by N. J. Mercer
Boyd checked the time on his clock, it was late. He wasn’t much of a sleeper. Boyd had already reported everything to the high priests of his order, and they had given him their blessing to go ahead and eradicate this new threat. Surely, it was not Martin that found me; it was the Grimoires that had found Martin so that I may make a stand against Disorder. Putting out his cigarette, Boyd got ready to leave his home and meet the man at the other end of the phone line. He had an overwhelming feeling that in this mission it would be necessary to prepare for every possible eventuality from the moment he stepped out of his home, and so he set about retrieving some of the charms, spells and tools gifted to him by the Aged Masters to aid his work. These holy artefacts were essential to Boyd because he was part of a world normally experienced only by psychics, and he himself was psychically blunt; this was what he had been told by his master. For him, it was something to take pride in. It made him particularly resistant to any psychic trauma that his enemies might try to inflict upon him, and try they had.
Boyd walked from the sparse, functional kitchen of his cottage, across the corridor, to his bedroom; once there, he folded a corner of the large, worn Persian rug to one side and slid away a section of floorboard. He reached into the newly revealed secret compartment, almost up to his shoulder, and from it he pulled out four leather-bound books of various sizes; with his head bowed in reverence, he carefully placed them to one side, keeping the smallest separate.
He retrieved some more items from concealment: three cylindrical scroll cases, each ornately carved from mahogany and inlaid with ivory, a leather pouch filled with a silvery powder, an amber amulet with a long gold chain, and a box. The box was plain and made of a light-coloured wood, he carefully opened it and gazed at the twenty or so smooth polished stones of red granite that were tightly packed inside, each about the size of a large egg and loosely wrapped in a layer of muslin. Even though he wasn’t psychic, he could still vaguely sense the energy from these stones, this was about as close as he got to experiencing the presence of Presarium. He lifted one of them and lobbed it gently into the air before catching it again and replacing it in the wooden box. The stones would definitely be coming with him on this journey, along with the small book which contained a collection of choice verses from the first and third Grimoire. Another item he selected from this secret collection was the Qrwshan amulet which he put around his neck – only after dangling it in front of him long enough to catch a glimpse of the black metal skull embedded at its centre. All the remaining artefacts went back under the floorboards, concealed from view until a time when they would be needed once more. His inventory was still incomplete – it was without his favourite tools. Boyd moved an old chair from his desk and placed it beneath a hatch in the ceiling. He stood on it and reached into the attic just far enough to retrieve an old duffel bag from its hiding place; it was a heavy item and he had to strain against its weight.
Sitting down again, he fumbled around inside the bag and drew two black automatic pistols from it, the first, small and easily concealed, the second, larger and with a higher calibre. He looked at the weapons critically before placing the larger of the two back into the bag. A few more seconds of searching produced another pistol, even bigger than the one he had replaced; a revolver. He felt its familiar weight and balance and held it up in front of him as if he were aiming it. Satisfied with his choices, he placed the pair of handguns on the nearby bed and lugged the duffel bag back into its hiding place; it was still very heavy, plenty of weapons remained within it – ready for use another day. From a locked drawer, he matched up bullets with his guns before carefully packing one pistol, ammunition and psychic paraphernalia into a customised, black leather piece of luggage that already contained toiletries and a change of clothes. Everything went in except for the smaller pistol, which he placed in a specially designed holster that held the gun concealed in the small of his back.
As an acolyte of the Order of the Earthly Eye he had, over the course of many years, been called upon to deal with all manner of rogue psychic entities, including poltergeists, demons, jinn and humans. The items he packed reflected his methods of dealing with these threats: the holy artefacts like the stones and the amulet allowed him, a non-psychic, to confront supernatural enemies on their terms, while the pistols meant he could face them on his, with good old-fashioned violence. Now that he had everything he needed, Boyd secured the luggage, threw on his motorcycle leathers, picked up his helmet and exited the small cottage. Outside, the air was calm and there was a lull in the rain. He could still feel the cold of the night through his protective clothing. He produced a remote control from his jacket and punched a few keys, activating a specialised security system. A minute of mechanical clicks and whirrs from the house followed, confirming it was now secured. Internal steel grilles guarded the windows and doors, lights on random timers lit up in different parts of the house, and a secret CCTV network was activated. He walked to his garage, and with the same remote control device he opened its sliding steel shutter door. Inside, neatly arranged along the walls, were workbenches covered in stripped, exposed engines and parts from old motorbikes. In the very centre of the garage was a large BMW touring motorbike coloured silver and black. He mounted his favoured form of transport and started the engine, which thumped into life. With a final jab at his remote control and a twist of the throttle he sped away into the night, ducking beneath the sliding steel shutter doors before they closed off the garage behind him.
Boyd lived in a village outside Edinburgh; the journey to meet Martin in Glasgow would take him forty-five minutes, door-to-door. The late hour meant the roads were relatively empty, and there was nothing to impede his progress. He travelled well above the speed limit, radar detectors and scramblers on his bike ensuring he never got caught. As he rode, Boyd’s mind started mulling over the details Martin had shared with him regarding this case; it led him to worry about what effect the Warlock would have on Earth’s alignment. Preoccupied with this thought, he soon found himself in Glasgow.
Boyd only knew the main parts of the city well. He had never been to the area where Martin lived, an industrial corner dominated by old, mostly derelict warehouses; the handlebar-mounted satellite navigation system provided the directions. The atmosphere in this part of Glasgow was grim and desolate although not entirely devoid of hope. Amongst the ruins there were pockets of redevelopment taking place, and new modern apartment blocks and housing estates were springing up. Boyd rode past a row of abandoned houses with boarded windows earmarked for demolition. A little further on from these was one of the new estates where Martin’s apartment block, Halford House, was located. A van with blacked-out windows speeding in the opposite direction took a bend in the road too quickly and drifted over to his side, causing him to veer sharply to the left; he cursed the moronic driver under his breath.
Boyd rode into the large, well-lit car park in front of the block, it was late. There were still a few lights on inside the building. He noticed the rain clouds had cleared, and the gibbous moon, along with a few of the brighter stars, was visible. He parked his bike, walked over to the front door of the building and buzzed flat twenty-four through the intercom system. There was no response, which was a little worrying. He buzzed again, still nothing. He buzzed flat twenty-six; a few seconds later a sleepy female voice crackled through the intercom. “Yes, who is it?” she asked.
“Hi, it’s Martin from flat twenty-four,” lied Boyd calmly. “I came to put some rubbish out and left my keys inside, can you let me in?”
“Yeah, sure,” she said, seemingly unconcerned. A harsh buzzing sound activated the entry mechanism, and Boyd strode briskly into the block of flats, grateful that it did not have a video-call system.
The nightlights in the corridor were on and revealed the standard magnolia-painted walls and short pile carpet interior of a new-build apartment block. He took the steps two at a time, working his way quickly to Martin’s floor. From the end of the corridor, he could see the f
ront door to his apartment was a few inches ajar; the light was on, and there were thin splinters of wood on the carpet outside it, all signs of forced entry.
Boyd’s hand instinctively reached under his jacket to the small of his back, and his fingers wrapped around the handle of the automatic pistol; he found its presence ever so comforting. He didn’t draw the handgun, just held it where it was; he was in a public place. As he got closer to the door, he raised the visor on his helmet and slowed his pace. His right hand remained on the pistol grip, and he used his left to unbuckle the helmet and lift it up before changing his mind and deciding that if anybody was going to ambush him then he would rather be wearing the extra protection. He stood outside the apartment, concentrating, listening, trying to detect any signs of life beyond the crack in the door, maybe a cough or a moving shadow; there was nothing. In one swift move, Boyd swung his entire body around, kicked the door fully open and rolled into the room, just like he had been taught by old colleagues from the Special Forces. As he tumbled in, he was able to get an eyeful of the interior, and he finished the lightning-fast manoeuvre in a crouched position with his pistol fully drawn and held with both hands in front of him; his eyes scanned every inch of the apartment – there was nobody. He relaxed and looked at the doorframe, a definite forced entry, it had splintered around the still protruding lock mechanism. The interior of the apartment was pristine; he noticed a warm mug of coffee by the phone and an open newspaper, there was even some milk left out on the counter. Somebody must be here, he thought. He checked every room; there was definitely nobody around.
Where was Martin? Why had the door been forced? It was a mystery. Boyd’s mind raced, he wondered what to do; he certainly wasn’t going to walk away. He was an acolyte under the auspices of the Aged Masters, sworn to protect mankind from rogue psychics. The only way to progress now was to either find Martin or hunt for the Disciples of Disorder himself. He remembered the van that had nearly run him over outside; could it have had something to do with all this?
Boyd lowered his gun to start a quick search of the apartment and, he hoped, find clues to Martin’s whereabouts. As he walked across the lounge to investigate the crowded bookshelf, he passed a pair of large glass balcony doors that overlooked the rear car park of the apartment building. Some movement outside caught his attention and made him bolt out of the room with pistol in hand – he had seen a tall figure in black flanked by what looked like a large muscular dog. It could only have been the tall man and the beast Martin had told him about – Mr Kreb! Here he was, just outside this building! The pair were getting into a large, black saloon car with tinted windows; there was no sign of Martin with them. Boyd knew that if he lost sight of those two menacing characters, he would be saying goodbye to his only solid lead and the last chance of tackling this case. The decision to follow their black car had only taken him a split second; he ran from the room and descended the stairs three at a time, almost falling over himself in the process. He exited the apartment block from the front to get to his motorbike. It was parked on the opposite side of the building to Mr Kreb. As he mounted his machine, he could hear the black car driving away with its strange occupants; this didn’t worry him unduly because it would be another three hundred metres before they reached any junction. So long as he could see which way the car turned, he would be able to catch up with them.
Boyd quickly put the pistol back into the concealed holster, secured his riding gear and started the bike. The black car had set off first; he, however, had the advantage – two wheels. With a roar, he zipped out of the car park and onto the road in time to see the black saloon make a right turn. He caught up easily and followed at a safe distance; the danger now was getting too close and being spotted. Boyd tailed his quarry using well-established surveillance techniques; at times he would let the car drift ahead, almost out of sight, before relying on his superior acceleration and manoeuvrability to catch up again.
Mr Kreb’s car wound its way through the city, and it was soon obvious to Boyd that its general direction of travel was south, towards the motorway. As he rode, he stroked the hard sphere of the Qrwshan amulet through his leather jacket, grateful it was there protecting him. The amulet was a blessed artefact; the holy sigils that were carved into its amber surface were imbued with special properties that masked his psychic presence (limited though it was) by hiding his aura. Without it, there was every chance that the undoubtedly psychic Mr Kreb would sense that he was being followed. The danger of being spotted with the naked eye remained. To prevent this, Boyd would sometimes drop behind up to half a mile, only doing so if the road was straight enough to keep the car in view.
They were on the motorway now, southbound. They drove quickly, without a break. It was only after three hours of unwavering progress that Mr Kreb’s car started to be driven erratically. When this happened, Boyd realised that it was because they were now following another vehicle … a battered old motorhome.
Chapter 7
Johnny had acknowledged a long time ago that he was capable of quite extraordinary feats, flying had never been one of them, or so he thought until now. How else could he explain the apparently effortless way in which he soared over the mountains below him, his clothes flapping and snapping against the powerful headwind? He first thought that he might have been falling but noticed movement along the horizontal plane; he was definitely flying, and for the life of him he could not work out how he had become airborne, nor for how long. His best guess put him as having been in this situation for the past half an hour. He had been unsuccessfully trying to control this strange flight for a while; there were moments when he was certain his course had been altered with a jerk of the body in the desired direction. When it did not happen again, despite his best efforts, he could only conclude that it had occurred previously only by chance.
The wind rushed past his outstretched arms and legs. Strange, he thought, flying like this didn’t seem entirely new to him, there was something familiar about it, just like there was about the view of the rocky mountain valley below. Giving himself up to whatever force was controlling the flight, he concentrated instead on observing the landscape beneath, and it was a strange view. All the miles of mountainous scenery appeared to have been painted over in a drab, unnatural grey except for a long, vividly coloured valley that lay between three prominent, conical mountain peaks; it had a clear lake at its centre of brilliant azure while the woods and grassland that surrounded it were coloured every conceivable shade of green. He also noticed the outline of every natural feature in this valley as being very precise when compared with its grey surroundings, which looked blurred and indistinct by comparison; he was at a loss to explain why the geography below him should have such a contrasting appearance.
His flight started to descend rapidly as he headed towards the valley. From his vantage point in the air, he became aware of a clearing in some of the dense woodland around the lake and remembered where he had seen all this before – it had been in his dreams. So he probably wasn’t really flying after all, only dreaming again. It was worrying; the ability to discern between reality and this particular dream was becoming increasingly difficult.
In his previous dream flights, he had never descended low enough to see what he saw now – people in the woodland clearing, tiny specks running about, dancing or possibly playing. He urged the descent to speed up so he could get a clearer view of them; he strained to thrust his body through the air quicker, it didn’t work, the flight was still something beyond his control. He descended close enough to hear voices from the tiny specks on the ground, a chorus. There was another, louder voice, whispering and yet somehow audible over both the background chant and the noise of rushing wind.
“Help us, Johnny, help us …” it said simply. Unsure about what to make of it, Johnny concentrated on the chanting instead.
“Earth expires, the children broken,
Chaos fires once more awoken.”
He could have sworn the chant was in children’
s voices and was baffled about what it could possibly mean. He was still descending, getting closer; just when he thought he was about to catch his first clear sight of the rhyming valley-dwellers, the images and landscapes around him faded away gradually into an all-encompassing blackness. It wasn’t long afterwards that he found himself stirring uneasily.
“About time! I thought you weren’t going to wake up at all, sleeping beauty! It’s your turn to take the wheel.”
Johnny had to blink several times and rub his eyes to orientate himself again, and before he could say a word, Sascha was pulling into a service station. Tired though he was, Johnny took his turn at the wheel and drove on, mesmerised by the road ahead. Eventually, he managed to glance at his friends to see how they were doing; it had been four hours since they started the journey, and it was obvious that nobody had the strength left to even attempt idle conversation. Sascha was trying to get some sleep while Baccharus had lit another cigarillo. Johnny found the presence of the rich, sweet smoke in the enclosed space of the motorhome nauseating. This was a good sign, giving up smoking might be easier than he had anticipated. The smell was probably worse for Sascha who was a lifelong non-smoker. His familiar, on the other hand, appeared quite relaxed, lying on one of the bunks with a tatty old paperback he had found on the kitchen shelf, probably unaware of the offence he was causing. The radio was on; nobody listened to the power ballads it was belting out. The so far uneventful journey had taken the companions up to north-west England.
