Between Darkness and the Light

by Paul T. H. Mitchener

  “Yes,” repeated Nog, “these wromps have been given powers to hunt and kill.” Grog continued. “But not to hunt and kill just anything… but to kill particular people… What people I know not… but we see them… and we know that they see us also… but do not attack.” Grog paused whilst Nog repeated,“Them not attack us.” Bree was about to ask more but Grog continued. “We see it… we see it kill two of the King’s Guards… tore them apart, it did.” This time Nog didn’t repeat him, instead his large, brown eyes welled up and Bree could see the memory was too much for him. “How did a mere ground wromp manage to kill two skilled men-at-arms?” Bree asked, not really sure if she wanted to hear the answer. Grog shrugged his shoulders. “Red fire… little miss… red fire came from its hands,” he said. “Yes, little miss… red fire… Ripped the two poor fellows apart, it did,” Nog said, following on.

  She was horrified to hear that mere scavengers had the power to kill… Not just any power… They were given powers from the shadow master. She recognised the description: only the shadow master had command of red fire, so how, or why, did he give them use of it…? It just didn’t make any sense. “The yellow glow made it all go away,” Nog said, interrupting her thoughts. “What do you say… the yellow glow?” Bree blurted out, now sitting up straight, again recognising the connection to the Wyvern and Henry. “Yes, little miss,” Nog replied. “A man… a human man came out of tunnels and made the… well, made everything nasty go away.” Bree looked over to Grog, waiting for him to finish the sentence, but he avoided eye contact. “Tell me about the human and the yellow glow,” she demanded a little too abruptly, making the two feel uneasy. They looked at each another. “Sorry for shouting,” she said quickly, realising that she had frightened them. “But I need to know about the human,” she said in a softer tone.

  “They left… after… they left,” Grog managed to say, still a little shaken. “Gone they were… back to Koh-Panyee.” Bree felt relieved to hear that Henry had headed back to the city, but then it registered that Grog had said “they”. She looked over to the poor little creature still feeling a little guilty for shouting at them. “I’m sorry for raising my voice… but the human you speak of is the reason that I’m here. I’m trying to get to him as soon as I can.” She paused for a moment, both pairs of big, brown eyes upon her. “His name is Henry… and I really must be with him… I need to be with him.” Grog moved forwards. “The king will help,” he said softly. “Yes… the king will help,” Nog confirmed. Bree was surprised. “The king… do you know him?” Nog smiled. “Our friend… The king is our friend… we should be at the palace by now but bad… dark thing about… so we hide.” Grog, now looking a little happier, interrupted. “We hide… until we see you… knowing that you are no danger … we came to say hello… and warn you of dark things.” Bree smiled and thanked them again for doing so, but she still needed to know more from them, but feared, if she pushed them too hard now, it could simply scare them away.

  Commander Trammell quickly gathered a company of twelve men and headed directly towards Lord Venton’s home. The people on the streets stood to one side to let them pass. Some just stopped to watch the company of the King’s Guards pass. “A rare sight indeed,” one said. They were only seen in public when they accompanied the king or when they were on parade, and rarely when something was amiss. Crime in the city was unheard of, so there was no need of a police force. However, on the rare occurrence, the King’s Guards attended to ensure peace and fair play.

  The company kept a good pace and reached Venton’s home within twenty minutes of leaving their barracks, a large house in comparison to the houses surrounding it, painted in blue and yellow with white diagonal stripes.

  Noticing that front door was partly open, Trammell lifted his right arm in a silent command for the company to halt. On closer examination it was evident that the lock had been forced. He quietly ordered one of his captains to take a handful of men to the rear of the building, instructing them not to enter unless he called for them to do so, and to ensure that nobody left the building. If anything or anyone did, “take no chances and don’t try to take it alive.” The captain had no idea of what or who was in the building or why it was so dangerous, but he could tell by Trammell’s tone that it wasn’t anything to be taken lightly, and being a veteran of fifteen years or more, he knew not to ask questions and to follow his orders.

  Trammell then selected two men to accompany him to investigate the house, instructing the others to cover the rest of the building and streets surrounding it. Sword in hand, he approached the opened front door carefully, followed closely by his men. On reaching the partly open door, he signalled his men to be quiet and then slowly pushed the door open, pausing to ensure that they were not walking into a trap. He gingerly entered the house. It was dimly lit inside and at first nothing seemed to be out of place. A large oak desk dominated the room, piled high with documents and old books, a large, brass, ornate lamp illuminating an otherwise dark corner of the room. On the other side of the room a light shone through an open door, illuminating the rest of the room. He took a moment to study his surroundings: the walls were lined with large, wooden bookshelves tidily stuffed full of all manner of old, leather-bound books, but on closer inspection he noticed that a few of them had been disturbed, with a few lying on the floor. Satisfied that it was safe to continue, Trammell moved towards the open door.

  As he approached the centre of the room, a small scraping sound come from the other room. Signalling to his men to spread out to either side of him, he slowly approached the other room, followed closely by the two guards. He paused at the door, trying to listen for any other sounds. He looked back at the two guards and nodded to them, indicating that he was about to enter. Suddenly a loud crash came from the room. Trammell rushed in ready at arms, expecting a fight on his hands. Both guards followed up the rear, but all stopped in their tracks when they saw what was making the noise. Standing in front of them was a large, fat man covered in sweat. He had practically ransacked the whole room and it was evident that he was looking for something in particular. The shock of three armed men rushing through the door made him shriek in fear, crying out in earnest for them not to hurt him, whilst he stumbled backwards over an upturned chair and eventually landed head first on the floor.

  Trammell crossed the room and looked down at the sorrowful sight. “Who in our king’s realm are you?” he asked whilst placing the tip of his sword to the man’s throat. “Walt,” he cried. “My name is Walt… Walter Britton.” Trammell turned to the other two guards. “Have either of you heard of this man?” he said, pushing the sword a little harder against his throat. They both shrugged their shoulders. “Ok… search the rest of the building and see what you can find… we need to find where Lord Venton has gone… I’m sure I can take care of things here,” he said, gritting his teeth and turning back to Walt, blade still at his throat. “Well, Walter Britton… I hope you have a good enough reason for being here.” He looked around the room, noting the mess Walt had made. “What are you looking for?” he said in a sinister tone, whilst pressing the sword blade even harder on his throat, now drawing a little blood. “Wait… wait,” Walt tried to shout but the blade restricted him from moving and made it difficult for him to speak.

  Reassured that Walt was no threat to him, Trammell withdrew the sword and indicated for him to get up. It took a little while as Walt stumbled about falling this way and that, watched by a bemused Trammell.

  Finally, Walt stood before him, covered in sweat and panting like an old pony. Trammell was a patient man and waited whilst Walt pulled out his dirty hanky and mopped his neck and face. “Well,” Trammell demanded, “what is so important that makes you break into a lord councillor’s house and ransack his study?” He looked Walt up and down. “I could see by your appearance that you’re no run-of the-mill burglar.” Walt tried to compose himself before answering. “I was instructed to look for the…” he said before trailing off. “Looking for what?” Trammell
demanded, now losing his patience with the man. Walt flinched but still didn’t answer. In the blink of an eye Trammell pushed Walt against the wall and held the blade of his sword up to his throat again. “Now tell me what you were looking for, or…” Walt gasped as his heavy bulk hit the wall, knocking the wind right out of him. “Tell me!” Trammell screamed just as he felt a light touch on his shoulder. He turned to see one of his men standing next to him with a concerned look on his face. “Sir,” he said whilst shaking his head. “Sir… I would give the man time to speak,” he continued. The look that Trammell gave the guard made him remove his hand from his shoulder and stand back a little. However, Trammell did withdraw the sword from Walt’s throat and stood back. Walt slid down the wall and slumped back onto the floor.

  After an intense inspection of the house they found no signs of Lord Venton or his whereabouts. There was no sign or indication that he had even been in the house for days, his clothes untouched and his ceremonial robe still on its hanger. Walt hadn’t any idea what had happened to him, however. Walt did tell him that the door lock was already broken and that there was no one in the house when he got there, so he used the opportunity to search it, but never mentioned what it was he was looking for. Having no other options, Trammell ordered his men to knock on every nearby door and to search all alleys and outbuildings within the immediate area. His captain suggested that Lord Venton may have already gone to the palace in order to get ready for the king’s parade, and that someone should be sent back to find out. “Nobody’s going anywhere until we’ve finished here!” Trammell ordered, but then thought better of it. He knew that his men had no idea why they were looking for Lord Venton, but more to the point they had no idea that their king had been murdered. He was sure that Venton was, in part, responsible for the dreadful act, but he was also sure that Venton lacked the skills or guts to actually do the deed himself. The king was skilled in combat, so it would have taken a strong, skilled assassin to get the better of him.

  Trammell hadn’t time to question Walt properly. His orders were clear and those were to find Lord Venton, so he reluctantly ordered two of his men to take Walt back to Commander Alk for further questioning and to check to see if Venton was at the palace. Walt put up a small amount of verbal resistance, but to no avail. Trammell watched whilst his men escorted Walt out of the building, screaming and shouting.

  “What a poor excuse,” he thought to himself as he slumped down into one of Lord Venton’s large chairs. He’s had little time to himself since he was told by Alk that his king was dead. He was finding it difficult to come to terms with his death. He was such a strong fighter, however, it didn’t matter how many times he told himself that he wasn’t to blame, in his mind he was responsible for the king’s protection… It was made clear to him by Commander Alk that the king had been killed on his watch… So, he had to try and make things right somehow, but he had no idea how, having no real idea of what was going on… So how could he even begin to try and make amends? His head slumped forward in frustration and rested on the hilt of his sword. Some day he would have to find a way to live with it… But one thing he did know for sure was: whoever was responsible for his king’s death was going to pay.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It was late evening and everybody else in the factory had gone home hours ago, leaving Henry senior alone as he made his way across the car park to his car. He had been at work since early morning and visited three of his five manufacturing sites, half-heartedly going through his usual weekly audits and inspections. Whilst he sat in on the scheduled production meetings, his mind wandered off elsewhere and onto much more important issues than just production output and profit projections. It had been a long day and to top it all, it was now pouring with rain. He pressed the remote on his key ring to unlock his car, opened the boot, and dumped his briefcase inside, slamming the lid shut. He then walked around to the driver’s side and slumped into the seat, but before starting the car he sat a while, going over in his mind the visit he made to his sisters the previous night.

  For a brief moment, he just sat mesmerised by the star-like shapes made by the blurred street lights as they shone through the rain-sodden windscreen. He was feeling tired, more tired than he had felt in a long time… Not just from his long day at work… he was used to that, but he was mentally tired. A lot had been lying heavily on his mind since speaking with Sophia. He had been on this earth for centuries and never before had he felt this tired…There was too much going on, far more than he could fully comprehend and, unlike so many times before, there was so much more at stake. He had spent most of the day going over and over what actions he should take next: he was sad to see Hazel so poorly, but the most surprising thing of all was that his nephew was now the new host master… He’d always known that, when the time was right, Acca and the Wyvern would choose someone to be host, but never in his wildest dreams would he imagine it would be young Henry… He was just a boy!

  It seemed unreal that his young nephew was now not only the host to the Wyvern, which on its own gave him immense powers and responsibilities beyond his understanding, but also the bearer of the staff of Aelfgar, a dangerous tool and weapon against the dark shadows, but just as dangerous to the person that wielded it, and it concerned him more than he would have expected. As much as he might deny it, he really cared for the boy: he was young and inexperienced and had been given responsibility and, more to the point, powers way beyond his capability. However, Acca had never been wrong in the past, so the old tree must have seen something in his nephew that he couldn’t, to trust him with the staff and to have chosen him to host the fire serpent. It takes a strong will and an even stronger mind to be responsible for one, but to be responsible for both…

  In the past more than one host master had lost their minds as well as their souls bearing such a responsibility… Alfwald was the strongest host of them all, but he, too, eventually become to the shadows and darkness. He sighed, inserted the key fob into the dash and then started the car, feeling emotionally drained as well as tired. He sighed again, knowing that he could not ignore the situation any longer. Things had changed now that his nephew was involved. He rubbed his eyes, feeling more than ready for the comforts of his own home. Though not liking the idea, he had decided that now that young Henry had the staff it was imperative for him to retrieve the spearhead that he had kept hidden for so many years.

  To get home, Henry senior had to drive through the busy streets of Andover and then onto the even busier A303, which was the main road to his home in Whitchurch. The rain hammered down on the windscreen, and the rhythm of the wipers along with the glare of the lights from the oncoming traffic made him feel even drowsier than he was before. He rubbed his eyes and turned down the heating in the car in an attempt to keep himself awake. After just a few miles on the main road, he turned off onto a quieter country lane. He gave a sigh of relief, knowing that in just a few more miles he’d be home. He’d planned a quiet night for himself: a few drinks, a light meal, a shower and then off to bed to read a while before settling down to a well-earned sleep.

  However, just as he turned a sharp bend in the lane he suddenly saw something large and dark ahead of him, blocking the entire road. Hitting hard on his brakes, he immediately lost control of the car, veering sideways across the wet, slippery road. He fought in vain to keep control: steering one way and then the other, but the car didn’t respond on the wet road surface and veered back across the road and ended up in a ditch full of muddy water, coming to an abrupt stop. Henry lurched forward, hitting his head hard on the steering wheel. His head then jerked backwards, coming to rest against the headrest. He lay motionless for a moment, dazed and unsure of what had just happened. He turned his head to look through the rain-sodden side window of the car and came face to face with two large, blood-red eyes staring in on him. His heart raced and sheer panic welled up inside him just before passing out.

  It was sometime later when he gradually opened his eyes, having no idea how long he
had been unconscious, but grateful that he was still alive. He gingerly touched his forehead and squinted his eyes in pain. Carefully and ever so slowly, he lifted his head, but had to shield his eyes in response to four bright lights that were shining into the car and directly onto his face. “Alright, mate… Help’s on its way,” a voice said in a rather heavy Hampshire accent. “He’s not dead, then,” said another.

  Henry squinted to try see who it was that was talking to him, but cried out when the sharp pain in his head ran down his neck and into his back. “Just sit there a moment, mate… We’ll get you out of there in a tick.” Henry had no choice other than to just sit and wait with his eyes closed as one of his rescuers tried to open the door. “Bugger… the bloody thing’s stuck.” Henry sat up a little more and managed to focus his eyes. A large tractor with a number of very bright lights was parked in front of him, he squinted his eyes as he gingerly turned his head to see who it was that was helping him. He watched as an overweight but strong-looking individual worked at opening the driver’s door. “This one’s banged up, too,” the other said whilst trying to open the passenger door. Henry didn’t respond: he was still stunned by the accident and had a large, open cut on his forehead. Blood had run down his face and onto his collar. However, the blood on his collar and hand was partly dry, which meant that he must have been out for a while before his two rescuers came along.

  “Got it,” he heard the younger of the two say as he managed to open the passenger door. “Good for you, lad,” the other said. “Let’s get you out of there… Are you up to moving, or do we need an ambulance?” the older man enquired. “No thanks… I think I’m fine,” Henry muttered, feeling anything but fine. “Good… come on, then, we’ll help you out of there.” The younger man leant into the car and reached over to him. Henry took his arm and started to work his way across to the passenger seat.