Toby Fisher and the Arc Light

by Ian McFarlane

  ‘But why would a descendant of Merlin wage war against us, against Britain?’ Robert felt flabbergasted. ‘The dragons, the troll nation, maybe. I expected that much, but Merlin’s descendant, no. Shouldn’t they be fighting for us carrying on from where Merlin left off? After all that Merlin went through. How is it a descendant of Merlin is . . .?’ The last of Robert’s tiredness vanished in a flash as the cold truth froze his heart.

  The professor’s eyes glazed. It was if he had just lost someone very dear to him. He had.

  ‘Toby is a Skin Walker,’ said Robert disbelievingly. Robert had simply not put the facts together until now; he had avoided the truth. He had not wanted to see the truth, just like the professor.

  But no matter how hard the professor tried he could not continue in his denial; Merlin’s descendant was now the enemy.

  ‘Toby is Merlin’s heir . . . Toby is the enemy!’

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  The young heroes Toby and Arty will return in the second book in the series with a new companion, a young witch, to help battle their enemies in Toby Fisher and the Firestone - now available on Amazon.

  Read on for the first few chapters in Toby Fisher and the Firestone…

  Toby Fisher and the Firestone

  Chapter 1: A Hobgoblin’s Pleasure

  Ratchet was wearing so many clothes he looked like a ball of wool. And it appeared that a small group of smiling, near-naked hobgoblins standing close by had donated their clothes. They stood in the cobbled yard with nothing more than hand towels to cover their modesty. By now the young hobgoblin was wearing ninety-six items. He required three more pieces to break his personal record although he was still a long way off from being able to wear Tosh the troll’s jumper. He waddled over as fast as he could and stood in the way of two newcomers to the makeshift hobgoblin party.

  Arty and Toby had been deep in conversation. They looked straight at the grinning Ratchet, whose arms steadfastly pointed out to the side as if someone had nailed them in place.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ Arty laughed. He had never seen a hobgoblin look like a large ball of multi-coloured string before.

  ‘Can I have your clothes, please,’ Ratchet mumbled through a thick woollen layer.

  ‘You’re Ratchet,’ said Toby, recognising the squished face in between layers of jumpers. Ratchet nodded with a heavily restricted grin. ‘He’s the one Tosh mentioned this morning about his jumper,’ said Toby, for Arty’s benefit.

  ‘Tosh was awake. . .? Incredible,’ said Arty, chuckling. He looked at Ratchet for a brief second and shook his head. ‘Err, no. You can’t have my clothes.’

  ‘How many do you need?’ said Toby, grinning.

  ‘Three,’ came the muffled reply.

  ‘Come on,’ said Toby, taking off his jumper. He held it out and Ratchet struggled to slide it over his rigid, outstretched arms. Toby had to tug at the jumper to help. According to Ratchet, that was allowed in the rule book – a book that had been written by Ratchet. Toby then took his woolly hat off and plonked it on top of the other hats Ratchet had already enthusiastically stretched over his ever-expanding head. It slipped over Ratchet’s eyes; it was far too big. Toby looked at Arty.

  ‘One more, that’s all he needs.’

  ‘No bleedin’ way. It’s freezing,’ said Arty. He waved his arms as if to prove the point.

  ‘Our house is only there. You could run and put new clothes on in a flash. In fact, why don’t you just get some clothes from upstairs if you’re too cold to take those off? Look at them.’ Toby pointed at the apparel-free hobgoblins. They were shivering violently. ‘Are you a man or a mouse?’

  With a huff and a childish puff Arty pulled his pom-pom hat off his head and dropped it on top of Ratchet’s eclectic collection. Then he huffed again with extra effort, no doubt to ensure everyone had noticed his mini tantrum.

  The hobgoblins went wild with joy. It was a new record. They celebrated by throwing their modesty towels in the air and leaping around. Arty cringed with embarrassment and looked the other way. Ratchet tried to leap around too but just managed to wave his hands up and down a bit instead.

  ‘I’m going in. It’s fr—’

  ‘Freezing, yes I know you big jessy,’ said Toby mockingly.

  Ratchet waddled off towards his friends, pleased as punch.

  ‘And how am I going to get my hat back,’ said Arty over his shoulder. He disappeared through the door of their cottage, quickly followed by Toby.

  ‘They’re hobgoblins. Clothes are their business. That little hobgoblin will know every single owner of every piece of clothing he’s ever touched. He’ll return it before you can even whine about how bad the weather is.’

  ‘You mean they knit jumpers,’ whined Arty cynically.

  ‘No, although they have been known to wear a lot of them, as you can see.’

  ‘How come you know so much about them?’

  Toby didn’t know the answer to that question. He just did.

  It was the middle of summer yet Tintagel village was experiencing a very unseasonal mini winter. Icicles hung from the underside of the roof and a spattering of snow lay on the ground. It wasn’t even enough to have a snowball fight so ‘what’s the point of it’, Arty would often whine. His mood was swinging wildly.

  The icicles reminded Toby of mer-men teeth. It wasn’t a happy memory: imprisoned by the mer-prince and put on trial for the attempted abduction and murder of the mer-princess. If it hadn’t been for an old pirate called Thomas and the high priestess, he would most likely have died at the hands of the prince. The memory still sent shivers down his spine. He often wondered how Thomas and the princess were coping and whether Mrs Zeepam, Thomas’s wife, was still alive. Even back then she was very ill.

  The princess had given Toby a small bag of stolen pixie gold. She had wanted it removed from the mer-kingdom before the brutal mer-prince could get his hands on it. Once ashore, Toby chose to return it to the pixie king, thinking the king would help the mer-princess but the king had refused to help. It was a major knock-back for Toby. He wished he had kept the gold and created his own army to invade the mer-kingdom and get rid of the diabolical mer-prince. He knew it was possible, too, because it had said so in a large factual book he’d found in the library inside the silver messenger, Brough 23. At least the general, the nasty portly ghost who had been chasing Toby, wasn’t going to get the gold. And that came as a great relief to Toby. Without the gold, the professor’s elven time machine – the Arc Light – couldn’t function. Toby knew getting the Arc Light to work was the most important part of the general’s plan: change history, kill the professor, and avoid his own execution.

  And Toby still did not know the whereabouts of the professor, his uncle, who had raised him from a small child.

  The professor was alive and well and living on the shore of Loch Lomond monitoring regular reports from his butler who was spying on the mad monk. The mad monk was a very troubled soul whose highly animated tattoos had something to do with the Merlin Prophecy, but the professor did not understand the relevance. The saddest news the professor could have ever received was when he realised that Toby was Merlin’s heir. And the prophecy had clearly stated that it was the heir to Merlin who would raise a dark army and return to wage war on England.

  2 - The Ancient Chest

  ‘So, what’s up, Arty? You’ve been in a foul mood all week. Even Tosh has noticed,’ said Toby, all in a rush.

  He felt nervous and tried to lighten the tone with a grin, but the truth of the matter was he didn’t really want to know the answer. Talking about feelings was not what self-respecting boys did, or at least that is what he believed. Toby often cringed at anything he considered touchy-feely, in other words an outpouring of emotions. All he really wanted was for Arty to say, ‘I’m fine,’ and then miraculously forget his misery and carry on doing manly things. He might a
s well have said ‘Pull yourself together and stop being so soft’, but even Toby felt that was a bit harsh, not that Toby would have admitted that.

  ‘It’s nothing, it’s the weather, it’s . . . ah, it’s nothing,’ moaned Arty, in a non-enlightening way.

  ‘That was enlightening,’ said Toby sarcastically, although he failed abysmally to hide his relief.

  ‘What do you care anyway?’ growled Arty.

  ‘Well, you know, you’re . . . I . . . whatever!’ snapped Toby. He stormed through the bedroom door and down the stairs – it’s a bloke thing!

  Major Shenanigan was a kind of father figure to the four boys: Arty, Toby, Anton, and Tosh the troll. He stood in the lounge by four large parcels that had arrived. They were identical in size so when Anton ripped the paper off his parcel Toby could already see what he had, or at least what he thought he had. As usual, Tosh was still asleep on the couch.

  ‘They’re to help with storage of your things. The insides keep on expanding to cater for anything you wish to put in – but a word of warning! Unless you employ a Sorter-Outer they are a bit of a nightmare. They’ll become even more cluttered than the lice in Tosh’s blanket, although I have just heard there is a new expandable shelving unit and stepladder available. However,’ said Major, holding his finger up to emphasise his point, ‘that does mean you will have to do some of the sorting out for yourselves and I know how busy your lives are.’

  Anton and Toby laughed. Major Shenanigan smiled. Tosh grunted.

  ‘So a Sorter-Outer is your best option,’ continued Major. ‘They’re pretty cheap. Sid is receiving new stock as I speak. They’ll help to keep your rooms tidy as well. That’s yours Toby.’ Major Shenanigan pointed at the wrapped parcel by the settee.

  Toby looked at Anton who was peering inside a very smart-looking, polished oak chest. Anton looked impressed. He shouted into the chest and his voice echoed. The eyes on the back of his head seemed to light up. He turned to face Major Shenanigan and beamed.

  Toby ripped the paper off his parcel and stepped back. ‘Wow,’ he said, more in shock than pleasure.

  It was also a wooden chest, but it wasn’t polished and glossy like Anton’s. It was a disappointingly ancient and well-used wooden chest. The corners were worn smooth by many hands and the purple and golden swirls that decorated the outside of the chest were faded. When Toby touched the wood he felt a gentle vibration. He removed his hand quickly as if he had caught a splinter.

  Anton grunted and groaned as he tried to pick his chest up. It was too heavy. With considerable effort Toby helped him lift it to his room. By the time they returned they were sweating profusely. It was Toby’s chest next. They prepared themselves with a few deep breaths followed by deadly serious nods to each other. They each grabbed a handle at opposite ends of the chest.

  ‘After three,’ proposed Toby. Anton nodded. ‘One – two – three!’

  Their muscles went rigid with the strain and their faces contorted with pain as their arms tried to detach from their shoulder sockets. They grunted and let go, rubbing their shoulders. The chest hadn’t moved an inch. It had felt as if it was made of lead.

  ‘One more time,’ suggested Anton huskily. He pushed the sleeves up on his jumper. They bent down and grabbed hold of the handles with gritty determination, this time bracing every muscle until their faces burned red with the effort. After a quick countdown they strained every sinewy muscle in their bodies.

  As they grunted the sheer force through their arms drove them forward and their heads clashed together. With two loud shrieks they collapsed to their knees, each grasping their foreheads, in mirror fashion.

  ‘How did it get here?’ asked Toby, feeling quite flabbergasted and somewhat confused as to which hurt the most: shoulder or head.

  Major shrugged. ‘They were here when I arrived this morning. The last time I saw something like this . . .’ he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully; he clicked his fingers in a sharp moment of inspiration, ‘. . . got it, the last time I saw one of these was way back, centuries even, and it was from the Esmeril Council,’ he said triumphantly. Anton and Toby stared blankly.

  ‘The what?’ asked Toby.

  ‘Esmeril Council,’ chuckled Major. ‘Well, actually, that’s what everyone said at the time anyway.’

  ‘And who are they?’ continued Toby.

  ‘I’m not sure they even exist really, you know, myths and all that – they were supposed to be dragon riders or something.’

  ‘Major, ’ow old are you really?’ enquired Anton. Major laughed out loud.

  ‘Well, I reckon you’re more than three hundred years old. I saw you on that recording with Mrs Zeepam,’ volunteered Toby.

  ‘Of course, I forgot you saw that. Well I’m a lot older than that. When I was young dragon riders were all the rage, not that I saw any of them, though . . . never seen any dragons either come to think of it, although I know they do exist – dragons that is. Anyway, let’s check inside. Maybe someone has filled it with bricks,’ suggested Major.

  Toby lifted the lid with some effort. It was heavy but it was just about manageable. The inside was empty with a solid bottom, unlike Anton’s which had been just an open black space, like looking through the doorway into an unlit warehouse. Each internal face of Toby’s chest had carvings etched into the wood, each displaying a different symbol. There were six all together: one on each vertical face, one on the bottom and one on the inside of the lid. And there was something quite peculiar about them. Toby thought it looked as if the images were sleeping.

  Toby closed the lid carefully.

  ‘There,’ he said, pointing, ‘I thought I saw one on the lid. That makes seven. Do you know what they mean?’ Anton and Major shook their heads.

  Arty appeared. ‘What’s this then?’ His mood clearly hadn’t improved.

  ‘You’ve got one too.’ Major indicated the remaining box.

  Arty ripped open the wrapping paper as if it was the world’s biggest chore. He grunted, uninterested, at the chest that looked almost identical to Anton’s and walked to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Anton, Major, and Toby were discussing the markings on Toby’s chest when Arty returned, petulantly dragging his feet across the floor. He picked his wooden chest up as if it was feather-light and marched upstairs.

  Arty returned to the kitchen just as the kettle started to boil. He made himself a steaming cup of chocolate, banana, and peanut tea. It had been his favourite ever since he had tasted it at Maggie’s after returning from the mer-kingdom. The tea eased the tension from Arty’s shoulders. He thought of the trial and how he and Toby had nearly not returned. In such a short time together they had already been through a lot. He sighed dispiritedly as the contents of a letter he had recently received from his father barged their way into his consciousness. He promised himself he would talk to Toby and try to explain what was going on – but only if no one else was around. In truth, it wasn’t something Arty was looking forward to but he felt Toby deserved that, at least.

  Arty looked at Toby’s wooden chest. He decided he would take it upstairs as a favour. It was the closest thing Arty could offer as an apology. He put his mug of tea down and walked over to the chest. It did look very impressive with all its swirls and carvings. He bent over and wrapped his hands around the ornate metal handles on the ends. Arty took one deep breath and lifted the chest. The rattle of the handles immediately caught the attention of Anton, Major, and Toby.

  ‘Arty, what are you doing?’ cried Toby, disbelievingly.

  ‘All right, keep your hair on, I was only trying to do you a favour,’ snarled Arty.

  ‘No, it’s cool, it’s great. Cheers, mate.’

  Arty stood at the base of the stairs holding Toby’s wooden chest as if it were made of paper maché. Toby was relieved to see Arty helping out. He was also relieved to see the wooden chest being carried upstairs although for the life of him he could not understand how Arty could lift it with so much ease after he, Anton, and Major could not even budg
e it an inch. Anton and Major looked equally gobsmacked. Arty turned and almost ran up the stairs. He didn’t return for quite a while. In the end, Toby grabbed Arty’s cup of not-so-steaming tea and went after him.

  ‘Cheers, mate,’ said Arty uncomfortably, lifting the mug of tea in the air to salute Toby.

  ‘Yeah, and, uhm, thanks for the, you know,’ said Toby, pointing at the wooden chest. Arty nodded, staring at his tea and fidgeting his feet. It was so uncomfortable in the bedroom that Toby left. He thought they could talk another time. At least they had managed to speak to each other, or at least say a couple of words.

  As Toby reached the base of the stairs, Major, who was still looking a little shocked, passed him a note.

  ‘It’s from Mr Kapoor. He would like to see you in his office.’ Major was staring up the stairs vacantly, as if he was trying to work out how Arty could lift that wooden chest so easily. ‘Is uhm, Arty . . . is he okay?’

  ‘He’s fine,’ mumbled Toby guardedly. He shot out of the door before Major could ask anything else.

  Toby had never been to the village castle before. It stood majestically at the end of the stone-cobbled yard with dragons’ teeth topped walls and large circular turrets on the corners. Four gargoyles standing along the front wall followed Toby’s every move. The entrance was two large carved wooden doors that took quite an effort to open. Once inside, Toby walked up a large and very grand stone staircase that seemed to go on forever. He should have known the castle’s interior would be considerably larger than the outside. It reminded him of the silver messenger’s chest. And the last time he had travelled inside Brough 23 was when he and Arty had returned from the Minack Theatre. Toby could not ignore what they had been through together. Toby secretly hoped he and Arty were okay. He was a good friend; in fact he was a great friend.