Master of Fate

By Gabriel Bell

An ordinary couple suddenly finds themselves transported to an extra-ordinary world. One moment, they are nobodies on Earth; the next they are revered by a world where sorcery is commonplace. Jon and Julie struggle to help the Grand Master Mage in his battle against an evil sorcerer, hell bent on their demise. It’s out of this world . . . literally!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gabriel Bell
• Release date: Nov 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310424021

Gabriel Bell

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Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Jonathan James Jennings sat at his window, clutching the pendant he wore around his neck with his left hand, and feeling very morose. He had woken in a cold sweat again following that same old dream, which ended in his long dead father calling to him. These dreams had started about six months earlier, and were becoming more and more frequent. He could see his fathers’ face as clear as day, but the voice . . . he couldn't work out the voice. It was all distorted and came across as a high speed squeal, like it had been recorded and then played back at ten times the normal speed. It sounded rather eerie with odd echoes, like someone was trying to contact him from beyond the grave, but just couldn't get through – almost like the line was busy, and that bouncing it off several satellites had distorted it. It made his hair stand on end just thinking about it. He pulled the collar of his dressing gown up around his neck to keep himself warm.

It was a depressing, wet January night. He looked out the window at the dilapidated row of bungalows that was across the street from his third floor apartment. He could see several broken windows covered with pieces of cardboard on the inside, from where he sat. He looked up at the sky above. It was very dark, but he could still see the heavy rain clouds there. It started raining. He watched as the rain ran down the card on the windows. It was cold, as usual. Ice had formed small crystals on his window sill. He was broke, as usual. Well, almost. He had just sold his old wreck of a car a few days earlier, so he did actually have some money in his pocket. Nothing changed much though – except his bad luck, which continually spiralled downward. Bad luck seemed to be the one thing he truly excelled in. Just when he thought it had bottomed out, his bad luck would find a new way to descend again to yet another, even lower level. At times like this he used to sit and evaluate his life, and see if he could remember, or indeed retrieve a dim distant memory of a good time. Married at twenty, divorced at twenty-two, now twenty-eight, he sat alone in his dull squalid bed-sit. It was cold. The central heating was broken again. Again? In truth, it was not working more often than it was working. He pulled the blanket up to cover his shoulders, and shivered involuntarily.

His was the type of bedsit that was only occupied by the more desperate of the down-and-out society, and who didn’t qualify for council accommodation under the social services increasingly complicated benefits system; where the staff all had degrees in how to say ‘NO’ in over four hours. Jon was certain that these episodes were nothing more than training programmes, designed to allow staff to check every form in the arsenal at regular intervals, and hone their rejection skills.

On a scale of one to ten, where Buckingham Palace was a ten, and a cardboard tent under the bridge by the canal was a zero, this place rated a one. Well, to be fair, maybe it was a little closer to a two if he was honest with himself. His bedsit had a living-room-cum-bedroom, and at the other end of the room was a small kitchen; partitioned off by a wall of cupboards and cabinets, with an access to the left side. The shared bathroom for his floor was next to his bedsit, which was not the blessing it had promised to be when he first accepted it. The awful noise when the toilet was flushed woke him every time without fail, as did the clunk when the cold tap was turned off. He had lived in a caravan on the flight path to Gatwick airport for three months previously, and had managed to blank out the noise of the aircraft, but this bathroom was different. Possibly because it was accompanied by the aromas to match the horrendous sound of the whining flush that seemed to permeate through his walls; he wasn't sure.

The grey paint on the walls was cracked and peeling and in desperate need of repair. His apartment block was not upmarket enough to have an elevator, but it had an abundance of stairs to compensate for this deficiency. The living room window looked east and down onto the main road for this part of town. If he wasn’t woken by the early morning sunlight which shone directly in through the window, then it was the early morning traffic instead.

He had lived alone for the last six years, having never found a woman he trusted enough to share his home with again. Once bitten, twice shy, as they say. He had been taken for a mug, and then taken to the cleaners. He came home one day to find the house empty. That was the first he had known about his impending divorce. A visit to the local cash-point also showed that she a heavy purse when she left too. That, as well as his unemployment, had led to their house being re-possessed and him being declared bankrupt and homeless.

He was a stocky guy about five foot ten tall, with short brown hair. His friends had nicknamed him Johnny Injustice, because he was always on a crusade about something or other, or moaning about politician’s lies; campaigning for animal rights; and generally trying to solve the world’s problems on his own. He hated the name ‘Johnny Injustice’, even though it fitted him perfectly well.

Jon had always felt as though he did not fit in to the society in which he found himself. Everything was a struggle to achieve. His doctor told him it was nothing more than a touch of paranoia, and gave him a prescription for some pills, which Jon promptly dropped in the bin on the way out of the surgery. He didn’t do pills, and besides, prescriptions cost money to fulfil. He had been released from A&E earlier that day, and allowed home. The hospital had insisted that he had at least a week off work to fully recover, and offered him a sick note. Jon had laughed out loud at that. If he had a job to rest from, it would be great! There was nothing he would love more than to have an employer to present a sick note to. He was on the dole yet again. Well, he would be if he had been entitled to claim it. He had been sat there completing his application for dole when the computer beeped. The sour faced ‘Goddess of Thunders’ visage suddenly brightened and she said, Oh dear, it appears you are not entitled to claim anything for another six weeks. Please make another appointment at that time. Have a nice day! How could any destitute person, having been told they were not getting dole, job seekers allowance or help of any kind for at least another six weeks, and who is then going to be faced with the prospect of having to sit through another gruelling four hours of mind pummelling interrogation by the UK’s version of the Gestapo, possibly have a nice day? A vision of her shining a light in his face at the next visit came in to his mind, and made him smile. As he left, he could see the look of confusion on her face, wondering if she had missed anything. Jon should not be smiling at her!

He glanced at the Evening Gazette soaking up water on the windowsill while he watched the evening rain fall. There was a story on the back cover about a footballer complaining that he was only getting paid ten million that year. "Ten thousand a year would be nice", he thought. He got up from his chair and headed for the kitchen. He took a can of lite beer from the fridge and returned to his seat by the window, wincing from the pain as he sat. He hadn't planned to buy lite beer, but the supermarkets own brand was only 2.2% abv, and that was all his budget would stretch to.

Some kids had knocked on his door and asked him to help get their cat down from a tree. Not being one to turn down the opportunity to help, especially where animals were concerned, he went outside to assess the situation. He saw the cat high up in the branches, and went to fetch his ladder from the cellar. Leaning it up against the tree trunk, he climbed the steps. His ladder wasn't quite high enough, so he had stepped up into the lower branches of the tree to try to reach the cat. On seeing Jon, the cat climbed higher. Jon continued to follow it.

The kids nudged each other and sniggered, knowing they were on to a winner trying to get a laugh out of Jon with this one. Watch this! said one. Suddenly, the cat leapt straight at Jon’s head, using him as a stepping-stone to escape him and to reach a window ledge behind him, where it had entered a bedsit through a partially open window. The sudden jump had startled Jon and he had lost his footing. He had hit a few of the branches, (in truth he got them all, bar none), on his way back to earth, where he landed with a dull thud. When the pain had diminished enough for him to move, several minutes had passed. The kids, seeing the cat had gone, had also gone. He could hear them crying with laughter as they went, at this the most wondrous of all the tricks they had played on someone this week. He sat alone, his back against the tree trunk, in pain from head to toe. By the time he had managed to limp back to his bedsit, he found that his TV and video player had also gone, along with his hi-fi.

The doctor had told him he had cracked two ribs and twisted his ankle, as well as bruising his left arm and scraping his left side down the tree as he fell. There were also several scratches on his forehead for which the doctor had treated him for ringworm. He felt thoroughly miserable. He emptied the can and reached for the remote control – forgetting his TV wasn’t there anymore. Damn! He wished he had a cat of his own now, so he could kick it. He thought about his parents again, and wondered what sort of people they had been. They had been on his mind a bit recently; ever since the strange dreams had started. He never knew his father, and he had no photographs of either parent. It surprised him, and scared him a little, that he would see a face and instinctively know that it was his father. He had been told his father had died in a car accident before he was born. A shoe salesman for Jonathon James Shoe Company, he had achieved nothing with his life, other than the comfort of a few peoples’ feet. His mother had died while he was still a babe-in-arms. All alone in the world with no siblings, he was raised by a maiden Aunt who had little or no time for him. He guessed she must have felt ‘duty bound’ to raise him, as she was his only living relative. There was no love lost between them.

His Aunt had been gone a little over a year now. Died in her sleep, he was told. It was the day after she had given him his mothers’ pendant and the subsequent attempt on his life to steal it. Since he had become old enough to leave home legally he had done so, and the two hadn’t spoken since, (although she had made sure she never lived too far away from him). She had nothing of any value to leave him in her will when she died, so that’s exactly what she left him. A couple of friends and an ex-wife was all he had to his name, and he doubted any of them would even notice if he should suddenly fall off the face of the planet. He was feeling tired and quite sorry for himself.

Finally he drifted off back to sleep in the armchair, and woke to the sound of a car horn in the street below. It was daylight. The clock showed him it was almost 8am. The springs on this particular armchair had long since ceased to offer comfort, and he was stiff from sleeping there after yet another terrible night. He was getting a little worried about these recurring nightmares, but assumed that they were triggered by this desperate plight in which he found himself; just a way for his subconscious to manifest its own concerns that all was not well with body, mind and soul. He limped off to the bathroom for a hot soak. It was already occupied, so he limped back to his room and tried again twenty minutes later with greater success. He filled it with water and climbed in gingerly, leg dangling over the side so as to keep the bandage dry, and relaxed into the lukewarm water. An hour later he was having breakfast, which consisted of a mug of coffee and a handful of digestive biscuits for dunking. This was one of his favourite breakfasts; easy to make, filling, and very little washing up to do afterwards. Perfect!

He wandered aimlessly through the day, feeling that there must be more to life than this. Surely there was something he could be doing? Some small thing he could come up with to create a little business opportunity for himself? A little niche in the market he could exploit? Legally, of course. Maybe a market stall, or a car boot sale? What did he have to sell? Nothing much. Or possibly an eBay business. But then, he thought, I have no capital to buy anything with in the first place. I’m in a Catch-22 situation. His stalwart sense of fair play stopped him from moonlighting and receiving undeclared income. That was illegal and he, (Johnny Injustice) didn’t break the law. After all, he was ‘Johnny Injustice!’ His mates at the pub had laughed at him saying that while feeling he had upheld his strong sense of moral standards was truly admirable, it wasn’t going to feed him or pay his bills. He was annoyed that he found himself with no argument to counter with. He was feeling in a creative mood, but could not find an idea to work with. He read a book for a while until he got bored with it, then started wandering round the bedsit listlessly again with his hands in his pockets. That evening he made himself some cheese on toast for tea and sitting down in his armchair, he reached for the remote. Damn!

His ankle was still strapped up but he was beginning to move around easier. The pain had lessened somewhat. He put his coat and shoes on, picked up his walking stick and hobbled down to his local for a pint. He leaned more heavily than necessary on his stick, so that anyone who saw him might feel a little pity for him. No-one saw him. It was Monday evening about 8pm, and there should be some people in the bar. He needed some company. ANY company right now would do. It was better than being home alone. Ten minutes later, he reached the Pig & Bullock. Those who knew the landlord and his wife personally, referred to the pub as the Pig & Pillock. Though sometimes it was difficult to work out which one was which. Why do they always have to name pubs after animals? He thought; Black Bull, White Swan, Dog & Duck, etc. What's that all about? He just fancied a nice cold beer by a warm fire and some interaction with other human beings. He rarely saw anyone these days, except debt collectors, and those kinds of people were the ones he tried his best to avoid.

He entered the pub and walked up to the bar. It was completely empty! He looked left and then right. Not a single soul in sight. The bar staff, seeing that they had the promise of a quiet night, had made the most of the opportunity and decided to catch up on some stocktaking in the cellar, knowing they would hear if anyone entered the bar. Yeah, right! He stood there knocking on the counter and calling out for nearly ten minutes, then left and went back home, feeling even lower than he had earlier. The drizzle of the outward journey had turned into a positive downpour in time for the homeward one, and now as an extra bonus, he was soaked to the skin into the bargain.

He decided on another hot bath, if only to warm himself up, followed by an early night. He filled the bath with hot soapy water, picked up his library book and two cold cans of lite beer from the fridge, made his way back to the bath and climbed in. He lay there soaking for half an hour, reading and drinking. When he finally noticed the water was getting cold, he began letting half of it out to top it up again from the hot tap when a bang on the door startled him. Are you in there for the night? it asked. Go away! I’m trying to commit suicide, he replied. Could you please hurry up with it then? There are others out here waiting for the same opportunity, was the caring reply. He climbed out, looking like a shrivelled prune and dried himself, then it was pyjamas on and ready for bed. Things always looked better in the daylight. Didn’t they? He sure hoped so.

He went and sat down on the end of his bed. He would just catch the news before retiring. Reaching for the remote, he remembered once again that it had gone. The screech from the toilet made him cringe, as did the ‘Clunk!’ from the cold tap a few seconds later. Looks like an early night then after all, he said, to no one in particular. He lay on his right side and tried to sleep. A cat meowed outside in the street. Forget it! he muttered. He was off cats at the moment. He awoke to hear the postman cycling by and ringing his bell. Being in a flat, the mailbox was on the ground floor, which meant a climb down four flights of stairs. Not worth the effort to collect bills, he thought. And went back to sleep. He never received anything except bills in the post these days, and he was in no hurry to read those. Besides, they were likely to be similar to most of the TV programmes these days - repeats!

CHAPTER TWO

Jon finally rose about 10am and breakfasted on some stale bread he had managed to find in his unkempt and disorganised kitchen. Toasted with jam, and coffee. . . . Perfect! He removed the bandage from his ankle and examined it. The swelling had gone and he was able to walk about without the aid of his stick, and only a slight limp. He took a hot shower and dressed, abandoning the bandage altogether now.

He was out of most things, so he had no choice but to go shopping. He had been paid four hundred pounds for his car, and he knew he was lucky to have got that. The guy who had eventually bought it had given it a thorough going over. Do you realize, he had said, that if you had filled the tank up, you could have doubled the value of this poor pathetic excuse for a motor vehicle? Yes, thought Jon, and if it had a sun roof, I could have used it as a mobile skip. I’ve heard them all. Just buy the damned thing, will ya! He thought, as he smiled patiently.

There was no one else at the bus stop at the end of his street. It was very quiet and overcast. The rain had stopped but the ground was still very wet, as was the air. A light but chill wind blew, and there were grey clouds in the sky, with darker ones threatening from the north. Someone had a coal fire burning, and he could smell it on the breeze. He hated the English weather almost as much as he hated living in England. Just watch, He thought to himself, one hot day, and they’ll call a hosepipe ban. Happens every year. And we live on a bloody island surrounded by water! He remembered reading somewhere that Saudi Arabia was one of the hottest places in the world, but they didn't have hosepipe bans. So why did UK? Mind you, Saudi did have several water desalinisation plants along their coasts. Maybe UK should consider investing in some of them too? Heaven knows, everyone paid enough tax to more than justify complaining about it. It wouldn't do any good if you did though. It never does.

He pulled his collar up a bit higher against the chill breeze. The bus arrived. It was the number twelve. Usually the forty-two came first in the morning. It meant he would have to change at Lincoln Street to get to the supermarket if he took this one, but, no big deal. It was the same cost and besides, he wasn’t in a hurry. He always enjoyed sitting on the bus. It gave him what he called thinking time. He could go through all the past events in his pathetic little life and work out where he had gone wrong. Then, time permitting, he would move on and decide where the future was going to take him, what he would do next to find a job, etc. He changed at Lincoln Street just as the next bus arrived. He got on the bus, showed his ticket, and sat down looking out the window, watching the world go by. This bus was almost deserted too. He was sat upstairs, about halfway down the left side. The bus pulled up at the next stop. Jon looked out at the shops below. Hello, said a rather high pitched squeaky voice. Jon looked round, startled. There stood an odd looking guy. He had a serious overbite, large framed thick lens glasses, wispy hair, (which he combed across his bald-patch), and a silly grin on his face. He also wore an anorak, which was no surprise to Jon. Hello, he replied begrudgingly, and carried on looking out the window. Just my luck, he thought, the village idiot! That’s all I need! Going shopping? he inquired, looking at Jon's Tesco carrier bag full of Tesco carrier bags and nodding. Yes, he answered, reluctantly. I'm going shopping too, he continued. Are you, said Jon, sarcastically, How nice. And he returned once again to study his window. I wish he would just go away, Jon thought to himself. Oh yes, he continued. I go every day, just so I can ride the bus and meet people. Do you, said Jon, even more sarcastically than before. Oh yes! Never miss a chance to meet people. How nice, said Jon, still inspecting his window?

It was quiet for a minute. Jon looked around and the nutter had gone. Thank you God! He thought. Then the nutter suddenly popped up from under the seat directly in front of Jon, making him jump. What are you doing? said Jon, voice raised in annoyance. Just checking how clean the bus is under the seats, he replied. Why? said Jon, Are you a bus inspector? Oh no, I’m just keen on cleanliness. It’s next to Godliness you know! said the nutter. Not in any dictionary I've ever read, thought Jon. Is it? he replied, tersely. The bus pulled up at Jon's stop. The nutter rose to get off. Aren't you getting off? He asked. This is the best stop for Tesco’s, he said. Not going there till later, Jon lied. The last thing he wanted was to be stuck with this guy round Tesco’s. Jon heard the nutter muttering as he got off the bus, and listened as a man with a broad Norfolk accent got on and spoke to the driver. Can I have a return ticket please, he asked. Where to? asked the driver. Back here, you fool! said the man. A few chuckles were heard from two old ladies several rows back. The driver had heard it all before. With great restraint he tried again, In order to come back here, you must first go somewhere, he explained, "Where is it you would like to go and return back here from? Oh, I see what you mean. Town centre please." The driver produced a ticket and the man paid, and went to sit down. The bus set off away from Tesco’s. Jon continued on to the next stop and walked back. His ankle ached a bit by the time he arrived, but it was worth it to shake off the nutter.

Finally, Jon arrived at Tesco’s. There was a group of women stood in front of the shopping trolleys, chatting. Jon’s way was blocked. He waited behind a few other people who were also trying to get a trolley. Why do women do that? They were there at the Supermarket to complete the task of replenishing the larder. Why then did they have to spend so much time gassing about it? Men on the other hand, were focussed. They arrived at the shop, loaded the trolley and back on the bus for home. Bang, bang, bang! Like a military operation. This of course meant that they could be chore-free and at the pub by opening time. Women had to dally and dawdle. He just couldn't understand it.

He waited in line for his turn to grab a trolley, idly listening to the gossip. His hand went out to reach for the handle. As he reached it, he found that he had put his hand on someone else’s hand, who had also reached for the same trolley. He looked round in surprise. It was a young woman in her twenties. He blushed, apologised, and moved aside to allow her to take it. He then took the next trolley, and went about the task of filling it. As usual, he had made a shopping list, but rarely stuck to it. In fact, it never even made it out of his pocket, making it a totally useless and pointless exercise in the first place.

He looked along the shelf for cornflakes, and reached for a box. A young child started crying off to his left and her mother was trying to quieten her. He looked round to see. As his hand reached the box, another