Fantasy Novel - Chapter 3 - An Unexpected Companion

Hi everyone, even though I am working on improving Chapter 2, I'd like to know what you think of chapter 3. Reviews and comments are always welcome. I hope you enjoy.

Chapter 3. I – An Unexpected Companion

Before he knew it the fire had reached the bushes around him. Everything was ablaze, and the night was filled with light once more, a deathly glow of bright red and yellow, dancing mercilessly in the black around it. The window was shattered, and what remained glowed hot red, melting viciously in the fire.

Beckings’ breath was sickly warm, brushing the grass he lay on. He let out a dull groan. He looked around: no one was in sight. Relief overcame him as he realised that he was alive, and that no one had noticed this embarrassing act.

He got up, shaking wildly, nervous under the weight of his own body. And without any further thought, he ran as fast as he could. He entered Main Street and turned to see if anyone was there – but the street was empty as usual.

What had he done? He thought himself crazy; though he knew what he had done was the right thing to do. He looked around the ghostly city, alit only by the fire behind him. He felt no freer than he did a few moments ago, though that would soon change.

He raced past the shops that surrounded him, came across a few bars here and there, all thinly lit by a magnified light that came from a large circular glass panel at the top roof of the highest building at the city’s southwestern centre, magnifying moonlight onto streets and alleys; the Magniglass.

His shadow cast was like a ghost, disembodied and elongated, and only as he focused on a patch of black in a shop nearby, did he see it. There, glinting in no light cast upon it, lay a stone. On its stand was the engraving “Stone of the Light Replica”. It pierced his eyes fiercely. A diamond, strange and opaque in the black, polished and smooth, and valuable enough not even the richest men in town could afford it. He longed for this stone, as did many who simply laid eyes upon it, that perfect surface – that untouched, unnoticed beauty. But it was only a replica.

He forced himself back to sanity and continued his jog.

Once he reached the end of the road the wall that climbed high was too smooth to scatter over, and he was forced to enter the large Gate.

The Gateway was wooden, though sturdy as rock. The wood used to build it came from the distant forests high up north, where it was said the land still suffered from Cythos himself. And rare it was; even though masses of this wood existed high up there, none dared to approach it.

He looked around; what should he take with him? Where was he going? Was there a safe place, now that he had given himself away, volunteered to death? The Lord would find out soon enough that he had helped the old one escape, and he would be punished not by death, but by torture unimaginable to the human mind. And if found guilty it would only be a matter of time that they would send him nakedly to the forests in the North. The sky was clear, and the moon was like a spotlight tracking him, but no one was in sight. He leaned towards the small stone door that gave entrance to the wooden Gate, trying to listen, trying to make something cause a sound. And nothing but silence disturbed his expectations.

His pouch around his neck was small, and he drew out a key. Long and encrusted with diamonds it slid perfectly into the slot, twisted, clicked, opened.

He entered this dark place. It was hollow, black, cold, and every step echoed like canon-balls. He closed the door behind him and locked it. Click, Click, Click. Every noise was deafening in this blatant quiet. He looked around, although there was nothing to look at directly. And so he took a step forward, and before he could take another breath, a glowing enlightened the place, blinding him.

“Who goes there?” A low voice spoke, shivering his timbers.

He looked at black matted hair, glued to a stern and high forehead. Cheekbones as pointed and outstretched as he had never witnessed before. The guard before him scanned him up and down, his light seemingly with him. Though Beckings did not find the source of the illumination, he knew instinctively what it was. It was a small fly, too miniature for a human eye to visualize, glowing strongly. It was soundless, invisible, its light betraying its existence. And by the looks of it, the guard had total control.

“Sir. What are you doing here at this hour?” asked the impatient young Goth. Beckings was speechless. Muted by the surrounding moment, he forced a movement in his cheek, though it did not budge. Unarmed and unskilled, he knew he had no chance of overpowering the man in front.

“What is that?”

“Hmm?”

Beckings nodded to the light emerging from the invisible source, and the guard relaxed at the question.

“Oh, that. It’s a Feasting Firefly, normally found in the forests of Pantaya, but I was lucky enough to…” Beckings struck a punch over the man’s temple, and he staggered to the wall.

“Ah! Are you mental! Wha’ in the…?” But a second blow cracked his nose, and his eyes wiggled in their sockets, amusing and terrifying at the same time. The man buckled, and fell to the floor, half screaming, and half sobbing.

At once the Feasting Firefly buzzed loudly and raced towards Beckings. He had no time to turn, (and didn’t want to, the light was too fierce now) when the fiery beast settled upon him, and began to bite him, gnawing at everything it could reach. Beckings had no better option than to attack every part of his body that contained light, and the thing was fast. And so, he came to the conclusion, it was feasting on him. He slapped his wrists until they became sore, punched his legs up to the point where they were a dark purple, and scratched his face until one half was officially bleeding, pausing only to squint.

He ran around the room like a monkey, a monkey being chased by a fleck of light. And he did not do a bad job imitating it without wanting to. Every bite stung like a five-inch needle rammed into his guts. Screaming as quietly as he could (which was not at all quiet) he fell to the floor, rolled over, heaved up an axe from the sidewall, and started to swing.

The light was strong now, so bright it drilled into his eyes and made him blind. He hesitated at this sudden reaction of his eyeballs, as blackness closed on him, and then, without warning, he panicked. And it wasn’t a hysterical panic. It was far worse. The scream that scraped along the air was so horrific that all laws of physics were momentarily broken or forgotten. And even the Feasting Firefly, now bright yellow, stopped, scared, and its light wavered, terrified by the sound; only thing was, it had no ears.

The scream echoed around the walls, the room about to implode out of fury, madness and fear. The light faded, now twilight in the room, and his right eye’s vision recuperated. His left became a dull grey, not of much use. He doubled up, and became wary of his state. He was injured by a light that was hovering at his side. No one would believe this. He could try, or just volunteer to be the idiot of the month.

He got up, the Firefly had had its feast, he suspected. It was glowing lightly, shimmering. He waddled over to the unconscious man, bent down and searched his pockets. Nothing useful: a pair of Stanley’s Sounding Socks, a Demonian dictionary: Languages of the most demonian sources, an old bent toothbrush, and a fake ruby ring.

Upper pocket: sheets of Parliament, Jody’s Justice: The book of Ultimate Justice, The Fourth amendment of a broken Cart: The Book, and some more scrap he could not bother with.

Left pocket: an old wig… A dog’s collar, a rope. He grabbed the rope, a metre or so long, and the dog’s collar…well, poor thing that must have been.

Just as he was about to make his leave, he glanced a small book protruding from a pouch in the guard’s upper left arm. He took it, read the title: Fifty-four ways to command a Feasting Firefly.

Hmmm, he thought, and opened to the first page:

He stopped reading, and looked beside him. The Feasting Firefly hovered steadily there, not moving a single bit, its light a constant beam of yellow-orange. He walked, and the Firefly followed his every move. He looked back down at the guard, the Firefly delivering more light for him to see, and for the first time realised the small puddle of blood around his head. Not dead, surely? Did he just murder a man? Innocent, trying to do the right thing for his city?

He could not bear the sight, and turned away. He tucked the small pocket book in his pouch around his neck, and looked at the flying thing through his good eye. Its light was not hurting, and it was comfortable to look at. And right at centre of this illumination he saw a small fleck of black, a dark spot, like a flea, which no light could enlighten.

He did not know where this beastly thing came from, but he knew it was extremely aggressive, and dared not a wrong movement. But at the same time he figured it would not harm him, no. After all, it was taken involuntarily from its previous owner. He reached out a hand to touch it, it moved away.

Not knowing how to control this thing, he turned his back on it, but it slid silently back to his front. He stared at it suspiciously, and groaned in some sort of approval.

He looked at the door in front; the only way out. He had hardly any time left. He picked up the dead man’s wrist and examined his peculiar watch (old and golden, it ticked backwards). Not even eleven. Close to it, but not quite. Still, he had to make a move, and so, he left the dead man lying in his puddle of red, accepted involuntarily the small star beside him, and clicked the door to the road open. He looked back, waited for the firefly to pass, and once he closed it, all light flicked out.