The Sanctuary

The Sanctuary

Michael Taylor

For my wonderful children. Every single day you make me proud.

If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would appear to man as it is, infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro’ narrow chinks of his cavern.

William Blake, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell

Prologue

R

eader, be quick! There is little time to lose, come with me now to an age almost lost to the mists of time. Two old friends sit together; talking, worrying…

Already he becomes strong. The wizard looks at his friend, worry etched into his face. It is becoming, a problem.

She shrugs dismissively. A few thousand followers only, I really don’t see…

Not long ago there were merely hundreds, soon they will measure tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands!

You exaggerate, surely?

Mitra, open your eyes and your mind! he exclaims. You know of the Demon King’s slave pits, toiling hour upon hour, day after day to churn out more of those vile creatures. How long will it be until the world is overrun? He forces himself to become calmer. I foresee a time when even we wizards and witches will be unable to stop him. Far into the future perhaps, but nevertheless!

But what can we do? Mitra shrugs again. Your latest attempt to kill him failed, just like the ones before. She is risking his wrath, she knows this, but it’s not the time for delicacy or hurt feelings.

His face flushes a deep crimson and he cannot meet her eye; the decision to send assassins against the Demon King had been a controversial one, even though those who died had all been volunteers. He regards her for a long time while he makes up his mind, until finally, We have to safeguard the future and give the generations to come a chance to fight this menace.

And how do you suppose we do that? She is skeptical. We may be powerful but even we can’t control the future.

The wizard smiles without mirth. Perhaps we can though. He gets to his feet abruptly. Come with me.

It is a long walk into the hills, to a desolate place far from any village or town. As they walk, the moon, full and bright, clears the horizon and night-time descends. She is tired as, at last, he leads her into a small copse of stunted trees, but her curiosity outweighs her need to rest. When they come to a clearing she gasps, unprepared for what she sees there.

It is a demon, naked and terrified, hanging by its feet from a gibbet in the center of the clearing. Its hands are tied, its mouth gagged, its eyes wild and pleading. Drool drips from behind the gag into the large copper bowl beneath its head. Nearby, a cage contains a second creature and, although it is covered entirely by a blanket, Mitra can hear the demon crashing frantically against the bars, can tell from its muffled screams that it is also gagged.

She turns to her friend, her gaze disbelieving, accusing. Her first emotion is shock, then puzzlement; her friend is no murderer, and even if he were, she refused to believe he would indulge himself in this sadism.

What are you doing? I know we detest the demons, want them gone, but this is not the way. Look at that thing, it’s terrified. Why, Cornelius, why do this? What perverse pleasure do you gain? This is not the way to revenge yourself upon the Demon King!

He rounds upon her furiously. You think I like doing this? That I get enjoyment from it? You think I seek to gain some kind of petty revenge over Kanzser? He turns from her and looks up into the sky; the moon is almost at its zenith. He nods in satisfaction. No, I’m afraid this is as regrettable as it is necessary.

For the first time, Mitra notices the knife he holds in his hand.

I’m sorry, he tells the demon simply, then, ignoring Mitra’s appalled shout, he draws the knife across its throat as she watches, open mouthed. Blood jets from the dying creature’s throat into the waiting bowl and the wizard begins his spell, chanting, slowly at first, then faster and louder so that soon he is shouting, up towards the moon.

And as the huge, shining orb passes directly overhead at last, its pure white rays reflect from the rapidly filling bowl so that the entire clearing is cast with a ghoulish red tinge. Cornelius continues the spell as the light begins to spread into the trees and beyond. And now the moon itself is no longer pure white but faintly pink, turning deeper and redder as his voice begins to crack and falter. He motions his friend to follow as he makes his way back toward the open countryside. As they leave the shelter of the trees, a gale is blowing, becoming stronger and more violent by the second as if it too is raging against the moon.

For Mitra it is a night of shocks and here is another, for the moon is now a deep, blood red and its light bathes the land as far as the eye can see. And where before the land had been sparse, desolate, now it is fertile. Grass grows over bare earth and rock, trees grow before her very eyes, laden with fruit and berries. In the distance a stream, before only a mere trickle, is now a flowing scarlet ribbon. Mitra can see fish jumping in and out of the water, joyful, as if they too cannot quite believe what has happened. They fly through the air, competing for who can go highest, before splashing back into the water, their shiny scales glinting red like a million tiny sparks of fire.

As the wind continues to rage, a single thorn bush, its wicked spikes infused with the red of the blood moon, is buffeted, tossed this way and that, struggling to maintain its hold, its roots weakened from years of surviving in the dry, stony earth. Suddenly, four of the spikes are wrenched from a single stem and carried aloft. Three are scattered far and wide to take root in distant lands. But the fourth is flung high, up into the stratosphere, beyond the winds to where the air is still. It hangs there for a moment then drifts slowly back toward the earth, only to be caught again by the swirling winds, and borne along, barely above the ground, sometimes so low it brushes the tips of the still growing grass, in danger of becoming caught.

But whether by chance or design, the wind always gusts more strongly at the last second and the thorn, crimson in the moonlight, appears to dance along like a firefly up the hillside. And at last it is blown into the mouth of a cave, only a small cave, seemingly insignificant. The thorn lodges in a tiny crack near the entrance and there it will grow, waiting for many centuries until its true purpose is revealed.

Eventually the wind abates and Cornelius falls silent. The spell is complete.

Why? How? the witch finds her voice at last. Why did you kill that demon and what happened here? What is all…this?

I killed the demon to make the blood moon, he gasps, so exhausted he can barely speak. And as for this? His chest heaves alarmingly. It’s a question of balance. Every evil act should have one of good to balance it, otherwise the world would be drowned in evil before we know it. He sinks to the ground and sits, head between his knees as he tries to relax his thumping heart.

I get it… she says slowly. Because you killed the demon, you had to do something good. I understand that. She looks at him, her expression still puzzled. But killing the demon to make the moon red? I still don’t understand why.

It’s a weapon! He lifts his head and glares at her, wishing she would leave him alone. The blood moon is a weapon, it kills demons! In the future, should there be a need to wipe them out, we now have the means. The anger leaves his eyes to be replaced by a look of sadness and something else. Shame?

It’s quite probable that history will remember me as a murderer, he says dully.

She begins to offer words of comfort, but he silences her with a gesture. Please, Mitra, leave me alone for now.

But what about that one? she insists and nods toward the trees. Aren’t you going to let it out? Please tell me you’re not going to kill it too. I don’t think I could stand that.

I plan to let it go, but not yet, not until morning. Now please, no more talking, I must rest.

So, they sit in a silence which gradually becomes companionable until, at last, the dawn breaks over the distant mountains. As the final traces of the blood moon are erased by the morning sun, Mitra follows the wizard back into the trees and watches without speaking as he removes the blanket and opens the door of the cage. The demon snarls obscenities at him for a moment then tries to run but he stops it with a flick of his wand. It stands there, unable to move, the look of hatred frozen on its face.

Go, tell your master what has happened here. Warn him he can never be certain if, when the moon is full, it will be white or red. Warn him that the blood moon is the harbinger of death for all demons should they be foolish enough to be touched by its rays. Tell him it will be this way until time itself ends and that one day the blood moon will rid the earth of all his kind.

The hatred in the creature’s eyes should have been enough to turn him to stone but the wizard is indifferent.

Tell your master that I, Cornelius, descendant of the original Six Wizards, have decreed this and that it will come to pass. As his voice thunders across the hills, the demon cowers in terror, no longer daring to speak its obscenities, even if it were able.

When the wizard releases it with another disdainful flick of his wand, the demon scampers away, up the hillside as fast as it can toward the cave, longing desperately to reach the safety of its own world.

PART ONE

Chapter 1

London 1964

T

he streets of Notting Hill were awash with noise as another busy market day drew to a close and a heady mix of aromas, some easily identifiable, others more mysterious, hung in the air. It was the run up to Christmas; there were just two days left, and the skies above were heavy with the threat of more snow. A tide of last-minute Christmas shoppers hustled to reach the tube stations before it fell again.

Among them, tired from another Saturday working at one of Chelsea’s least fashionable boutiques, Ben was as eager as everyone else to get home and it was a relief when he saw the red and blue neon sign of Notting Hill Gate shining through the gathering dusk.

As he hurried down the steps of the station, he cannoned into a tall man wearing a dark overcoat and a black Fedora style hat, pulled down so that his eyes were hidden. Before he could gasp an apology, he felt something thrust into his hand. He glanced down and saw it was a leaflet or pamphlet of some kind.

The tall man bent close to his ear and spoke, "Read it, don’t lose it and, most importantly, be there."

The man’s breath was hot against Ben’s cheek and his eyes bored into his for an instant before he was gone, lost among the crowds before Ben could even react. He stood and stared at the black hat disappearing into the distance but still just visible above the heads of the throng. He was oblivious to the people pushing to get past, some cursing him as they hurried by. When he could no longer see it, Ben turned and allowed himself to be hustled down the remainder of the steps. Then, having negotiated the turnstiles and by some miracle actually found a seat on the crowded tube, he opened his palm and looked at the crumpled piece of paper. He smoothed it out onto his knee and read:

The thirty-first of December; my sixteenth birthday. Ben stared at the paper for a long time, wondering what it meant. He had to squint and hold it close to his nose to read the address, it was written so small. Almost as if it needs to be kept secret, he thought. As the train sped through the network of tunnels far beneath London, the words Be There seemed to get larger and larger.

Like a threat. He shuddered involuntarily.

Impulsively, he crumpled the paper into a ball and dropped it to the floor; a woman across the aisle looked at him disapprovingly, then sniffed and turned away.

The train sped onward, and Ben tried not to look at the ball of paper lodged by his foot, but his eyes were drawn downward as it seemed to stare up at him, accusingly. He kicked it away but at the same moment the train tilted as it rounded a bend and the paper rolled back to settle once more against his shoe. It lay there for a while as he tried to ignore it, but eventually, unable to stand the tension any longer, he picked it up.

Once more he smoothed the paper out and re-read it, then as his own destination approached, he folded it carefully and placed it in the inside pocket of his jacket.

Chapter 2

London – present day

I

f it hadn’t been so dark, he might have noticed the shadowy figure that lay (hiding?) in the doorway, and the pair of legs flung casually across the pavement, and things could have been very different.

But then…who would there have been to save the world?

But the London night was dark. Dark, cold and wet, so the boy hurried along, shrinking miserably into his coat and taking little notice of where he was going. His misery was only partly down to the weather. In truth, he hardly noticed the rain that teemed onto his bare head and trickled inside his coat, or the cold that slowly turned his bones to ice.

In fact, the boy had just been dumped. Well, the last thing Cissy had screamed at him was, I never want to see you again. Loser!

I take that to mean I’m definitely dumped, he thought.

So his day was just about complete when he found himself lying face down in a large puddle, water soaking the few pieces of clothing he’d so far managed to keep dry. He sat up quickly and rubbed his nose where he’d banged it.

What the hell just happened? As the boy looked around, he realized he was surrounded by shadows; he could only vaguely make out a large shape slumped in a shop doorway a few feet away.

The shape didn’t move, nor did it speak. In fact, it did precisely nothing.

****

The day had begun so brightly. First day of the school break, the sun shining, meeting Cissy. As he walked (ran) the mile and a half into town, Luke felt like shouting with the excitement of being young and having fun. Sure, she’d dragged him round half the clothes shops in London, but he didn’t mind really, because then they’d gone back to hers and spent the rest of the afternoon chatting and listening to music; their favorite thing.

And it had all been going so well. They’d been together almost three months and he’d never had a girlfriend that long. They’d long since passed that awkwardfirst kiss stage of course, and now Cissy’s mother, knowing how close they’d become, kept finding reasons to interrupt. Not that Mrs. Hamilton didn’t trust her daughter implicitly, but still…best just to check. So, every now and then there would be a quiet knock at the bedroom door, and she would appear, make some excuse for interrupting, then just as quickly disappear back downstairs.

Each time the two teenagers would collapse into hysterical laughter until Luke, who began to get a little tired of it and was, as usual, unable to keep his mouth shut, made a sarcastic and rather nasty little comment. Cissy, who could be volatile at the best of times, jumped to her feet.

And there’d been an argument.

Which had turned into one hell of an argument.

And that’s when it happened. The dumping. And the loser thing.

And that’s how, instead of getting a lift from Cissy’s mum, he’d found himself walking miserably home in the pouring rain, lost in thought, until now…

The boy scrambled to his feet and looked around. He was sure there had been lots of people about earlier.

Only a minute earlier?

In fact, he’d walked down this street hundreds of times and it was never empty.

It was now though.

Now the street was deserted.

Except for me, and the shape, he thought as he peered into the deepening gloom, suddenly feeling nervous without quite knowing why.

And then the boy realized whyit was so dark. The streetlights – they were all off. Not a single one was lit; not a single one, that is, except for a solitary orange light far away in the distance, its faint glow a beacon.

This is weird, he thought, wanting to be near that light, wanting it very much indeed. He turned and was about to walk away – I won’t run, he told himself, I’m not a coward – when the shape spoke.

Chapter 3

"I

t’s about time, the shape said. About bleedin’ time!"

The boy didn’t know what he’d expected, but this sure wasn’t it. He spun round and peered into the shadows.

Who’s that? he called loudly. Unfortunately, it came out more as a high-pitched squeak, which betrayed the nerves that were making his heart thump frantically.

He cleared his throat and spoke again. Come out of there. And this time he managed to put on his deepest voice and speak in what he hoped was an unafraid, commanding tone.

The shape spoke again. Half a mo’, dear, I’m coming, can’t hurry at my age, you know. The voice sounded breathless, indignant. And you’ve kept me waiting so long, I swear my legs have gone to sleep forever. Then, almost under its breath, the shape added, Three bleedin’ weeks is long enough for anyone to have to wait. Bleedin’ inconsiderate I call it.

There were sounds of shuffling and grunting, and slowly, from the shadows, a figure emerged. It was a woman, an old woman from what the boy could see. And she was big. No, she’s huge, he realized as more of her came into view.

What d’ya think you’re doing sitting there in the dark like that? he began. I nearly broke my neck tripping over you. Another thought struck him. And what do you mean I’ve kept you waiting? I don’t even—

Be quiet, the old woman interrupted, there isn’t time for that. You the boy they call Luke?

Who are you? the boy demanded. I’m not going to—

Be quiet! the woman insisted. There isn’t time, I tell you! She towered over him and her eyes seemed to spark. Despite himself, he took a step backwards. In a softer tone she said, There isn’t time for explanations, I just have to know your name. Now are you the boy they call Luke?

The boy nodded, unable to trust his voice.

Luke Simpson?

He nodded again.

Good. The woman gave a sigh of relief. It’s about bleedin’ time, she repeated. It’s been three weeks.

What has? Luke was beginning to feel more than a little dizzy.

The old woman smacked her forehead in exasperation and muttered quietly to herself, God help us all if this boy really is the one from the ancient prophecy. He seems…stupid.I wonder if Morgan could have made a mistake. But no, that can’t be, the resemblance is too great. Those green eyes, quite startling, just like his father’s were.

Luke didn’t know whether to be annoyed about the ‘stupid’ comment or curious to know who Morganwas, and he almost missed her last comment. My father? he exclaimed, grabbing her arm. "You knew my father?"

The old woman glanced down as if seeing him properly for the first time. Why, he’s just a boy, she thought. So very young really. And the dangers ahead of him…so many dangers. Can he survive, I wonder; survive what Peter could not, locked away all these years?

As she had done countless times, the old woman tried to imagine Luke’s father in his dark dungeon, fearing death, hoping for a rescue that could never come, and sighed heavily.

We could try, Morgan, at least we could try!

Her gaze softened. Come on, Luke, she said brightly, you’re soaking wet and freezing cold! Let’s get going before you catch your dea…before you catch a cold, she amended quickly. C’mon, it’s not far. And with that she placed a massive arm around his shoulders and hustled him along.

Luke was tall for his age, but the old woman, although not quite as huge as he’d first thought, still towered above him so he had to crane his neck up to speak. My father, you said you knew him?

Tears glistened briefly in her eyes and she wiped them away impatiently before sighing. Yes, yes, Luke, I knew your father very well when he was, well, about your age in fact.

Sensing another barrage of questions, she forestalled him. Enough now, I can’t possibly explain everything, and every minute we spend on this street puts us in danger. Even now, I sense we are being watched. We have to reach the Sanctuary as quickly as we can. She strode down the street even quicker so Luke almost had to run to keep up.

After a minute he looked up again and panted. "What’s your name anyway?"

The old woman glanced down. Molly.

He tried again after another pause. You said you’d been waiting for me?

Bleedin’ ‘ell, she thought to herself, does the lad ever stop asking questions? Aloud she said, "Come on, we must reach the light, not far now."

Luke peered ahead through the gloom and saw that the streetlight was indeed much closer.

Chapter 4

A

lone in her bedroom, Cissy looked at the chair so recently vacated by Luke and sighed. I do like him, she thought. A lot, actually. She knelt on the floor and idly gathered a week’s worth of carelessly strewn clutter – bits of clothing, trainers and sheets of unfinished homework – in a halfhearted attempt to tidy up. But sometimes he’s such an…an asshole.

The word pleased her, summing him up perfectly at the moment. Asshole, she said, and then more loudly, Luke Simpson, you are an asshole!

Are you alright, dear? Her mother opened the bedroom door and popped her head round.

Yeah, Mum, I’m fine, answered Cissy, wondering if her mum had heard. Dad home yet?

No, dear, not yet, replied Mrs. Hamilton. I just wanted to check that, well, you know, your argument with Luke. Such a nice boy too, such a shame… Her voice petered out at the look of ferocity on Cissy’s face.

"He is not a nice boy, she informed her mother in an icy tone. She stood up and went to lay on her bed, crossed her ankles and cupped her hands behind her head. He’s a moron, like all boys, now I think about it; all boys are such pig-headed, stupid morons and I, for one, am sick of them." She turned her face away, feeling a sense of guilt she couldn’t quite explain.

Her mum came in and Cissy moved over so she could perch on the edge of the bed. The bad news there, darling, she said, is they don’t get much better when they grow up. Lucy Hamilton looked solemnly down at her daughter and winked.

Cissy burst out laughing as her mother lay down beside her and put an arm round her shoulder, drawing her close. "Y’know, Cissy, Luke isn’t so bad, far better than a lot of boys his age. I like him a lot and you could do much worse. And think yourself lucky that both your father and I do like him. When we were young, just teenagers like you, my parents didn’t approve of your father at all. I can hear your grandmother now. She struck a pose and wagged a finger. Lucy, that boy’s no good, you could do much better than him."

She mimicked her gran so perfectly that Cissy had to smile. That was just because your father’s family didn’t have money, her mother went on. She was a terrible snob your grandma; still is in fact.

Cissy had heard this story many times and she found it uncomfortable to picture her parents as teenagers. It seemed impossible that her slim, smart, cultured mum with her expensive clothes and bridge parties could ever have had to put up with things like boyfriend trouble. Surely she’d never had to worry about acne or whether she was fat, and would boys fancy her, and all the other things that made the life of a teenage girl so unbearable at times?

I know, Mum, don’t worry. I’ll probably let him suffer for a few days then he can persuade me to get back with him. She sprang up from the bed and resumed her tidying to forestall any more reminiscences about her mother’s angst-ridden childhood. And, anyway, she would only get nagged later if she didn’t tidy up.

The sound of the front door slamming stopped her.

Dad! exclaimed Cissy, tearing out of the room and down the stairs.

Sweetheart! exclaimed her father, catching hold of his daughter and swinging her around. He put her down and grinned. How’s my most special lady in the whole world? he asked, planting a kiss on her cheek but missing and getting her ear instead.

This was their own private joke. For as long as she could remember, right back to when she was a toddler, she’d been her father’s ‘most special lady.’

Oh, I’m okay, she replied. She looked at him with concern, for he looked tired; exhausted in fact.

Cissy’s father owned a thriving business but never seemed able to take a step back and enjoy his success. It was rare that she saw him in the evenings, for he often didn’t get home until long after Cissy had gone to bed. But because it was the school holidays she was allowed to stay up as late as she liked (her mum could be quite cool sometimes, she had to admit).

Seen Luke today? he asked.

Yeah, but I’ve dumped him, she replied airily.

He grinned. And how long are you gonna give him, little miss?

Cissy grinned back; her dad understood her so well.

Oh, a couple of days, I guess; we’ll see. Then, determined to make the most of him being home, she dragged him over to his favorite armchair and sat him down, then pulled off his shoes and grabbed his slippers from under the chair.

She enjoyed making a fuss of him like this, something she rarely had the chance to do. From the corner of her eye she could see her mother trying to find an opportunity to interrupt, and grinned. Her mother was obsessed with being clean and tidy; even now Cissy could imagine the words forming in her mouth to suggest he should take a shower before he got too comfortable.

To forestall this Cissy asked, Cup of tea, Dad? before jumping up and heading toward the kitchen, just as the phone rang. I’ll get it, shouted Cissy, changing direction for the phone in the hall. There was a short, one-sided conversation before her parents heard the sound of the receiver being replaced.

Cissy appeared in the doorway of the lounge, her face ashen.

Darling, what’s happened? exclaimed her mother.

That was Luke’s mum. She glanced at her watch. It was 11:30 pm. Luke hasn’t arrived home yet.

****

Run, Luke! shouted Molly. Run! They had almost reached the welcome glow of the streetlight when two figures emerged from the gloom. Both were short and their bald heads glistened in the orange lamplight. The left hand of each held a wand, raised and about to strike.

RUN! screamed Molly again as bolts of blinding light seared from the wands, almost striking her. But suddenly, and so swiftly that Luke didn’t see it appear, there was a wand in Molly’s hand, and with a flick of her wrist she deflected the bolts back at the two men, knocking them to the ground.

She grabbed Luke by his collar and literally flung him towards the light. Morgan, she yelled, quickly!

A tiny door, no more than twelve inches high, opened at the base of the lamppost and two hands reached out to take hold of Luke’s ankles.

He had only an instant to think impossible before he felt his body somehow melt and stretch and, with a faint popping sound, he was pulled through the doorway. He fell heavily onto a hard surface, this time managing not to hit his nose but banging his elbows and knees instead.

There was barely time to yell out in pain, while his brain registered the further impossibility that he was now in a large circular room, when Molly appeared in the doorway above him.

He had the curious impression of her body being slim as it oozed into the room and made a rather more graceful entry than he had – well, at least she didn’t fall – and then the door clanged shut behind them.

Come, we must hurry, said a deep voice, and as his eyes became accustomed to the dim light, Luke could make out the figure of a man, Morgan. He was tall – very tall – and he wore a long, dark overcoat. On his head was one of those hats like the ones you saw in those old American gangster movies.

Who are you? Where are we? What just happened? Luke’s questions came flooding out in a streaming torrent.

Sshh, whispered Molly, placing a steadying hand on his arm, not now. She got to her feet and took hold of Luke’s hand to help him up. Now we must follow.

Morgan was already standing by a door (a normal sized one, Luke noticed with relief) at the other side of the room, looking back at them impatiently. As they approached, he flung the door open and strode through. Molly and Luke hurried to follow.

They were in a passage. Its walls were of rough-hewn stone, but the floor was smooth and polished; marble, Luke thought. Embedded into it were what looked like chips of pure silver which glowed as Morgan’s feet touched them, then faded as he strode on down the passage.

For the next ten minutes, the three companions walked in silence – or rather Morgan walked while Molly and Luke hurried to keep up. Gradually, Luke’s curiosity got the better of him and he caught up with Morgan. The silver light was enough to see that the face of the tall man was lined with deep furrows, his nose long and rather sharp. His features wore a tense, but at the same time determined, expression.

Where are we? panted Luke, and Morgan glanced down.

Nowhere. The reply was terse.

O…kay… Luke tried again, So where are we going?

"The Sanctuary, Morgan grunted. Don’t talk." And something in his expression warned Luke that it would be unwise to disobey. They continued for a while, Luke trotting to keep up, Molly lagging further behind down the passage which twisted first one way then another. There was no sound apart from their footsteps and Molly’s huffing and puffing, and her occasional muttered complaints.

"That’s right, you two carry on and leave me behind. It’s not as if I’m old or anything, I only turned three hundred and…something, last week. Bleedin’ inconsiderate, I call it!"

Chapter 5

"F

ools!" His breath, fetid and sour, washed over the two men as they shrank away, terrified. He was tall, unnaturally so, and his hair was a thick, oily black that hung onto his shoulders and meandered down his back like the slick from a stricken tanker. It seemed to have a life of its own as his head moved from side to side to look at the two men in turn.

"Tell me again how a boy and an old woman managed to escape two such powerfulwizards?" His voice dripped with sarcasm.

There was silence for a long moment and then, We…we’re not really wizards, one of them stammered, not daring to look up, and the wands you gave us, they’re not really ours, they’re full of demon power. It’s agony each time we have to use them.

The man known asthe Dark Wizard allowed himself to reminisce how he’d stolen the wands, for no particular reason except they’d been there, from under the very nose of the Demon King when he’d been a boy. Then the servant’s words penetrated, and he stared at him in amazement.

You dare to contradict me? His eyes were a deep purple but appeared black in the dim candlelight and they flashed dangerously. Without warning he flung out an arm and pointed at the man who had spoken.

Then a curious thing happened. The man was jerked roughly to his feet and he hung there, helpless like a marionette in some bizarre puppet show. As the wizard’s arm moved slowly around in an arc, the man began to bend backwards.

Slowly and inexorably, he arched further and further, gasping in agony until it seemed his spine would surely snap. Suddenly, with an impatient gesture, the wizard released him and he fell whimpering to the floor.

So, he continued as if nothing had happened, the boy is out of my reach. He glared menacingly at his two servants. "At least for now. No doubt he is being fussed over by that do-gooder Morgan even as we speak." He sneered the name.

Then his mood changed abruptly, his tone becoming conversational. Y’know, there was a time when he – Morgan, I mean – when he and I were the best of friends; inseparable even. The Dark Wizard placed an arm around each of their shoulders, as if they themselves were old friends, and led them around the room. Somehow this display, this charade, was the most terrifying thing he’d done yet. Of course that was a long time ago, when we were children.

The room was deathly silent for a while, except for the occasional sputtering of candles as they continued to walk, almost in slow motion. When he spoke again, his voice was soft, hypnotic. But then he turned against me, most unfair of him, I’ve always thought. I never could understand why he did it. Now he sounded puzzled, almost hurt. The Dark Wizard paused and looked at his two servants as if inviting them to offer an opinion, but