A Skin of a Dragon (The Guild of Gatekeepers Book 1)

by Frances Jones

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a narrow passageway between the buildings to my right. One or two men sat on top of barrels of beer outside the entrance of an inn, but otherwise the way was clear. Seizing my chance at once, I ducked out of the man’s grasp and swerved to the right. He lunged after me, cursing under his breath, but I was too quick for him. I bolted down the passageway and sprinted down the adjoining lane, too terrified to look back until I had cleared the next few streets.

  The noise of the main street was distant now, and there was no sound of pursuit. I leaned my back against a wall and tore the gag from my mouth. My pulse thudded in my ears as beads of sweat trickled down my forehead. I glanced up and down the street I found myself in. It was deserted except for a black cat sitting on a wall on the opposite side. I had no idea in which direction Osmington Mills lay, but it seemed sensible to get as far away as possible from the place where I had made my escape. I had evaded pursuit, but there was no telling whether the man would come after me. He would know that I couldn't have gone far.

  Just as I considered this possibility, a rough hand grabbed my shoulder and held me firmly.

  'I warned you not to run,' said a familiar voice.

  My heart leapt into my throat. The man spun me round and dragged me back towards the harbour by my collar. A menacing tone coloured his voice, and I dared not resist.

  'Hurry! The ship is waiting for us,' he said.

  Chapter 4

  I sat in the cabin with my head in my hands. My feet and wrists were bound again, and the door was bolted from outside. The noise of the harbour grew fainter as the ship slid out to sea. There was no window in the cabin and no lantern, and so I sat in darkness, listening to the mice scurrying about all around me.

  At last, I heard the door above deck open and heavy footsteps on the stairs. A second later the man entered carrying a lantern, which he hung from a hook in the ceiling. He removed his hat, revealing his face clearly for the first time. His hair was of a light brown colour and closely cropped to his head. At the crown it was thinning ever so slightly, though there wasn't a trace of grey in it or the neatly-trimmed beard and mustache that framed his mouth. His face and dark eyes were only faintly lined. He looked to be about the same age as my father.

  'No doubt you are wondering who I am?' he said with a wry smile.

  I nodded.

  'My name is Emerson Prye,' he continued. 'I apologise for the manner in which you have been conducted here, but the order I belong to operates under a high degree of secrecy, and they are eager to speak to you.'

  'Why, sir? Who are they?' I asked.

  'You will find out soon enough,' replied Emerson, moving towards the door. 'For now, suffice to say that we are taking the quickest route to ensure you are not held for too long in unnecessary suspense.'

  'Please, sir, where are we going?'

  'We are bound for London,' replied Emerson. He had ducked out of the cabin before I could question him any further.

  The ship was now far from the harbour, and the sea grew choppier. I could feel it roll each time a particularly large wave broke. Were I not used to such conditions from when I accompanied my father on fishing trips, I would have felt quite seasick. Nonetheless, I wished I was above deck. The lantern that Emerson had left behind swung as the ship lilted this way and that and sent shadows wagging across the walls of the tiny cabin. It was unnerving to be below the surface when the sea was so rough. I would rather feel the spray on my face and the wind in my hair. I felt quite helpless tied up and forgotten about below deck.

  It was difficult to keep track of the time of day in the windowless cabin, but I guessed that the rest of the day and night had passed before I noticed that the sea grew noticeably calmer, and the ship seemed to glide along without even a murmur of wind. Sea gulls screamed outside, and every so often the rattle of a carriage or the indistinct shouts of people would reach into the little cabin.

  'It must be a mighty big harbour,' I thought.

  At last the ship put down its anchor, and Emerson appeared at the door once again. He unbound my ankles and helped me to my feet.

  'Now listen, lad, you are in London. Don’t go trying your luck again. It will only go ill for you. Keep close.'

  I followed him up the steps and out onto the deck and looked about in awe. The ship was anchored in a river of polluted brown water, and the sea had vanished. Rain drizzled down, and a mist hung in the air that even the brightest sunlight seemed incapable of penetrating. The sky above was laden with thick, grey clouds which emptied their load onto the bowed heads of the people at work on the docks, their faces set into permanent grimaces as they battled through wind and rain and the reek of rotting waste.

  It was a miserable sight, yet in spite of its grimness I couldn't deny that it was the most bustling place I had ever seen. Around twenty other ships were anchored before the earth ramparts and interconnected wooden platforms that stretched out into the river. Vessels of all sizes, from great barges to little fishing boats, glided up and down the river in a constant procession, and all around the air was filled with the sound of people. Men rolling barrels loaded and unloaded the ships moored beside the one we had just disembarked from, and naval officers in their dazzling uniforms strode idly about. I had never seen such a sight in all my life. I wondered if the place was ever still or silent.

  'This way,' said Emerson, tugging me towards a waiting coach.

  He bundled me in, and at once we were moving. The driver needed no direction. He drove us through the noisy, congested streets, lined with timber-framed buildings, and the winding alleyways where children played amid the stench of human and animal waste. Quite soon, I lost all sense of which direction we were travelling in until I caught a glimpse of the river once again away to the left.

  We had left the cramped and dirty streets around the docks behind and were now moving through quiet roads made up of mostly larger and smarter buildings. I stared out of the coach window as they flashed by, but Emerson looked straight ahead, apparently taking no further notice of me until the coach stopped. The driver remained seated, and Emerson leapt out, dragging me with him.

  I glanced about to see that we had reached the end of a narrow, cobbled lane lined with large but rather unassuming buildings. The end of the lane was occupied by a mansion set a little apart from the rest of the buildings. It adjoined an archway to the left, which looked like it once supported a gate or portcullis. The building itself was reached by a short flight of wide steps and was built of smooth, pale stone that marked it out against the wooden structures of the other buildings in the lane. A single black door and long, shuttered windows made up the otherwise plain facade. But for its size, it looked altogether un-extraordinary.

  Emerson strode up the steps, keeping one hand on my shoulder, and hammered on the door with the brass knocker. A moment later the door slid open just enough to allow us through then shut again behind us.

  'This is the Gatehouse of the Guild of Gatekeepers,' said Emerson.

  I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the dimness of the space behind the door. The ordinariness of the exterior of the building belied the grandeur of its interior. It was a hall of immense size with an intricate tiled floor and was lit by many-branched candelabras arranged between vaulted arches which bordered the hall on either side. The shadowy spaces beyond were too dark to see into, but draughts of cold air emanated from them and swept across the back of my neck. I shuddered a little, imagining cloaked figures armed with sharp blades lurking in the darkness, but the thought quickly dissipated as Emerson stepped aside, revealing the vast empty floor of the hall stretching out before an immensely grand and imposing staircase.

  It ascended to a gallery where a man with a long dark beard, flecked with grey, leaned against the balustrade and looked down at us. He was past middle age, but powerfully built and un-stooped by age. In spite of the darkness, I felt his eyes penetrate the gloom and settle upon me.

  'Is this the boy?' he asked without taking h
is eyes off me.

  'Yes, Keeper,' replied Emerson.

  The man frowned and stared at me for a few more moments before leaving the gallery and making his slow, steady descent of the stairs. My heart thudded in my chest; each beat seemed to match the man's steps as he made his way towards me. In the candlelight, I saw that he wore a tippet of black cloth over his dark robe, with a golden butterfly embroidered upon each shoulder. Around his neck, he wore a clear crystal amulet upon a long silver chain.

  The man stopped and reached for the box that Emerson held. He lifted the first lid then drew the amulet from around his neck. The tip of the crystal touched the surface of the second, plain lid somewhere in the centre, and a faint white light lit up the shadowy hall for a few moments before he opened it and quickly glanced inside. His face bore no reaction to what he saw, but he shut the box immediately and then turned to me.

  'Where did you find this?' His demeanour had changed, and he bristled with anger. I could barely keep my knees from giving way beneath me in fright.

  'In a cave, sir,' I replied as best I could.

  'You have tried to break into it, haven't you?' the man snapped.

  'Yes, sir,' I squeaked. I hadn't the nerve to lie, though I immediately knew I had given the wrong answer, judging by the man's reaction.

  'Kill him and dispose of the body in the river,' he said to Emerson as he turned and strode back up the stairs.

  Chapter 5

  I let out a muffled yell as I moved to dodge past Emerson towards the door.

  'Silence!' Emerson hissed as he clapped his hand over my mouth and held me back by my collar. 'Keeper,' he called out as the man ascended the staircase.

  The man stopped and turned slightly by way of acknowledgement.

  Emerson continued. 'I haven't yet chosen my successor for the order after I die. Am I correct in asserting the choice is mine alone?'

  'You are,' replied the man.

  'Then I choose this boy, Thomas Wild,' Emerson replied firmly.

  The man turned and fixed his keen eyes upon Emerson. In the half-light, I could see a curious smile playing on his lips. I shuddered, but Emerson gazed back without flinching as he and the man stared at each other for a few moments, neither giving way to the other. The air tingled with anticipation, but at last the older man spoke.

  'Very well, Emerson,' he said. 'For good or ill, the choice is yours. I hope you will not come to regret it.' With that, he swept through the gallery and was gone.

  It was a few moments before I realised Emerson was speaking to me. My legs trembled, and my head felt light and giddy.

  'You have had a lucky escape,' he said. 'That man is William Devere, the Keeper of the Guild of Gatekeepers. There is no clemency for those whom he condemns to death, and their fate is not at all pleasant.'

  'Please, sir,' I said, recovering my voice. 'What is the Guild of Gatekeepers, and why have I been brought here?'

  Emerson smiled at me grimly. 'Follow me,' he replied.

  I followed him across the hall, beneath one of the arches and along a passageway with an arched ceiling that resembled a portico or cloister. He stopped before one of several doors and opened it onto a dark ante chamber lit only by the bit of fire that crackled in the tiny hearth. Its light sent black shadows dancing across the walls which were filled with row upon row of books, scrolls and codices. He crossed the room and drew back the heavy drapes that hung across a long, shuttered window. Daylight streamed through the slats and offered a little more respite from the darkness.

  Emerson stood before one of the shelves and paused for a moment before lifting one particularly ancient-looking volume off the shelf and opening it out upon a table in the centre of the room. He leafed through the pages for a few moments then stopped and pointed to something. I peered over his shoulder and saw that he pointed to an exquisitely delicate illustration of a butterfly, the very same as the one embroidered on William Devere's tippet.

  'The gatekeeper butterfly,' he said, 'from which the Guild of Gatekeepers takes its name. It is a common sight in England and is the secret insignia of the Guild. What I am about to tell you will change your life forever, Tom, but before I do so you have a choice to make: you may leave this room now and meet your death in the labyrinth below this Gatehouse, or you may accept my nomination and agree to become an initiate of the Guild of Gatekeepers and my successor after my death. You may not return to your home or speak with your family ever again. They will be informed of your death and paid an annuity in recompense for their loss, but if you attempt to communicate with them or discuss the Guild with an outsider both your life and your family's will be forfeit. Which is it to be?'

  The orange glow from the dying fire gave his face a ghastly appearance and cast deep shadows beneath his brows. I stared at the flames. Though I couldn't see them, I felt his eyes upon me as I tried to make sense of the tangle of thoughts that whirled through my mind, but each time I tried to vocalise one, it slipped from my grasp like smoke dissipating in the air.

  'Sir, I don't understand what business this is of mine,' I said at last.

  Emerson gazed at me for several moments. I wished I could see his eyes and make a guess at what he was thinking, but only a slither of daylight crept through the shutters to mitigate the darkness where the firelight did not extend. At last, he shut the book and smiled at me, and his face softened.

  ''Tis unfortunate you picked up that box,' he said. 'It is forbidden for any outside the Guild to live that see or learn anything of our activities. The secrecy which we operate under may seem excessive, but it is necessary. Had you not found it, I have no doubt you would have lived out an unremarkable life in Osmington Mills, but now and then fate likes to try us with something wholly absurd or unexpected. I believe there may be a reason why you have ended up here in the Gatehouse of the Guild of Gatekeepers, but only time will tell. Still, you haven't yet answered my question: what is your decision?'

  I thought of my mother and father, Lizzie and all my friends in Osmington Mills. Whichever choice I took, it was beyond doubt I would never see them again. I knew my mother would take it hardest, but she still had Lizzie and my father. It was hopeless and dangerous to consider agreeing to Emerson's offer and then attempting to return home; I had little doubt William Devere and his sinister associates would be as good as their word, and I shuddered to think by what means death would be meted out to me and my family. I wondered what Emerson had meant about meeting my death in the labyrinth, but I had no desire to find out just yet.

  All the practical considerations pointed squarely to the acceptance of his offer being the most sensible decision, but being the son of a smuggler, I had been endowed with an adventurous spirit, and as Emerson spoke of intrigues and illicit activities, I felt an overwhelming desire to learn more and become part of that world. His comment about my unremarkable life vexed me somewhat, and I longed to escape the seemingly inexorable plod through an uneventful, rustic life as a fisherman and small-time smuggler. In truth, it was this, rather than any selfless considerations, that really made up my mind.

  'I will be your successor after you die, sir,' I said at last. 'But what do I do until then?'

  'A sensible decision,' said Emerson. 'Tomorrow, you will pledge your word to the Guild before the Keeper, but for now, I will instruct you in its history and purpose. There is much for you to learn.'

  Chapter 6

  Emerson lifted another immense volume from among the rows of books and set it down on the table with a thud. Specks of dust drifted up into the air, illuminated by a finger of light that cast a pale gleam upon the table.

  'Have you been to school, lad?' he asked.

  ‘No, sir, but Reverend Crocombe taught me my letters,' I replied.

  He nodded. ‘And what do you know of history?' he asked.

  'Only that God created the world in six days and rested on the seventh,' I replied, feeling suddenly very inadequate.

  'Nothing of ancient Greece or Egypt?' asked Emerson as he turned the
pages gingerly.

  'No, sir,' I replied.

  ''Tis to be expected, I suppose,' he sighed. He found the page he was looking for and beckoned me closer. 'The library of Alexandria was the greatest centre of learning the world has ever known- have you heard of it?'

  I shook my head.

  'It was established under Ptolemy Lagides while he was ruler of Egypt before the time of Christ. Every great thinker of the time studied there; they flocked from across the ancient world to read from the library's thousands of scrolls and codices, exchange ideas with one another, and study the movement of celestial bodies from its astronomy towers. However, what is less well known about the library is the vast collection of magical texts it housed. In the ancient world, magic was considered a science as well regarded as mathematics or medicine and was widely practised, from the simple everyday sort to the most powerful high magic, or heka as it was known to the Egyptians. High magic cannot be destroyed or created. It was present at the beginning of time and has built and destroyed empires since then. Its power is beyond measure.'

  Emerson stopped and eyed me closely. 'You understand that magic is real?' he asked.

  'I cannot say, sir,' I replied. 'To be truthful, I've never thought on it, but if you say so then I'll own that it is.'

  'How can you own that something is real on another man's testimony only?' he snapped. His eyes blazed for a moment then his voice softened. 'If you are to become a magician then you must never accept without questioning.'

  'A magician, sir?' I gasped.

  'Aye, that is what the Guild is: the custodian of the last remnants of magic left in this world. Its members are magicians, but before I instruct you in the Guild's history, you must understand that magic does not belong to this world. It defies logic and reason precisely because it is of another place entirely and is not confined by the limitations of this world.