by Candy Rae
Arovan gave him a quick look.
“Were you actually paying attention to that religious programme on the television yesterday evening?”
Rather shamefacedly, Zanner admitted that he had.
* * * * *
When Kirsty woke again it was light. She kept her body as motionless as she could and listened hard. The bedroom was still and silent, there was definitely no sound of a cat breathing in the room, or anything else for that matter.
Sitting up, she looked around.
Nothing.
Dreams, both the hooded man and the cat must have been a weird part of a nocturnal, subconscious perambulation. They had to have been, therefore they were.
Having come to this rational conclusion Kirsty felt a lot better and decided she’d better get up. Glancing at her bedside clock, she calculated that there would be just enough time for a quick shower and some breakfast before she had to run for her bus to school.
She frowned, puzzled. The clock said seven thirty. She could have sworn she’d set the alarm for seven before she’d gone to bed last night, but then again, she decided swinging her feet out of bed, she might have forgotten; it wouldn’t be the first time. Shrugging into her dressing gown and shoving her feet into a pair of pink, fluffy slippers, a birthday present from her mother, she made haste in the direction of the kitchen.
* * * * *
As the months and years passed, Kirsty Douglas forgot all about the ‘dream’.
* * * * *
CHAPTER 2
‘All things may corrupt when minds are prone to evil.’
(Ovid (BC43 - AD17))
THREE MALEFICENT ELVES
2013
“My Lord, these creatures are terrible!”
“Indeed they are.”
“What are they? Where did they come from? Where did you get them? How did they get here?” asked his companion, an elf of so ordinary an appearance as to look, at least at first glance, completely unremarkable and absolutely forgettable.
“They are reptiles,” Wielder Crucius answered. “As for their origin? Where else would they have come from but the otherworld?”
“The otherworld,” breathed the second elf. “I have heard of such creatures of course, but …”
“The magic of the T’Quel is failing,” Wielder Crucius informed him with greedy satisfaction. “As each day passes it becomes harder and harder for the Tathar to keep the magical boundary intact. It will soon be the time when the magic will fail and I, we, will become the undisputed rulers of not just Alfheimr but the otherworld too.”
“His Majesty?”
“Is a stupid elf, seeing only what he desires to see. He is useful only as a means to gain what will be ours one day. Remember, not even a hint of what I am planning must pass from your lips to his ears. See that it does not.”
“But the Vagjyrein?”
“The Vagjyrein are lost in time and place. They will not help the Tathar. Come, let me show you where the others are imprisoned.”
“More reptiles?”
“Men,” answered Crucius, leading his guest towards the stairs.
* * * * *
The tour was over and Wielder Crucius and Toish Ruac were sitting round the fire sipping mulled wine.
Although he was listening to Crucius’s words, Ruac was gazing round his employer’s room with much interest. The room was opulent - full of treasures and artifacts, some of which he did not recognise. On three of the four walls hung the most beautiful tapestries Ruac had ever seen and on the fourth, somewhat incongruously, sat a picture, a landscape painted by an obviously inferior artist. It looked decidedly out of place. He thought he recognised it as the castle of Tanquelameir, the ancestral home of the Cuthalion family and wondered why it was there.
“His Majesty believes that we are his servants, bought and paid for. He thinks I am guiding him. As I said on the battlements, he is a stupid elf. Tell me, what news from your agents?”
“I have elves in every royal court on the mainland,” Ruac answered, “ and am in hope of placing one in Andos before the moon changes.”
“And have you succeeded in locating the place where Wielder Zanner is hiding?”
Ruac, leader of the the Morityaro, shook his head. “Not yet My Lord although there have been some unconfirmed sightings.”
“False trails,” surmised Crucius. “Zanner is good … although his talent is not a quarter of my own. Still, I want him. He could cause us a great deal of trouble but might well be of use. While we are on the subject of magical talent, I must thank you for your recent present. He shows promise.”
The Morityaro leader bowed his head. “It gives me pleasure to be of service. I take it that you wish my agents to continue seeking out young with magical talent and ‘bring’ them to you?”
“Indeed, if only to keep them out of the hands of those who will oppose our endeavours.”
“I have an audience with His Majesty three days hence … Your instructions?”
“I don’t believe that I have any! As you are aware, he has two of the tarna jewels in his possession already.”
Ruac nodded.
“We need his help to gain the other of that trio so we cannot yet dispose of his services. What news of Lord Arovan of Tanquelameir?”
“He has returned.”
“Good. Inform your spies to do their best to keep him there. He is a meddlesome elf and he is too close to finding the answers.”
“I will,” promised Ruac.
* * * * *
Remember, not even a hint of what I am planning must pass from your lips to his ears.
“Sire,” Ruac, leader of the Morityaro, bowed low.
The hooded figure acknowledged the bow.
“Sire, I have news. Our spy at Tanquelameir has sent in a report.”
“And?” prompted the hooded figure. “What is it? You would not have disturbed me if your news was of no import.”
“He has at last discovered the whereabouts of Lord Arovan’s human acquaintance.”
“Apprehend her at once. The appropriate fee will be yours when she is caught,” commanded the hooded king. “I shall be indebted to you if you will inform Wielder Crucius of the news.”
Toish Ruac left the king, a satisfied smile on his face. He would indeed inform Wielder Crucius of the news. The ‘appropriate fee’ was an extra bonus.
* * * * *
CHAPTER 3
‘And it shall come to pass, that the day shall arrive when the Tathar shall diminish and the magic of the T’Quel fail.’
(Saga of Enduin)
OLD MAN IN A CAVE
Events were stirring; he could feel them, in his bones, in the stones, in the wind – whispers of unease and hope.
He couldn’t fight it for much longer. His strength, tied to the magic, the old magic, the ancient magic, was failing. His mind and body – they had become, so many centuries ago, an integral part of the magic. As his body grew older, his strength waned and so the magic grew weaker. Eventually it would disappear altogether.
He shivered. After so long it was difficult to think of himself as mortal but it was growing harder with each day to keep the T’Quel intact. Already holes had appeared in the fabric. Since the T’Quel’s beginning, breaches had appeared in the misty barrier from time to time, even in the early days when the T’Quel had been young and the magic blazing with pristine newness.
This last breach however – it had been both wide and deep. He had also listened to the reports in recent months about strange sounds, of movements within its depths and of incursions from the other side.
It was time, time for the renewal. He prayed he hadn’t left it too late.
You stubborn old man, he told himself. You knew this would come eventually. No one, not even you, can live forever. Another must come to take up the burden.
He removed his wrinkled hand from the glowing, magic-filled orb that sat on the table in front of him. The light within it died.
The effort to seal
the barrier had taken almost more strength than he possessed. The breach had been dense in its intensity, and it had taken him over a day to seal and close it. He had expended so much energy, had drawn on so much of his diminishing reservoir of magical strength that he knew it would take him at least a week to recover fully and what would happen if there was another major breach meantime?
As he looked at his hand he noticed with surprise that it was shaking. He frowned. It had never before trembled after a magical working to maintain the T’Quel and he felt light-headed with exhaustion. He stumbled as he got to his feet.
It must be done now – before I change my mind – before it is too late.
He looked over to the covered object sitting on the shelf in the corner of the cave, the cave that, for the last decade, had been his place of residence. The cave was neither as warm nor as comfortable as his fortress at Nosta, his home for so many lifetimes of men, but it was warm, dry and safe.
The old man approached the shelf where he had placed the object, the talisman, when he, fleeing from his enemies, had arrived at the cave.
He stood in front of the talisman. He raised his eyes and gazed, nostrils flared, every sense alert, as he probed deep within it for the flicker that would tell him that another breach in the barrier that was the T’Quel was imminent, for, although he used the orb as the focus to perform his magical workings, it was from the talisman that his power came. They were a trio – man, orb and talisman.
Nothing.
He raised his hand. It hovered over the talisman. He muttered the words of the ritual. The talisman quivered in recognition of the words and began to resonate, emitting a low humming noise.
The old man watched, spellbound, as the talisman began to glow, not a bright glow, not yet, but enough light was filtering through its covering so that he knew, beyond a shadow of doubt that the ritual was working. The old man who had taught him had said it would, when the time came, no matter how many centuries passed.
The Tathar nodded acceptance, but almost immediately regretted his actions. It had begun. There was no way he could stop it now. It was the beginning of his end. It was the start of another’s beginning.
Perhaps he could have waited a little longer. No more than any other man did he wish to die. Perhaps he could delay the inevitable, by just a little, a few days even? Again the Tathar nodded. Yes, he could delay but not thwart. He would not work against what was necessary but slow the process down. Surely there could be no harm in doing that?
Tired out from his exertions, the Tathar walked over to his bed and lay down. Within a few heartbeats he was fast asleep, the sleep of the exhausted old.
He dreamt of battles, fought so long ago that they had become only a distant memory. With all but a very few, even the names had been forgotten. Some had never had names at all. The Tathar remembered the blood, the fighting, the exhilaration when his army won, and the despair when they had had to flee the field.
The orb on the table in the middle of the cave sat dark and quiet.
The talisman on the shelf however, continued to hum and glow.
In a castle far away a large, deep blue sapphire flickered.
Inside the T’Quel a bolt of lightning flared, erupting with a flash of purple light and a sharp crack. The mists surrounding the T’Quel swirled and eddied in a restless dance of strange shapes.
* * * * *
* * * * *
CHAPTER 4
‘And it shall come to pass, that the day shall arrive when the Tathar shall diminish and the magic of the T’Quel fail. Then must the ten unite from whence they bide and renew the circle. The call shall go out.’
(Saga of Enduin)
HOMECOMING
The twenty-two-year-old Kirsty slung her backpack on to her shoulder and climbed on to the bus. She was feeling pleasurably excited. Her final university exams were over and she thought she had done well, well enough to be awarded a good class of degree anyway. An Upper Second at least, but the very thought of a First Class Honours degree was, why – almost magical. Perhaps then Professor Ellison would accept her on his post-graduate course at Oxford University.
In the recesses of her mind, Kirsty believed that she might have done just enough to gain the coveted First.
Now, however, the exams and the resultant parties were over, and she was going home for the summer. She had sent a text message to her mother yesterday telling her to expect her around eight o’clock that evening and knew that a great home-cooked meal consisting of her favourite dishes would be on the menu. She hadn’t said that her plans had changed and that she would be arriving late afternoon instead, because she wanted to surprise her. Kirsty hugged herself at the thought of the look on her mother’s face when she arrived early.
The bus manoeuvred out of St. Andrews bus station and turned left into City Road, down the hill, then, turning left into Links Crescent, it progressed through the overgrown ends of the demolished railway bridge, a stark reminder of Baron Richard Beeching’s railway cuts in the nineteen-sixties, on to the A91 road, past the Old Course Hotel on the right (St. Andrews town asserted, with a great deal of truth, that it was the ‘Home of Golf’), past the university student residences on the left, and along the country road, getting busier now with the holiday season fast approaching. When they reached the straggling town of Guardbridge the bus turned right towards Leuchars, then left up the short, narrow road towards the railway station.
It was a pity the journey from St. Andrews to Kilmarnock was such a long one. Kirsty would have to take the train from Leuchars to Glasgow Queen Street station, via a change at Edinburgh, walk through the city to Glasgow Central and catch the next available train to the Ayrshire town of Kilmarnock, her home. During the four years she had spent studying at the university, she had completed this journey many times when she went home for the odd weekend and the winter, spring and summer holidays. Those were the times she replenished her batteries and spent time with her mother.
At Leuchars she clambered down from the bus and went up the rickety steps into the station. Five minutes later and she was seated on the train. It wasn’t busy so she acquired a window seat without any trouble, made herself comfy, and prepared to enjoy the journey.
Today was different in that she was going home for a holiday, but this time she wouldn’t be returning. Her undergraduate days were over. In a week’s time the results would be out and she would know if she would be leaving for Oxford to start her Ph.D. or begin studying for her teacher-training certificate.
She had realised towards the end of her third year, there were not many career options if one had a degree in English and Mediaeval History, at least, not if you wanted to continue using the subjects you had studied for your degree. Teaching or post-graduate study was really all there was. She could have taken a course allowing her to take up a position in a museum but she didn’t fancy the idea of being stuck in a musty cellar somewhere for days on end, along with even mustier artefacts or crackling documents.
The alternative would have been to leave English and History behind and go into commerce or industry, and even, horror upon horrors, accountancy. Kirsty and figures didn’t go well together, they never had. She was relieved she had that place at teacher-training college if she needed it. It was her safety net, and she thought she might become quite a good teacher in time, although the thought of standing in front of a classroom full of teenagers and attempting to drill a modicum of learning into their brains was a bit daunting. Kirsty was too close to her own teenage years to face that situation with anything approaching tranquillity.
She really wanted that elusive First Class Honours.
Mentally shaking herself, there was nothing she could do about it now; she put these troubling thoughts aside. She extracted a book from her rucksack and settled down to enjoy the journey. Engrossed in Charles Kingsley’s ‘Hereward the Wake’, a romanticised and largely historically inaccurate story about one of England’s great folk heroes, she hardly noticed the scenery flas
hing by as the train travelled west.
Kirsty loved getting her teeth into historical and literary mysteries, finding out how far fiction deviated from fact. Hereward the Wake was of particular interest to her. A recent book by an acclaimed historian about the Norman Conquest of Anglo-Saxon England in the year ten-sixty-six, had postulated that Hereward was a Dane of noble birth rather than the son of the Anglo-Saxon Earl Leofric, whose wife Lady Godiva, according to popular tradition, had ridden naked through mediaeval Coventry in order to force her husband to lower taxes. Hereward was, according to his research, the son of an Anglo-Danish noble called Asketil and was intensely anti-Norman as were most people of Danish descent. The new research revealed he enlisted military support from Denmark and in the year ten-sixty-nine, the Danish royal family and church had sent a small army across the North Sea to assist Hereward with his rebellion.
She read on, looking for evidence of Hereward’s ancestry in Charles Kingsley’s story. By the time the train drew into Glasgow Queen Street, she had found none, which didn’t upset her in the least. She hadn’t expected to find any.
The remainder of her journey passed without incident. Kirsty had no premonitions about what was to happen when she got home. Alighting from the train at Kilmarnock with a broad smile on her face, she bounced down John Finnie Street with its red sandstone Victorian edifices (blighted by a modern bank building which stood out like a sore thumb), across the traffic lights at the bottom, patiently waiting for the green man to appear, and on to Dundonald Road. Home wasn’t far away now, just around the corner.
Yes, there was her house where her mother would be waiting for her, in the kitchen probably, putting the final touches to the meal she was preparing to welcome her daughter home, hopefully Spaghetti Bolognaise, Kirsty’s favourite. It was Boudica’s favourite too.
