The Scholar, the Sphinx and the Shades of Nyx

by A. R. Cook

  When he returned to Paris, something was indeed waiting for him. One day shortly thereafter, a pretty young strawberry-blonde Englishwoman approached him in a bookstore. She sparked a conversation about the impact of folklore on ancient cultures, but he was paying more attention to her lovely green eyes that matched her parsley-colored petticoat.

  She asked, with a bubbly giddiness, “I’ve read your stories, Mr. Sandoval, and I love to read them aloud to my book group. They seem so lifelike, as if you had actually been to those exotic places. In fact …” She dropped her gaze in coy embarrassment. “One of the reasons I moved here from Bristol was hoping I might meet you someday.”

  A few months later, David proposed to the young lady, Florence, and she happily accepted. Between David’s saved income and Florence’s dowry, they were able to buy a lovely flat nearby the Paris Opera. Many evenings the soul-stirring music from the opera house flew on the evening breeze and found its way into their home, promising that their new life together would always be beautiful.

  Not long after David’s engagement, he received an odd package on his doorstep.

  It was a long but thin package, and it was obvious it had not come with the evening post. He carried the wrapped bundle inside to the parlor, sat down on the settee, untied the twine and stripped away the brown paper. Beneath was a smooth polished wooden box, and inside of it was an intricately designed sheath of ebony detailed with silver, and inside this sheath was a finely crafted sword that curved like a basilisk’s tongue. It was a perfect matching partner to the dagger he had left behind in America with the Lakota when he had searched for Ptesan-Wi—until he looked back down in the box, and there it was, that very dagger.

  With these gifts was a note tied up with a white ribbon. Unfurling it, David read:

  Dear David,

  I came across an old friend of yours in the Americas, who has been holding onto your lost dagger. She said that she was able to get it back from the Lakota, and when she passed it along to me, I thought you might like a new partner to go along with it. Something old, something new. I’ll leave it to your beautiful bride-to-be to find something borrowed and something blue.

  Don’t think that I have forgotten you. I write to you now because of the path you have set me on, and I want to thank you for giving me a purpose yet again. You gave me a second chance, but there are many out there, from the hidden side of the Curtain, who are still plagued by Nyx’s Shades and will lose their essences and lives to her. Since I was spared, it is only right that I do all I can to stop her and save my brethren from an undeserved fate. That is why I am gathering those that wish to join me, to seek out those who are plagued and to find other talismans on earth that can seal the Shades of Nyx away forever. As you must know by now, I gave all of my family their freedom, to be safe and happy, to not be endangered by the mission I now undertake.

  I will not allow Nyx to come back for you, and she knows this. Yet she still wields influences on others with weak wills and tainted hearts. The second reason I am writing this is to make you aware of why I have sent you your dagger and this sword. You may find yourself needing to use them someday …

  Know that I will never be far from you. Know that while, for your safety, I cannot communicate with you in your dreams because of Nyx, you will remain in my thoughts. And know that I am happy for you, for your new love and your beautiful life.

  You will always have a part of me with you, and I love you.

  --Acacia

  David folded the note as tenderly as if it were a wounded bird, and placed it back in the box with the sword and dagger. He sat in silence for a long time, looking out the window at a box garden displayed on the ledge. He smiled at the occupant of the flower box, a plant that had been difficult for him to have shipped from far away. It was bound not to last long since it was foreign, and the soil and temperature were not quite right. Yet somehow, defying adversity, it had blossomed well, as its tiny golden petals bloomed among its thorny stems.

  He gazed a while longer at his acacia plant. He stood up with his precious gift and walked out towards the dining room, where he knew Florence was reading the first draft of his latest children’s book about the funny tender-hearted badger who could turn into a rain-cloud, since she loved those stories the best.

  Epilogue

  Free. Finally free.

  The dark, the wet, and the cold had been his cellmates for the length of a hundred lifetimes. All three clung to his steel-gray fur, stiffening his flesh and bones, commanding that he stay in his subterranean cell. But the ribbon was finally broken, after centuries of its supposedly unyielding resilience. If he could not distance himself from this prison quickly, his captors would be upon him with the force of lightning and earthquake. If they discovered that he could no longer be contained, they would destroy him.

  His legs fired like pistons. His lungs ached from all the years of pumping icy air and stale dust, and they burned as fresh, warm air greeted them in his flight. So many parts of him burned: his eyes from the light, his nose from the million new scents, and his blood for raging, ravenous revenge.

  His nose sniffed the winds. The world smells so different.

  His ears twitched at the cacophony that echoed from all corners of the land. The world sounds so different.

  The world. I despise it.

  He had always hated the world. Not that the world itself had ever done anything to him, other than force him to live in it. He had been born with the sole purpose to devour it one day. He couldn’t possibly love the world if his existence demanded that he would end it.

  Not yet, though. There were things to be done first. He would devour that fool Lawkeeper who tied the ribbon on him, dooming him to an eternity of solitude. He would devour the fool gods who thought he could be locked away. Then, with great relish, he would devour the world, the moon, the sun, and anything else he craved.

  His tongue slid into the empty notch of his teeth that had once displayed his most prized feature. My fang. How I have waited to reclaim you.

  He had heard whispers trickle down through the cracks of the earth while he had been decaying in his prison. He had heard rumors about what had been done with his fang. Had he known that his fang would have snagged in the Lawkeeper’s wrist and been torn clean from his mouth, he never would have bitten off the traitor’s hand to begin with.

  The whispers had spoken of his fang being transformed, smithed into a wondrous dagger. The whispers had rumored that because it was his fang, it might be the only weapon in the world that could kill him.

  He had to find his fang. He needed it if he was to consume those who had betrayed him. He had to ensure there was nothing, and no one, out there who could pose a threat to his quest.

  The whispers had once mentioned, very softly, very provocatively, that his fang may have fallen into the possession of the last living sphinx …

  Nick Hawthorne

  and the Banefires of Autumn

  Book 1

  The Albion Chronicles

  by

  Craig Booker

  Prologue

  Deep in the bowels of the Earth, following a tortuous, winding journey through the dark, narrow defiles of Albion’s Northern Shire, Sir Benedict Harkness, hereditary peer of that land, bartered with mad Crystaljack over the legendary Crystal Rings.

  “Four I have,” muttered the deranged hermit, shifting uneasily in his grimy grey rags, “and four I’ll keep. They’re mine. I won’t relinquish any of ‘em, to you or anybody else who happens to come calling. Not a single one, you hear?”

  “You must! The future of Albion is at stake!” The flickering candlelight rippled back and forth across the aristocrat’s lean, handsome features, and the rich tones of his voice echoed through the hermit’s den. The two were seated opposite one another, amongst the musty tomes and cobweb-bedecked paraphernalia Crystaljack purported to use. All was quiet, save for their hushed voices, and the splutter and crackle of the oily brands set into the walls.

&nb
sp; “You know that they must be given freely,” Crystaljack sneered. “They can’t be taken by force.”

  “I am aware of that.” Sir Benedict leaned forward suddenly and grasped the hermit’s only arm by its filthy wrist. He held it near to the candle flame, and the four rings, one on each grimy, stunted finger, sparkled like freshly cut gems, although their stones were of an altogether different nature.

  “Let me go!” squeaked Crystaljack; but Sir Benedict did not. Instead, gripping the other’s scrawny wrist even more tightly, the aristocrat responded.

  “Are you deaf, hermit? Do you not understand the import of what I say? Listen, aye, and listen closely. The darkness is gathering. The time of the Evil One is nigh. Our fair land of Albion is entering the darkest, most perilous phase of her existence. We are in danger; such peril that the world itself may not recover from such a catastrophe. But if we act now, we may still have time to avert it. I need your help, Crystaljack. I need one of your rings, and I need to take it and go now!”

  “My help?” The hermit wheezed, his eyes narrowing. “No-one needs Crystaljack’s help. I think you’re lying, Sir Aristocrat, Sir Lord of the Manor.”

  “It is Beacon Night in six weeks. If we cannot prevent the rise of the Evil One by then, we are all lost. You are as doomed as the rest of us, make no mistake. Not even the Rings will save you if we fail to wake the Lady.”

  “If I can’t save myself with my Rings, then I fail to see how you can fare any better,” argued Crystaljack reasonably.

  “Our last hope lies in locating the Charm. This is why I need to borrow the Ring of Past Visions.” Sir Benedict ground his teeth in an effort to keep his voice steady.

  “The Charm. Stuff of legend, that.”

  “All my efforts to locate the Charm have proven fruitless, yet still my brother, the Eyes of the Wind, ranges the shires of England in search of It. And without the Charm, we are surely doomed. But with the aid of the Ring of Past Visions…”

  Crystaljack shook his arm free and grunted. “What? And the Ring will give you a chance? A chance to save this precious Albion of yours? You’re even more insane than I am! Anyway, what do I care for Albion? She cares little enough for me.”

  “She cares for all, hermit. Now, you know your duty. Give me the Ring.”

  “Crystaljack didn’t ask to be brought into this world, this Albion,” replied the hermit, staring lopsidedly at his visitor. “Therefore, what does he owe in return? Nothing. What’s more, I don’t even have the same advantages as most others. A single arm and half a brain.” He snorted, and then giggled as if he found this fact perversely amusing.

  “You know that I speak the truth.” Sir Benedict’s eyes transfixed Crystaljack’s coal black orbs; his words, spoken softly now, had a far greater impact than if he had yelled.

  “No I don’t,” snapped the other; but he looked away sharply.

  Sir Benedict smiled. “Well, Mad Crystaljack; you have the means at your disposal to prove otherwise.”

  The shabby figure picked its nose, affecting disdain and disinterest. “What if I have?”

  “Then use it.”

  “Ugh. A trick.” The hermit squinted hideously.

  “The Ring of Absolute Integrity can be used to verify the truthfulness of any statement, as well you know.” Sir Benedict glanced down casually at a bright yellow stone which winked and sparkled in the uncertainty of the candleglow.

  The other looked wistful for a moment. “Aye; that it can. And it has been a while since I used it. Very well, Sir Aristocrat.” Slowly he brought his hand forward. “Touch the stone. Quickly, now; before I change my mind!”

  Sir Benedict complied. Immediately his long fingers touched the cool, smooth surface, he felt a stirring, as if he had awakened something best left undisturbed. Then it seemed as if the room had tilted, and his head began to tingle and swim; but still he held the other’s gaze, and he did not break the contact, even though his senses threatened to leave him.

  But then the stone burned to green, and the hermit snatched his hand away, muttering and cursing to himself. “So you speak truthfully,” he said at last, watching the gem fade quickly to yellow.

  “The Ring shall be returned to you. This I promise on my family, and on my ancestors.” He held his hand out for a second time, this time palm upward. “Give me the ring.”

  Crystaljack sniggered. “Oh, well,” he said pettishly. “Take it. Take it, and I still have three. Truth to tell, there is only the Ring of Future Possibilities I wouldn’t part with. That one brings madness. Too much to take in. Too much.” With a dexterous movement he bent forward and clenched his teeth over the ring, which he drew from his finger and spat out on the table. Sir Benedict picked it up and wiped it hastily on his sleeve. Squinting narrowly, he held it close to the flickering flame to inspect it.

  “I trust you have the skill to use it,” said Crystaljack in a fawning, sarcastic tone.

  “Oh, I have skills aplenty. This, I think, is not beyond me.” He slipped the Magickal artefact smoothly over his third finger, marvelling at the fit. “I shall take my leave now, Crystaljack. The Ring of Past Visions will be returned to you after this Beacon Night.” He pushed his chair away from the table and stood up, brushing the creases from his cloak. “Until next we meet, Sir Hermit.”

  Crystaljack watched the tall, handsome man as he strode purposefully away and began to ascend the stone stairwell to the surface. When his visitor had disappeared, he burst into a fit of giggles. “Three left, three left. I wonder which of them I shall use next?” His thumb brushed the blue one briefly, but then he shook his head. It was seldom a good idea to invoke the Ring of Chance Encounters.