, Rigel stood up and waited for her to get nearer. She lunged at him, grinning. Just as the point was about to hit his chest, he sidestepped and laughed as the momentum carried her forwards, making her trip over the body he had just pillaged. Rigel hurried over and before she could stand up, he stabbed her in the back. She screeched and lay still, playing dead. Ducking down behind the pile of bodies, he reloaded his pistol before pulling the spear from under the old lady. He stood up again and threw it randomly at the crowd. A moment later he heard a dull thunk and watched as a pair of arms flailed in the air before falling out of sight. A group of three teenagers emerged from the crowd and formed a defensive position as they spotted Rigel. Roaring as they charged, Rigel winced and shot his gun, but the bullet missed. A loud clattering filled the air and the boys fell to the floor, shouting in mock pain and anger as the automatic gun on the wall blasted them down. Rigel blinked, feeling foolish. Looking up at the gun, he realised it was pointing at him and dived forwards, bashing his ribs and knees against the hard stone. The spot he had just occupied bounced with the ammunition before the gun trained itself elsewhere. He allowed himself a short breath of relief – he had been shot by that gun before and the pockmarks of dark bruises across his chest made him determined not to repeat the experience.
Rigel looked up from the floor and realised the fight had thinned out considerably. A flash of green caught his eye as Rona dived and stabbed one man in the back, spun a
round and cut a woman’s throat. Spinning in a graceful motion, she threw her sword and watched it spin end over end, then hitting a young girl in the chest.
“Stop sprawling in the dust, Rigel,” snapped Jhoan. “You’re not dead … yet.”
Without bothering with a response, Rigel pushed himself off the ground and knelt down, shooting at random people already engaged in other fights. They fell to the floor. A shirtless old man with knotted muscles and white beard grinned as he spotted Rigel in the corner. The man had a sword and a shield and ran towards the Light One. Rigel shot at him, but the man was quicker, raising his shield in time. Rigel stuck the gun in his belt and drew the dagger. Lunging forwards, the man tried to impale Rigel, but was too slow – he had already rolled forwards, slashing at his opponent’s legs. Rigel missed, however, and had to orientate himself after the roll. He was too slow, though; the man grabbed his head, pulled his head back and slit his throat. Rigel felt the smooth wood pass harmlessly over his skin.
Acting out, he cried in pain, gurgled and fell to the floor, clutching at his severed artery and pretending to die, as was expected of him, but he couldn’t repress the disappointment he felt as being bested. The man pulled the gun from Rigel’s belt before rejoining the fight. Only a handful of people remained, Rona among them.
As he watched, Rigel saw the old man spar with a burly middle-aged man, who picked up the elder and threw him across the courtyard, despatching him with a pretend snap of the neck. Rona held off a pair of young adults who were trying to slash at her. Moving faster than them both, she blocked both swords, slid hers out from underneath and brought it back in an underhand arc, slashing them across the chest and neck.
The middle-aged man, a younger woman, and Rona were the only contestants left. The man and woman were fighting, the man trying to tackle the woman to the floor but she kept her distance, poking him with her spear.