ORDINARY JOE
and the Mark of Four
By
Tony Pritchard
SMASHWORDS EDITION
PUBLISHED BY
Tony Pritchard on Smashwords
Copyright© 2011 by Tony Pritchard
Smashword Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or distributed freely. This ebook may be gifted by purchasing for interested parties. Thankyou for respecting the author’s work.
Prologue
A boy, little more than eight years old, slept fitfully in his makeshift bed. His name was Samuel, though everyone called him Sam, except his mother. Tangled in his sheets, he kicked and turned, eyes tight shut and broken words bubbling from his lips. Outside their tiny hut a storm spat rain into the night and he flinched at every flash of lightning, curling tight into a shivering ball. Sam never had nightmares. He slept so peacefully, his mother joked, he wouldn’t wake even if the walls collapsed around him. But tonight his dreams were dark and terrible.
He was trapped in a circle of fire, whirling in a panic, unable to escape. Flames stabbed at his skin and he called out for his mother but from the darkness came only the screams of strangers.
As he slept a pair of hands reached out to shake him.
“Wake up Samuel! Wake up!” His eyes sprang open, wide and confused.
“Mother?” He drew back from the shadow looming over him. Satisfied he was awake, his mother stepped back,
“Get dressed, quickly!” she said and turned away before he could speak, over to the door, pulling back the wind guard and peering into the night.
Samuel struggled out of bed, still half asleep. He pulled on his shirt and pants and searched the floor for his shoes. He could still hear the spitting flames from his dream and the screams of its victims and though he shook his head to scatter the sounds, they rang out louder than ever. He shuddered. The noise wasn’t inside his head, it was coming from outside. Orange embers and thin fingers of smoke drifted in from the hole in the ceiling. What was happening? Was the hut on fire?
His mother turned to him, agitated.
“Hurry Samuel!” He stumbled to her side, a knot of panic growing in his stomach. Something terrible was happening; his mother was never afraid. She took his wrists and though her face softened a little, there was terror in her eyes.
“You must be brave Samuel,” she said. One hand came up and gently brushed his hair from his eyes. “Stay with me, we will go to the castle. It will be safe there.” She didn’t sound convinced.
“What’s happening?” He tried to sound brave but his voice trembled.
“The castle Samuel, just think of that. Once we are outside, do not stop, no matter what you see. Do you understand?” He nodded, and she turned back to the door. Her grip was hard around his wrist. She took a deep breath and flung back the sheet, dragging him into the night.
~~~
They burst from the hut at a run. Rain thumped down and crowds of screaming villagers hurried past, churning the street to mud. They were wild eyed with panic and barged Samuel aside, though his mother dragged him quickly after them, pushing on towards the looming shadow of the castle. Many of the huts lining the street were ablaze, crackling in the downpour, and waves of heat burned his face. Suddenly lightning cracked overhead and the dark clouds rattled thunder. Samuel glanced up, squinting against the rain. He felt his legs buckle.
The sky was full of dragons.
Samuel heard stories of dragons from the northern territories, but had never seen one. Now there were hundreds, swooping in and out of the clouds; thin serpents with black leathery skin and wide ragged wings; sleek in the rain. Throats bulging and jaws wide they dropped from the sky belching streams of fire into the village. On their backs thin, wiry riders bellowed commands and hauled on their reins, driving them to attack.
Samuel stumbled and was hauled back to his feet by his mother, pressing through the crowds with dogged determination. Up ahead another hut exploded into flame. Bodies were flung across the climb, collapsing into the mud and she changed direction, dragging him into a thin side street. There were fewer people crowding the tight spaces between the huts and they sped along, lurching around corner after corner, Samuel half-blind from the rain in his eyes.
Suddenly they stopped. Samuel thumped into his mother and fell to the floor, his arm pulled up by her iron grip, still clamped around his wrist. She told him to keep moving, no matter what. Why had she stopped?
A deafening roar shook the walls of the alley and sent ripples through the puddles.
A black dragon stood ahead, blocking their way; staring right at them. Thick lids blinked over its black eyes and it snorted out jets of steam. In the press of the alley its wings were drawn in against its glistening body and its tail flicked against the walls, splintering wood.
The dragon’s rider, rain dripping from its bony head, leaned forward and snarled at them through rotten fangs. It looked like a man, though its skin was grey and scaly, with small spikes of bone breaking from the flesh along its muscled arms. It kicked its heels against the dragon’s flanks and the beast took a thumping step forward.
Samuel’s stomach lurched. He pulled at his mother’s hand, trying to drag her back the way they had come, but she was fixed in place, solid as a rock; her eyes locked on the dragon. It held her gaze, taking another step closer and the ground shuddered.
The Dragon’s throat bulged, heat boiling up inside, and its jaws opened, streams of smoke snaking between its fangs.
Finally Samuel’s mother snapped out of her daze. Her bright eyes darted back along the street. Flames had spread from the huts, blocking any retreat and the walls of the alley were too wet to climb. She dropped down in front of Samuel,
“Close your eyes,” she said.
Samuel obeyed and she pulled him in tight. Even over the roar of the fires and the pounding of the rain he could hear her heart thumping. The dragon roared and Samuel braced himself for the flames. Instead he heard a horrible crunch. The dragon’s bellow ended abruptly and there was a heavy thud.
He opened his eyes. The dragon’s head was inches from his nose, its hot breath on his face and its cold eyes staring into his own. He yelped and jumped back, dragging his mother with him. The rest of the dragon thrashed wildly, crashing into the huts lining the street, the neck which once held the severed head whipping like a snake. On its back the dragon rider tried to hold the dying creature steady but it bucked wildly sending its master tumbling to the floor.
Through the smoke came a man. He walked calmly and his eyes never left the beast rider, which scrambled back to its feet, bent low, ready to pounce. Samuel recognised the solider; Commander Vale, the King’s protector. Everyone had heard stories about him; they said he was invincible, but he looked the same as any soldier Samuel had seen. He wasn’t a giant, or dressed in fine armour, and only his sword suggested there was something different about him, its edge flickering with sparks. A Majia blade!
The beast rider moved. Its hand whipped forward, so fast that one moment it seemed to be at its side, then suddenly stretched out in front, sending a dagger shearing through the air at the Commander’s heart.
The Commander didn’t blink. His arm rose in a fluid arc, sword twisting round in a dance of sparks. With a solid clatter of steel the dagger was deflected, shuddering into a wall, and the beast rider’s eyes popped in disbelief. Before it could recover the Commander sprang forward, driving his sword through the stunned creature with a horrible crunch. It fell gurgling into the mud, thrashing in agony and after a final gasp was still. The commander pressed his heel down on its chest and wrenched his sword free, turning to Samuel and his mother. His calm expression became concern.
“Are you hurt?” he said. Samuel shook his head, helping his mother to her feet and she pulled him close.
“You must go,” the Commander said. He whistled through his fingers and from the downpour a mounted soldier appeared. He steered his horse through the burning wreckage and stopped before the Commander.
“Take these two to the west catacombs,” the Commander said, “Press north through the caverns. There is no safety in the city now.”
The soldier hauled Samuel up into the saddle and his mother pulled herself behind, locking her arms around him. Wheeling the horse, the soldier hesitated for a second,
“What of the King?” he said. Commander Vale’s face darkened,
“This Kingdom is lost,” he said.
~~~
Elvan Caldor, King of the realm of Hatriila, second son of Treyd Caldor, paced back and forth across the castle’s throne room trying to keep his anger at bay. Except for his heavy footsteps, the room was silent, though sounds of carnage outside drew his gaze to the chamber’s high windows, where orange light flickered from the burning village below. He wasn’t alone. Royal Archers lined the walls, bows trained on the chamber’s entrance and beside them a dozen soldiers stood ready, swords gripped and shields raised.
Aeris Greenlaw, his wife and Queen watched from her seat beside the empty throne. He avoided her worried glances.
“Be still Elvan, please,” she said. He stopped and let out a frustrated sigh,
“I shouldn’t be skulking in here while my men are falling,” he said, “What use is a King who hides away like a frightened mouse.” The attack had been sudden and parts of the city were blazing when his Royal Guard reached the streets. Reports put the invading army at thousands, too many for his forces to hold. Where had Avarat found so many men! Barely a month had passed since he took the realm of Groll and no-one had guessed he would march on Hatriila so soon.
“What use is a dead King?” the Queen said, “While you live this Kingdom has hope.”
“Hope? What hope have they got now their homes are destroyed and their families lie dead? I would rather die fighting. Better I am remembered for that.” The Queen looked away and he knew it was hopeless to try and convince her. She was happy to see him safe, and he understood her desire to protect him. He was sorely out of practise, weak from countless hours on soft cushions. How many days had he wasted in this room, bored out of his mind, listening to the endless prattle of men who ran his city. How many nights had it taken for him to become fat and unfit on wine and feasting. He couldn’t remember the last time he held a sword or rode with the hunt. Now his enemies were at his door and he had neither the strength nor skill to oppose them. Avarat had taken the three realms quickly; now he knew why. He commanded a host too strong to be opposed.
Quick footsteps rang into the chamber and the King’s soldiers tensed, eyes fearful and weapons raised, until a familiar figure entered.
“Commander Vale,” the King said, “How goes the evacuation?” He had sent men to protect the people and lead them from the city. There was little point trying to resist Avarat’s horde; better to save as many as they could.
Vale approached the King quickly, bowing to one knee,
“Many have escaped into the catacombs Sire. Most of your city burns and the lower castle is lost, though if we move quickly we may escape.”
“No.” The commander glanced up at the King, puzzled.
“This battle cannot be won sire! We have allies throughout Antigol, and many more pledge to resist the invader. We must go to them.”
“I will not run Commander. The realms of Aysh, Lotun and Groll have already fallen. Our enemy will not rest until he takes Hatriila and claims the throne. If we run he will pursue. We will be running forever.”
“Then stand against him another day when there is hope to prevail!” The Commander’s voice was sharp and he dropped his head, cheeks reddening. “I am sorry my Lord, I did not mean to speak out of turn. Forgive me.”
The King rested a hand on the Commander’s shoulder,
“Your concern needs no forgiveness my friend, but I cannot run.” Caldor felt sorry for Vale; he was a loyal man and swore his life to Hatriila, never seeking glory for his own sake or gold for his purse, but driven by duty and honour. He would obey now, though it would likely lead to their deaths. Bowing, Commander Vale rallied himself and rose quickly, turning back to the watching soldiers.
“Bar the doors and set the locks. We will not make this easy for them.”
Quickly the guards closed the heavy doors. They slammed shut like a tomb and thick, metal bars slid into place with a clang. Commander Vale stepped closer, hands moving over the locks, whispering secret words, and along the metal colourful sparks appeared. He stepped back,
“It will not stop them, but it may slow them down.” It was an empty gesture. As strong as they were, the doors would not hold off the invaders for long. Messenger birds were already speeding to the King’s allies but it was unlikely they would rally in time to be of help, and once Avarat claimed the throne they would be wise to swear loyalty to their new King or find their own cities in flames.
The King returned to his throne and held out a hand to the Queen. She took it gently and gave him a reassuring smile, though her eyes told a different story. Outside the storm eased and the villagers’ screams faded. Soon only crackling of fires and screeching of dragons could be heard.
By the door a soldier leaned forward, ear pressed against the wood. He looked back to Commander Vale, barely managing to keep terror from his face.
“They are here,” he said.
The King looked quickly to his wife who squeezed his hand tightly. Around the room Majia lanterns flickered and silence deepened. Even the dragons stopped wailing. A creaking sound caused the King to look up. Across the chamber’s ceiling hanging lanterns were tilting towards the doorway.
The doors exploded.
Wood and metal shattered, flying across the room in pieces. Soldiers closest to the door were thrown aside, crashing into walls, and archers were caught by the blast, sent sprawling to the floor but scrambling back to their feet, bows raised. The King rose from his throne and the Queen gripped his hand tightly, holding him back from whatever danger approached.
For a moment there was silence again. A cloud of dust thinned in the archway and there was nothing to see but darkness beyond.
Finally from the gloom came a man; tall and gaunt, dressed in heavy robes. His hood was drawn back revealing deathly flesh, cut deep with scars, from which a pair of pure white eyes stared out, devoid of emotion. Sparks flickered across his fingertips. The King drew himself to his full height, breaking free of his wife’s hold.
“Kozane,” he said, “Had you knocked we would have gladly let you in.” Though the King’s words were playful, his eyes were deadly serious. For years Kozane had served as advisor to the throne, before changing his allegiance to Avarat. Many believed him to be Antigol’s greatest Warlock and though Caldor knew better, Kozane was still a man to be feared.
Kozane stopped in the shadow of the archway and looked around the room, seemingly unconcerned about the arrows trained on him, or the soldiers ready to strike. His voice was a dull drone,
“Where is Maven?” Though he remained calm it was clear he was disappointed. “It would appear your faithful advisor has fled.” The King flinched. Maven had his faults, not least his habit of vanishing for days at a time, but he was no coward. This time at least his absence was a stroke of luck; as powerful as he was, he could not match so vast an army. He was safer beyond the city’s walls. Still, the King bristled at Kozane’s disrespectful tone.
“I am still King of Hatriila, address me accordingly,” he said, “You were my advisor once; allow me now to counsel you. Leave Hatriila and you may live.” Kozane gave no sign of having heard the King’s words. His gaze found the Queen, sitting beside the throne, stiff with defiance, and he bowed before rising to the King.
“Lord Avarat approaches your Grace,” he said, “Yield and you may live.” A flush crept into the King’s cheeks and he clenched his fists at his sides to drive down his anger. Is this what they thought of him in the three Kingdoms; a King who would hide from battle and bend the knee to anyone who came knocking.
“A dozen arrows could drop you where you stand Kozane. I say again, leave, while you can.”
Kozane’s expression remained unreadable. He flicked his hand, a tiny movement and a sudden force broke across the chamber like the ripple from a stone dropped in water. Archers and soldiers were thrown into walls. They dropped to the floor, unconscious. Commander Vale glanced at the fallen men and stepped forward, sword raised.
“The King’s protector,” Kozane said, “They say you cannot be killed.”
“True enough, so far,” the Commander said.
Kozane nodded and his fingers flicked again, sending out a second blast, pushing back the bodies of fallen guards. Overturned tables slid into the walls and pots shattered. Commander Vale remained unmoved, though Kozane was unimpressed,
“Perhaps the stories are true. You are strong, though how strong remains to be seen.”
His arms rose quickly, hands bent like claws, fingers crooked. Arcs of energy, like lightning caught and thrown, leapt at Commander Vale. He leaned into the blast, sword gripped tightly in both hands and energy bit into the blade, crackling and spitting, but he held it there, gritting his teeth. With a shout he flung his sword wide, sending the blast back at Kozane, and before the Warlock could react it burst across his chest sending him flying across the room. He landed in a heap, smoke rising from his charred robes and regained his feet, the scars on his head pulsing brightly. He looked more puzzled than angry and raised his hands to strike again.
“Stop.”
A deep, commanding voice echoed through the room. Kozane froze and turned, head bowed, to the chamber’s doorway, where a dark figure was watching them all, eyes shining with amusement. The King glanced at his wife and from her desperate look he knew she recognised the voice.
A man stepped from the shadows, dressed in regal robes, a wicked smile on his lips. The Queen gasped and dropped her gaze.
His face was a mess of peeling skin and deep cuts, eyes sunken into hollow orbits and hair sprouting in clumps from his bloodied scalp. Lord Avarat, feared across the four Kingdoms of Antigol and spoken of in whispers as the Dark Invader, looked on the verge of death.
“Enough games Kozane,” he said, “We are not here to enjoy ourselves.” Kozane bowed low and moved to stand beside his master. From the darkness more figures crept into the room; fanged demons in blood-stained armour, sneering and brandishing daggers and swords. They scuttled behind Avarat, chattering as they came.
“So this is where the brave King hides,” Avarat said and the creatures brayed laughter until he raised his hand to silence them. The King rose angrily from the throne but the Queen gripped his hand so fiercely her nails broke his skin. She gave him a pleading look and he read the silent warning on her lips. Majiak!
Smiling, Avarat stepped forward but Commander Vale blocked his path.
“Many innocent people have died today Avarat. You attack without warning and commit treason against Hatriila. You will answer to the Council of Twelve for your crimes.” Avarat was unconcerned by the Commander’s accusations.
“The Council has no interest in our wars Commander. They will support this occupation as they did Aysh, Lotun and Groll. I regret lives have been lost, but how else can I establish rule if not by force? The fools are steadfastly loyal to their King. Your own loyalty is commendable but no less foolish. Surely you can see how Antigol has suffered under your King’s rule? I am not here for further bloodshed; I seek only to re-unite the four realms and claim my rightful place on the throne.”
“Hatriila will not bend as easily as you would like,” Commander Vale said, “You would unite the realms through fear. If your cause is just, take your claim to the High Lords.” Avarat’s face hardened,
“Have you forgotten the words of prophecy Commander? Do you bury your head and ignore the coming war? Antigol has grown as soft as the bellies of the men who rule her! There is no time for debate, Antigol must be protected. I say again, there is no need for bloodshed. Step aside and let your King speak for himself.”
Avarat took another step forward and Commander Vale blocked him, raising his sword.
What happened next would burn forever in the memories of those who survived. A sudden burst of colourful light lit the chamber throwing twisted shadows across the walls. With it came a strange melody; a low lament of notes, as if the dead were singing a gruesome accompaniment to Commander Vale’s screams. The King tried to run forward but the Queen held him fast.
“No!” she said, “It cannot be fought!” He knew she was right but Vale’s screams tore at his heart. He clapped his hands over his ears, snapping his gaze away, knowing his protector could not be saved. The song grew louder, rattling inside his skull, and he fell to one knee. Now he knew the truth of it. Avarat’s army had defeated the three realms, this power had won them for him. The Queen was right, it could not be fought.
Commander Vale’s sword slid across the stone floor towards him and came to rest against the throne, the sparks along its blade barely visible against the glare of the fierce energy filling the room. Finally the strange dance of lights softened and the song faded until the chamber hung in silence, broken only by the thump of Commander Vale’s body falling lifeless to the floor.
The Queen lifted her head and gave a cry, letting the King’s hand fall. She ran to the body, falling beside it, and cradled Vale’s head in her arms, tears falling to her cheeks. Avarat smirked and brushed down his clothes before stepping around the sobbing woman,
“Not nearly as invincible as people thought,” he said.
The King roared and snatched up Vale’s sword. He lunged at Avarat, who stood unmoving, smiling in amusement, and a blast of white energy lifted the King from his feet. He crashed to the floor with a painful yell and the sword clattered from his hand. Kozane stepped forward, fingers bristling with energy, ready to strike again, but Avarat waved him back and looked down at the sprawled King with pity.
“Give it to me,” he said and stretched out his hand. Incredibly, the King smiled and Avarat drew back, confused. “You do not have it?”
“Not all a King’s actions are witnessed,” the King said, “The final Majiak is beyond your reach.” Avarat’s careful composure fell away and he snarled,
“Give me what I’m owed..!” Slowly anger drained from his face and his eyes widened. “The boy!” he said, “The boy survived! “ He leaned forward, “Where is he?”
“Safe,” the King said. Avarat glanced to the Queen, sobbing over Vale’s body, before turning to Kozane.
“Kill him,” he said. Kozane raised his hands, energy building in his palms and the King braced himself.
“Wait!” The Queen stood, her face lined with tears, “Will you let him live?” She looked at Avarat fiercely.
“You are not in a position to bargain, Queen.” Fury burned in his eyes, “I claim only what is mine by right!” He looked away, his anger fading, “If he gives me what I am owed, the boy will not be harmed.”
“We can’t...” the King began, but the Queen snapped her gaze to him angrily. The pain on her face choked the words in his throat.
“Enough people have died today!” She turned back to Avarat, “The boy lives among the Shades.” Avarat eyes widened,
“Impossible. The council outlawed Majia Gates centuries ago. The Shades are lost to us.”
“No. A gate remains,” she said, “It will take you to Earth, and to our son.”
Chapter One
At the top end of Cardenfield village, Joe Owen finished his paper round and headed back on his bike to the newsagents. Even though he was wrapped in a puffa jacket, with a woolly hat pulled over his ears and his trousers tucked into his socks, he was shivering from the cold. His teeth chattered and he coughed out big clouds of steam. Fingerless gloves had been a bad idea, but he struggled to grip the papers if he wore anything else. His fingers ached.
It must have snowed all night long and the streets were ankle deep in snow, though the snowfall had slowed to a few drifting flakes. He zigzagged along Crossgate, up and down kerbs, flashing through the orange spotlights of street lamps. A few loose dogs chased him up Ferrers Road, barking madly, but soon gave up and trotted off to dig up snow.
Normally the early morning streets were dark but the snow gave them a fresh glow and with a week to go before Christmas nearly every house was covered in lights dotting walls with splashes of colour. Neon signs flashed MERRY CHRISTMAS and HO HO HO and turned the snow into candyfloss. At the posh end of the village the decorations were the expensive kind you got from Marks and Sparks; white lights hanging on trees and hedges and holly wrapped wreaths on doors, but South Street had a lot more colour. Even the graffiti splashed across shuttered shop fronts looked festive.
Joe whipped in and out of parked cars, throwing up sprays of ice, a big smile on his face. He loved early mornings on his round, when it was empty and quiet, but it wouldn’t be long before lines of kids trudged up to school and pram wheels churned the snow to slush. For now the streets were deserted, except for a few kids heading for breakfast club and the odd cat sitting on a doorstep looking wet and miserable. Lights were blinking on in waking houses and he could smell the tasty sizzle of bacon and eggs. His Uncle and Aunt were still in bed when he crept out of the house but they would be up by the time he got back and a stacked plate of buttered toast would be ready on the table when he stepped through the door.
“For my special boy!” aunt Tina always said, but Joe knew she was only being nice. He was anything but special. He wasn’t tall like “Sticky” Fletcher or short like Reece Dooner, bulky like Stew Bryan or skinny like David Turgoose. His hair was short, boring and mouse brown, and though his aunt called him her blue eyed boy, when he looked in the mirror he only saw grey. In school it was the same story; he’d never been in set one, but he did okay, though he took so long to answer a question, going red in front of the class and struggling to speak, teachers lost patience and moved on. He guessed they thought he was thick. The truth was, nothing about Joe made him stand out; he was the most ordinary ten year old boy that had ever lived. Even teachers told him he was average but he was happy with that. Sadly, they weren’t. You can do better Joe, they said. But I don’t want to, he usually replied. They weren’t happy about that either.
The only odd thing about Joe was his birthmark. He hid it from people when he could, but when they saw it they always pointed it out. It’s a face, they said. No it’s a window, they decided. But it was just four dark splodges, as if someone had dipped a fifty pence piece in ink and stamped the back of his hand four times.
After breakfast his aunt would set off to school where she worked as an LSA, stopping off at Granddad Bill’s, a few doors along South Street, to take him a paper and make him some tea. His Granddad lived alone, and Aunt Tina fretted about him constantly. A few years ago he would have walked to Mr Zhang’s newsagents himself, but lately he stayed indoors and Aunt Tina was always popping in to check he was alright. Joe used to like going round to see him, when he had been funny and silly and made toffees appear from behind his ear, but now he was either sad or angry, and sometimes didn’t even know who Joe was. Sometimes he went missing and they found him wandering the streets in his dressing gown, looking for Grandma Hattie, who had died before Joe was born.
“Joe-Len!” he said when he clapped eyes on Joe, “I can’t find Hattie, have you seen her?” Joe never knew what to say. Whenever Aunt Tina asked him to go round he tried to think of an excuse to get out of it, but the sad look on her face made him guilty and he ended up sitting in his Granddad’s front room, with nothing but an awkward silence to keep them company.
Uncle Marty made excuses to avoid going round too. When he did visit he got angry and found a job to do in the garden. Joe thought his Uncle would be glad to have some family to visit. His own parents lived in Newcastle and he rarely talked about them. It was odd they never phoned or came to visit but whenever he mentioned it his Uncle shrugged and said they were too busy.
Sometimes people asked Joe about his own parents and whether he missed them. His answer was always the same; a shrug. They were in an accident when he was little and he never knew them. My Aunt and Uncle are my family he told them. He doesn’t want to talk about it, they whispered to each other and though they smiled he could see worry in their eyes. In Cardenfield whole generations lived on the same street and they thought it strange Joe was happy with no family around. He reminded them he had another Uncle and Aunt, Tomasz Sobanski and his wife Paulina; his Uncle’s Polish friends, but this annoyed them. He’s not your “real” uncle is he, they said, and shook their heads at each other, The poor boy, having those kind of people as family.
The Sobanskis lived in “Council Row” a terraced block at the end of South Street which belonged to the council and always had different families moving in and out. Joe wasn’t surprised they left so soon; most people in the village were horrible to them, though no-one was brave enough to say anything nasty to the Sobanski’s ferocious daughter, Kinga. Even though she spoke good English she usually stayed quiet, unless she was angry, and then she spat out some Polish words that didn’t sound polite. She wasn’t his real cousin of course and if Joe could have picked a cousin he wouldn’t have picked her. She was two years older than him and like most twelve year old girls she was constantly annoyed at everything. Something was wrong with her leg and he dreaded seeing her hobbling around the village. No-one had told him exactly what was wrong with her but it must be bad because she was always scowling. He wasn’t sure her walking stick was much help either. She spent most of her time hitting people with it. Her parents were always over at Joe’s house and she usually came with them, spending the whole time sitting on Joe’s bed, watching him play X-box and looking angry.
Finally he reached Market Street, and passed the house of his best mate, Reece Shipley. All the windows were dark and even the snow-topped fridge and frosted mattress in the garden looked like they were sleeping under snowy blankets. Reece was probably asleep too, all wrapped up warm in bed, unless his dad had kicked him out into the snow. It was the kind of thing he’d do to be mean, especially on a morning when he had one of his “Bad Heads”. Joe rarely saw him but when he did Reece’s dad was either drunk or angry. He always picked on Reece because of his weight, though his mum stuck up for him,
“It’s just puppy fat,” she said and Reece’s dad laughed harder,
“Puppy fat? Open your eyes woman, the lad sweats gravy. If he gets any bigger we’ll have to roll him to school.” Reece never answered back, unless he wanted a clout, and stared red-faced at his feet. It was weird his dad picked on anyone for being fat. He looked like a hippo in pants.
Reece’s mum wasn’t around in the morning to protect him (she slept until the afternoon) and since his older brother Liam was in prison he usually left the house early to avoid his dad, waiting for Joe by the kerb after he finished his round. Maybe he was still in bed; he was suspended from school for climbing on the roof, so why bother getting up anyway? Unless he’d headed off early to sit on the school wall and throw snowballs at teachers.
In the distance he saw the light of the newsagent’s and put on an extra burst of speed. Mr Greaves, the plumber, was standing in the road scraping ice off his windscreen and Joe thought of shouting out “Merry Christmas” and waving at him, like they did in films. He decided against it when he saw Mr Greave’s red face. He’d probably think Joe was being funny and throw something at him.
He skidded to a halt outside the Newsagent’s and leaned his bike against a drainpipe. The window to the shop was dazzling. A couple of posters for a Christmas Circus at the racecourse covered one edge but the rest of the window was an explosion of tinsel, lights and shiny baubles. Shelves bursting with jars of sweets ran to the ceiling and any space left over was stuffed with toys, games, pencils, pens, books and CDs. Joe shoved the door open and went inside.
~~~
Joe closed the door behind him and a little bell jingled overhead. The shop was a maze and he worked his way through spinning stands and stacked boxes, dripping melting snow onto the tiled floor. It was dark and hot and smelled of cinnamon and toffee. On the counter a radio played Christmas carols and from behind a curtain of beads leading to the back room he heard the faint chatter of a TV.
“Mr Zhang?” No answer. He dumped his empty paper bag on the counter and looked around. A massive Christmas tree was stuffed in the corner, so tall the top was bent under the ceiling tiles. Multi-coloured streamers criss-crossed the roof and the walls were plastered with so many cards Joe wondered if anyone in the village hadn’t sent him one. Usually when people moved into Cardenfield it took them years to fit in and some families who had been in the village since before Joe was born were still seen as outsiders. Mr Zhang won them over in a week. Even Reece’s dad liked him, which was a miracle. He hated anyone who looked different, and scowled at anyone he met from Council Row. Something about Mr Zhang made you feel like you’d known him all your life, which in Joe’s case was true.
Suddenly the door crashed open and in staggered Mr Zhang, covered in snow and struggling with a stack of cardboard boxes. He dropped them to the floor and shook snow out of his hair, grinning at Joe.
“Joe my boy! Merry Christmas!” Joe smiled. Mr Zhang had been wishing him a merry Christmas since November.
“Merry Christmas Mr Zhang.” The newsagent clapped snow from his hands and pulled off his gloves.
“You’ve got to try one of these!” he said and tore open one of the boxes. Rummaging inside he snatched out a small brightly coloured bag of crisps. He burst them open and offered the bag to Joe, who reluctantly took one and popped it in his mouth. Mr Zhang always tested out new products on Joe when he got back from his round. A scrapbook behind the counter was bursting with hundreds of different wrappers he had collected. History is important, he told Joe, and pointed out the many black and white photos hanging in frames around the walls. It was his private Cardenfield Museum. The village looked so different; lines of men off to work at Stanfirth Colliery, back when the mine was still open. Others showed the opening of the school, with its shiny marble walls and oak floors. Hard to believe it was the same damp building he went to every day.
“Well? What do you think?” Mr Zhang asked. Joe screwed up his face,
“What... was... that?!” Mr Zhang held out the bag for him to see,
“Giraffe flavour crisps! Isn’t that brilliant!”
“Eurghhh!” Joe stuck out his tongue and scraped crisps off it in disgust, “That’s gross!” Mr Zhang looked disappointed,
“Oh well, at least you tried them. But as I always say...”
“Try at least one new thing a day,” Joe finished for him.
“Yes. Shame about that though. I’ve bought a box full.”
“Who’d eat giraffe?” Joe asked. Mr Zhang looked puzzled,
“You eat bacon don’t you?” He oinked and stuck his head back into the cardboard box. Joe giggled. “You eat beef don’t you?” said his echoed voice and he mooed, putting his fingers at the side of the box like horns and stamping his foot. Joe shrieked and tried to run but Mr Zhang was rushing at him and butted him with the box. He let out a victorious moo.
The doorbell jangled.
A large woman, wrapped in a big grey coat with a heavy grey scarf around her neck, shook her umbrella and stared at Mr Zhang with a scolding expression. Mr Zhang sprang upright, arms at his side, the box still wedged on his head, and his panicked eyes peeped through a hole in the side.
“Good morning Mrs Tumidus,” he echoed from inside.
Mrs Tumidus ignored him and pushed past Joe to the counter. Mr Zhang pulled off the box and quickly passed it to Joe, giving him a look which said I think I’m in trouble.
“A man of your age should be setting an example to the children of this village,” Mrs Tumidus said, “We don’t mind you people coming to our country Mr Zhang, but you really must follow our ways.” Joe frowned. Mrs Tumidus was one of those people who crossed the road to avoid anyone living on Council Row.
“You’ve got loads of cards Mr Zhang,” Joe said, “You must be very popular. “ Mrs Tumidus turned to look at the cards and sniffed,
“Popularity is not a measure of one’s worth. Indeed, if one is to achieve greatness, one must often do unpopular things.” She turned back to the counter, behind which Mr Zhang had appeared,
“Merry...” Mrs Tumidus held up her hand,
“No thank you Mr Zhang, I avoid Christmas where I can. I am neither religious nor party to the over-indulgence of the masses. I must confess I am confused at your greeting. I believe your people do not celebrate this awful festival either.”
Mr Zhang shrugged,
“There’s some good stuff on telly and I get to shut shop for the day.”
Mrs Tumidus harrumphed, which meant she tipped back her head and made a sound like she was trying to cough up a caterpillar that had crawled down her throat.
“I wish to pay for my papers.” She looked at Joe, “Also I suspect your boy here has been reading my Daily Mail. As you know Mr Zhang I insist my paper reaches me untarnished.” Mr Zhang nodded,
“I will have a word Mrs Tumidus. There’s a stick in the yard. I’ll beat him with it later.”
To Mr Zhang’s surprise Mrs Tumidus nodded, not realising he was joking and he flicked open the delivery book to find her order.
“Shouldn’t you be at school young man,” Mrs Tumidus said, glaring at Joe, “Or have you been excluded like most of the children from your end of the village.” Joe said nothing but stared back defiantly until she turned away.
“Six pounds and 38p,” Mr Zhang announced, holding out his hand. Mrs Tumidus popped open her purse and picked out some coins, before handing them over, nodding curtly and striding out of the shop. When she had gone Mr Zhang and Joe looked at each other and burst out laughing.
“She’s right though my boy,” Mr Zhang said, “I am holding you up!” He fished in the till and handed Joe a small envelope containing his wages. Joe took it and smiled,
“Thanks.”
“Now you can go and buy presents for everyone!”
“Already done.” He had finished his Christmas shopping weeks ago. It was easy really. Uncle Marty was getting a 1,000 piece cornflake jigsaw he had spotted in Tesco, a really hard one that would keep him busy for hours, Aunt Tina would be the happy receiver of a Super-Jumbo-Deluxe Book of Sudoku, and Flake, their crazy Samoyed, would be chewing on the world’s biggest bone until next Christmas.
“Good for you!” Mr Zhang said, “Why wait for tomorrow, that’s what I always say! Talking of presents...” He dipped under the counter and sprang back up holding a brightly coloured package, tied with a big green bow, “Merry Christmas!”
Joe stared at the present in shock,
“But... I haven’t got you anything...” Mr Zhang snatched back the gift,
“What? Then no present for you selfish boy.” He laughed and threw the present onto the counter, “Oh, just open it. Think of it as a Christmas bonus.”
Joe looked at the package and bit his lip.
“Is it ...?” Mr Zhang rolled his eyes,
“Open it for pity’s sake!” Joe picked up the parcel and carefully pulled off the paper. Inside was a plastic cover, used by collectors to keep comics in perfect condition. Joe almost stopped breathing. Inside was The Incredible Hulk issue 1.
“This can’t be the real thing!” he spluttered.
“It better be! It took ages to find.” Joe turned the comic over in his hands. It looked like the real thing. May 1st, 1962. Fifty years old! The hulk, the original grey hulk, standing behind Bruce Banner. “Is he a man or is he a monster.... or is he both?” asked the cover caption.
“How..?”
“I know someone who knows someone... look it doesn’t matter. It’s the one you wanted isn’t it. If you don’t like it you could sell it. Worth a bomb on E-bay I bet.” Joe clutched the comic to his chest,
“No way!” Mr Zhang grinned,
“Good! I’m glad you like it. Now, you can do me a favour. I’ve got a whole batch of new stuff for you to try!” Joe looked at the clock,
“I can’t! I’m going to be late for school!” Mr Zhang zipped round from behind the counter and began searching through the boxes,
“Alright! Alright! Take some with you then. You can tell me what they’re like later.” He grabbed handfuls of packets and bags and began stuffing them into Joe’s pockets, finishing with a few cans of something called “Sprangle”. “There, all stocked up. Now off with you before I get a visit from your head!” He bustled Joe to the door. The bell jangled and he shoved him into the street.
“Thanks Mr Zhang,” Joe said.
“Yes, yes, off home with you!” Mr Zhang waved him away and closed the door. Carefully Joe eased the comic inside his coat and pulled up the zip. If he hurried home he could read it before school. He snatched up his bike and sped away.
Chapter Two
Normally Joe avoided the snicket cutting from Ferrers Road to South Street. It was a favourite spot for Cardenfield’s gang of bullies and most kids would rather plan a longer route than risk running into them, but he wanted to get home and read his comic. Besides, they ignored Joe around school, so he was probably safe even if they were hanging around.
He twisted his bike through the metal barriers at the entrance and seeing the way was clear, pedalled hard to pick up speed. Halfway along he thought he was safe. He was wrong.
Four boys jumped from the hedges along the path and grabbed him, pulling him into the snow. His bike wheeled on for a few yards and toppled over, its back wheel spinning.
“Looks like a trespasser boys!” said a cruel voice. Joe rolled over, snow plastered to his coat. Standing over him was Paul Grafton, a big year seven boy who lived with his dad, a few doors up from Joe. His mum d left home when he was eight and he spent most of his time excluded from school, causing as much trouble as he could.
Behind him were the other members of his gang; Tremaine Green, who could usually be found peering over Graffo’s shoulder and sniggering, Liam “Bug-eyed” Hunt, who everyone thought was slightly strange, mainly because his eyes always seemed to be popping out of his head, and Norton Jeffreys, who they called ‘Sarge”, because when he wasn’t wearing his school uniform he always wore combat gear. They hadn’t bothered Joe at school and he only knew them because of Reece. Sometimes they made fun of his weight, (Though only when Graffo was around), until he snapped and went for them. But Graffo was too strong, even for Reece, and he ended up bruised and in tears outside the head teacher’s office, waiting for the school to call his parents. When his dad arrived he shook his head and asked,
“Did you win?” and if Reece said No he got a cuff round the ear.
Graffo pulled Joe to his feet,
“Gotta pay a toll to come through here little stain.” Joe struggled loose and felt his face go red. He tried to pull his hand inside his sleeve to hide his birthmark but Graffo grinned, “No use hiding it. We all know it’s there you freak.” Tremaine peered over Graffo’s shoulder and sniggered.
“What’s he got in his pockets,” Bug-eyed said, searching through Joe’s coat. He pulled out the cans and bags Mr Zhang had stuffed inside and scattered them on the ground. “What’s this junk?” Graffo shook his head,
“Not good enough stain, what else you got?” Joe’s gaze flicked to the hidden comic and darted back to Graffo, who held out his hand, “Hand it over.”
Joe looked at his feet, feeling shaky and sick. He couldn’t fight Graffo, even if he was on his own, and if he ran he would never get past all of them. They were much bigger and much faster than he was. His Uncle always told him to stand up to bullies. They’ll leave you alone if you fight back lad, he said. But he was wrong. If you stood up to bullies they hit you harder. He wished he’d gone the long way round.
Give it to him, or he’ll hurt you.
Joe jumped. For a second he thought the cold, sneering voice was Grafton or even one of his cronies; but then he realised it was coming from inside his head. It was a man’s voice, deep and slow, echoing inside his head as clear as his own thoughts. Was he was remembering something he’d heard? No, he was sure he would remember the face that went with such a frightening voice. Maybe he was going mad.
GIVE HIM WHAT HE WANTS.
Reluctantly he unzipped his coat and pulled out the comic. Graffo snatched it from his hand and held it up.
“The In... Cred... able Hulk,” he said, “What’s this stain?” Joe dropped his head,
“A present,” he said Graffo smiled,
“A present?” He pulled the comic out of its plastic bag. Joe moved to stop him but Sarge pushed him back, grinning, and Graffo flicked the pages, “That’s good of you stain, but there’s four of us. Guess we’ll have to share it!” He gripped the edge of the comic and before Joe could stop him, tore it into two pieces.
“No!” He lunged forward but Sarge and Bug-eyed grabbed his arms.
“I think he’s gonna cry!” sniggered Tremaine. Graffo slid the two halves of the comic together and taking hold of each end, ripped them in half.
“There,” he said, “A piece each.”
“Don’t wan’ it,” said Sarge, “It’s ripped.” The others laughed and Graffo shrugged and threw the pieces into the air. They scattered like confetti and drifted away in all directions.
Joe glared at him, knowing it was over. He could pick up his bike and pedal away. They were finished with him. But he couldn’t help himself.
“I can get another comic,” he said, forcing the words out, even though his heart was beating so fast he thought it might explode, “but your mum’s never coming back.”
There was a stunned silence. Bug-eyed, Sarge and Tremaine all looked at Graffo. Everyone stopped breathing. Graffo stared at Joe, a flush creeping up his neck and into his cheeks. His eyes were furious. He glanced around, bent down, and turned back to Joe with a brick clutched in his fist. Sarge and Bug-eyed let Joe go and backed away. They looked worried. Picking on the village kids was fun but when Graffo lost it he hurt people. Then the Police turned up. Graffo raised the rock and snarled.
“Big boys! Little Boy. Big Boys! Little boy. Four on one, shame, shame, shame!” The voice came from the end of the snickett. Graffo stopped, brick held high, and snapped his head round. Lurching through the snow was a strange looking man. His long greasy hair flapped around his face, half covering his wild staring eyes. A straggly beard sprang from his chin. He was tall and thin, dressed in dirty rags, boots tied up with string and tufts of white stuffing poking through rips in his coat. Joe had seen him round the village. They called him Shambling Sam.
“It’s that nutter!” shouted Bug-eyed, falling backwards over Joe’s bike. Sarge looked at Graffo and back at the madman quickly closing in,
“Let’s go !” he said, “My dad says he killed a kid. I’m not fighting him. He’s crazy!”
“Bad rock! Not hurt the bringer of four. No. No. Hurt you. Hurt you.”
“He’s not hurtin’ me,” Tremaine squealed, darting after Bug-eyed and Sarge, now speeding to the end of the snicket. Graffo watched them go and scowled. He turned back to Joe,
“Another time little stain. You’ll pay for what you said about my mum.” Then he dropped the rock and ran. Shambling Sam lurched to a stop next to Joe and watched the boys disappear onto South Street.
“Not safe! Not safe!” he muttered and glanced around, “They come for you. Bad, bad things!” Joe shook his head, scooping up scattered sweets and stuffing them back in his pockets.
“They’ve gone.” He sighed and walked across to his bike, scraps of the comic fluttering round his feet. Shambling Sam’s hand grabbed his shoulder.
“No! No! They come for you. Come for the King’s son. Not safe! Not safe!” Joe pulled away,
“Hey! Get off! They’ve gone alright. Let me go!” Sam jumped back, pulling at his beard, looking along the snicket and up into the sky.
“Not go home!” he wailed, “Dangerous! Your father waits.” For a second an image popped into Joe’s head - A big, stone room, cold and dark and a man’s sad face looking down at him; beside him a woman, somehow familiar and smiling, but tearful, reaching to touch his face... He blocked it out. First voices and now this; maybe he was going mad.
“My parents are dead, alright!” he snapped and before Sam could grab him again he turned and pedalled away along the path. Sam’s voice wailed behind,
“Not dead! In Antigol. Not deadddddddd!”
Chapter Three
When Joe skidded onto South Street there was no sign of Graffo and the others. He was safe for now but Graffo would remember. Joe cursed. He shouldn’t have stood up to them. It wasn’t smart and he would pay for it later. Still, it felt ... good? No, not good, it felt right.
The street was deserted. Halfway down he saw his Uncle’s house; 62 South Street. It had the same blue door and the same satellite dish. The same green and black bins stood on the path and warm, yellow light spilled from the front room window. His Uncle would be on the couch watching breakfast TV and his Aunt would be making breakfast. He shook his head. He had almost believed the madman in the alley. He was convinced something terrible was waiting for Joe at home. But there it was, same as always.
He freewheeled along the pavement and was a few houses away when a sharp pain flared in his chest. The closer he got to home the worse it became until it burned like fire under his skin. He yelled out, grabbing his chest with one hand, and lost control of the bike. The front wheel jumped, flipping sideways and he tumbled over the handlebars into the snow. His bike clattered into a parked car and the alarm blared.
The pain in his chest throbbed and he rolled over onto his back. What was happening? Was he having a heart attack? Could he even have a heart attack at ten? He sat up, breathing heavily, and tried to stand.
A pair of dirty hands grabbed his collar and dragged him behind a wall. His feet left long grooves in the snow.
“Wytches!” hissed Shambling Sam. Joe was about to shout out for help when a piercing scream cracked the air like a thunderbolt. It was coming from everywhere and wasn’t like any scream Joe had heard before. A second horrible scream rattled the windows of nearby houses and a few people stepped out to see what all the noise was. Joe pulled against Sam’s hold, but his grip was like iron.
“Let me go!” he shouted. Sam’s eyes bulged.
“Oh quiet! Please! Please!” he begged. Behind them a man came out of the front door,
“What’s going on?” he asked. He was holding a golf club. “Is that you Joe?” Before Joe could answer another deafening scream rang out, louder this time and much closer. Shambling Sam turned Joe’s head back to his house,
“Look! See! See!” Behind the house the trees of Cardenfield Beat shook. A few startled birds lifted into the sky and sheets of snow slid from trembling branches. Sam shuddered and sank lower to the ground, dragging Joe with him. At the wood’s edge two trees buckled and splintered and a monstrous shape pushed through.
“Wytches!” Sam whispered again. Joe’s eyes widened.
The first Wytch lurched from the wood with a scream, a twisted mass of yellowing bones. It towered over the houses, with too many joints, as if its legs and arms were snapping as it moved. Loose skin flapped from its limbs and thick thorny hairs sprouted in clumps from its knees and elbows. It was dressed in filthy rags and its hair was black and crawling with bugs.
It squatted over Joe’s house like a spider and prized back the roof with its claws. Peering inside, it sniffed, as if it were looking for something and shoved in a hand to rummage around. Confused, it pulled back its gnarled hand and let the roof crash down again. It sniffed the air, once, twice, and slowly turned its head to where Joe and Sam were hidden. It screamed, drool flying from its lips.
Suddenly the front door opened underneath the creature and to Joe’s amazement his Uncle and Aunt burst into the garden. His aunt was wearing her pink dressing gown and still had curlers in her hair. His Uncle was wearing his usual yellow corduroys and a stripy tank top. For years they had proudly displayed a samurai sword and a crossbow over the fireplace; Just ornaments his Uncle told anyone who asked. Now they were brandishing them like experts and charging the Wytch attacking their home.