Fey

By Paul Kidd

Fey

A wild, hilarious romp through the lands of fantasy!

When Surge comes to Fey, new horrors are created. New races, new lands and whole civilisations suddenly appear. Living or dying by their own merits, these strange new arrivals have tuned Fey into a strange and vibrant world.

But now, something horrible is happening. An unnamed evil, foretold by prophecy. A horrid evil. A really unpleasant evil! An evil so unspeakable that... that....

Well, we COULD speak about it, but then that would blow the plot! Look you really should just buy the book. How are you ever going to get to sleep now that you’ve peeked under the lid of this whole can of worms!

Fey: A rip-roaring spoof of the "High Fantasy" genre & publishing industry. A must for anyone who ever received a rejection slip, or who had to sit through someone avidly recounting their favourite crap fantasy novel.

“Finally a novel that really ASKS for trouble!”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Kidd
• Release date: Apr 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310356643

Book preview

Fey

A novel by Paul Kidd

© Copyright 2002 Paul Kidd

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Dedication:

For James: May you know the joy of gnawing upon the skulls of your enemies.

Fey

© Copyright 2002 Paul Kidd

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This is a work of fiction. All events and characters portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is coincidental.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book in part or in whole in any form.

Prelude - Interview With a Nicotine Mummy

The Australian fantasy convention was a mere blur in the background. Young, terrified and feeling like she was floating half out of her body, Theresa sat on the edge of her seat at the little cafe table, nudging a frothing cup of cafe latte. She loathed coffee, but the literary agent had ordered coffee for two. Theresa finally had a real agent talking to her, and the last thing she was going to do was say she wanted tea.

Best not to rock the boat. Theresa was on the dole, unemployed: there was no way she could pay restaurant prices for damned tea!

The agent was American. That had to be good! Theresa had thrown all the passion of a young life into writing. She span fantasies as real and vivid to herself as dreams - tales of love and life and mystery. Rejection slips from publishers crammed her drawers. But now an agent had read her manuscripts! Cafe latte for two at the con!

The agent was all smiles. She had the manuscript in front of her, and was showering it with cigarette ash. She began without waiting for Theresa to speak.

"Honey! Yeah - yeah hon. I read this through. All night, in my room. I read this through -that’s what I do!"

The literary agent was a weird, withered little creature eternally wreathed in cigarette smoke. Her leathery brown skin had been stretched tight over a framework of bones without any apparent use of fluids, padding or connective tissue. She looked like a mannequin hand carved out of old beef jerky - a mummy hung in an Aztec smoke house and preserved with tobacco smoke and nicotine.

Theresa sat opposite - small, wan, thin, with long brown hair, big owlish glasses, and a tee shirt covered in characters from Japanese Anime. She tried to keep her face straight as cloud after cloud of cigarette smoke billowed from the agent like a gas attack at Verdun.

The agent ignored Theresa. Instead, she flipped pages of a huge novel manuscript - Theresa’s latest pride and joy. The woman had managed to smear cigarette ash over almost every page,

She had long fingers for such a tiny woman - desiccated hands with joints that stood out like marbles. Every joint had at least two rings. She banged the rings on the table to emphasise every sentence she spoke. Teresa watched the little woman actually dent the laminex.

Another cigarette was chain lit: The agent sucked smoke, nodding to herself as if the manuscript had opened secrets only she could see. She nodded, unleashing yellow smoke. When she spoke, it was with a New Jersey accent thick enough to cut like a knife.

Alright. I’ve looked it through. This is good work, honey. We can use this! This is a great starting point. But we can polish it and make it better - that’s what I do. The agent banged gold rings on the table, nodding to her own points. But there are things to fix here. Needs work, honey. All of this needs work!

Young enough to be intimidated, unsure enough to be frightened, Theresa felt a lump in her throat.

Work? What - you mean like polishing?

Exactly! Polishing! The agent leaked nicotine through yellowed teeth. Theresa coughed as smoke shot across the table. Look, hon! We’re talking industry here. Industry standards. That’s why I'm here. I get you sales by making sure you jump up to industry standards!

Standards? Theresa was picking her nails - she caught herself and guiltily stopped. She felt her face turn pale. Well, I know I don’t use American spelling. But... but a dictionary function...

The agent waved a lit cigarette, making layer after layer of jewelry clatter about her wrists. No, hun! No! That’s all right. All amateurs make that mistake. We can teach you how to spell. But you keep using words that aren’t words! Like this one! See this one? I marked it in red! She pointed to a page she had extravagantly scrawled on in red marker. See - right here!

Theresa didn’t own a printer. Print-outs of manuscripts cost her sixty dollars at a copy shop. She felt herself shrink as she stared at the ruined page.

Words?

Wrapt! See here - you have a character 'wrapt in darkness’! The agent opened her hands out as if talking to an idiot. There’s no such word as wrapt!

I.. yes there is! Theresa felt a stab of something inside her. She finally defended herself against the mummy. It’s from the word ‘rapture’! But it’s perfect there - you know - ‘wrapt’ - ‘wrapped’... the darkness thing...

The mummy was already talking over her.

No. No. No. Maybe in England honey, but not in industry! Industry is Noo Yawk! Fantasy books are Noo Yawk. We write Noo Yawk, we think Noo Yawk, or we don’t sell! Another cigarette sucked into life from a gold lighter slathered in zircon chips. "And this! What’s this! You have a thing here where you have a leopard flowing from one place to another! I corrected it - see? That’s what I do - I make things better! Leopards are animals. Animals don’t flow!"

Leopards flow! Theresa felt her heart race - a little pink of passion struggled against her pale cheeks. It evokes a type of movement! You know - silent, sensuous! That’s how you’re supposed to write! Evocative...

The agent was patiently shaking her head in disappointment, just waiting for Theresa to stop. The girl felt her voice trail lamely off in the face of sheer moral force. The agent sucked on a cigarette, then slowly pounded the manuscript with her hand.

"Can - you - hear- yourself! Each word was emphasized with a patient bang of a ring-smothered hand. You’re explaining! Did you hear that? Explaining! If you’re explaining, that means I’m thinking. Your book makes me think. "

The agent’s credo came out rapid-fire behind a yellow fog of tobacco smoke. Look hun! Now if I’m thinking, I’m not reading. If I’m not reading, I’m not consuming, if I’m not consuming, I’m not buying! The mummy leaned forward, driving Theresa back behind the cover of her cold cafe latte. "That’s what we want! These aren’t books, hun - they’re product. Product has rules!"

The mummy’s hands gleamed with gold rings as she explained the ways of the world. Theresa could only stare and nod, pale and bewildered.

This is industry, Hun! Noo Yawk! There’s now only - what - three main publishers, and three little guys? Alternative press is nowhere. Cigarette ash drifted onto the coffee foam. You want to be a real author, that means industry! You got good bones here. I make things better - that’s what I do! We can work with this. But that means we bring it up to industry standards! Theresa’s book, the careful, inspired work of long nights and endless days, was dismissed as page after page flicked over. "We bring it up to industry standards. We don’t want characters, we don’t want ideas! Ideas are thinking, and thinking means no sales! We want books with no thinking. We want books that are fast - you read them, you say ‘hey - we want more’! We don’t want classics - classics you keep, you re read, you pass to friends! We don’t want them passed to friends, we want the next book moving off the shelves. So we want good fast books, we want ‘hooky’ books that people want more of - we want stories without the thinking! We want product we can move!"

Theresa reached out, slowly penetrating the veil of smoke. Her pale little hands softly drew her reeking manuscript towards her. Theresa felt dazed - but the rings were banging the table again. The agent seemed overjoyed.

"Look hun - this has good bones! We can sell you. We just need some tightening! We drop the characters, we drop the thinking. We work on your settings - you need to stop making fantasies that are inaccessible - you know, unique? We want tavern girls, assassin clans, warrior lords, magic swords. Standard format - a quest, three acts, an open ending we can use for a sequel. One twenty thousands words minimum. Two hundred is better. Consumers like bulk, not quality. No short books! Bulk gives value. The agent happily flicked the paper cylinder of a cigarette with her fingers, settling the tobacco before lighting up again. But you do that, and I think we’ve good good stuff here! We can brand mark you. A publisher can pick you up and know exactly what every story you write for the rest of your life will be like! That’s what they want. Surety. Once you’re brand marked, we got advertising, we got shelf space pre bought - we got sales!

The dream is real. You’ll be a creator at last!

That was it: Case dismissed. Theresa numbly clutched her manuscript to her meagre chest - wondering if it would ever smell clean. The mummy shook Theresa’s hand in one dry claw, passing on her card and still talking about the glories of creativity.

Theresa walked away from the whole convention in a daze. She had fought a long, hard fight. Suddenly she wondered what the hell it had been for.

Somewhere between the convention and home, she threw the agent’s card away...

Chapter 1

In a dark, deep cavern, in a place of tree roots and old stone, a dragon lay peacefully slumbering away the years. Ageless and immortal, he slumbered far beneath the Earth, waiting patiently for the time foretold.

His scales were a gorgeous ruby red, furzed over with the cobwebs of centuries of slumber. Long, lean, serpentine and gleaming, with horns upon his head and a barb upon his tail, he slept the slow, deep sleep of the just, tucked nose to tail about his secret horde of gold.

Overhead, the sacred stone circle stood as it had for thousands of years. The great stone monoliths soared towards the sky, caressed by cold, quiet winds. The sleeping dragon and his stone monument echoed one another, sleeping peacefully - each shaped into a ring that could resist all eternity.

Softly - silently - the dragon stirred.

Red scales shimmered and cobwebs stretched as the dragon’s breathing changed. Long claws dug at the soil as the beast slowly stirred. Swimming slowly out of sleep, the creature bunched its muscles, flexed and yawned.

The red dragon kept his eyes closed, but took a tighter grip upon his bed, determined to stay asleep. It was always the way - he only really seemed to get properly asleep in the last ten years before he had to wake up, and then suddenly he had to take a leak!

Finally there was no delaying it any longer. The dragon grumbled, uncurled and stretched stiff muscles. One foot was numb from sleeping in an awkward position. His bladder felt like it was about to burst. The dragon blearily opened up his eyes, worked his chops, and sneezed long centuries of cobwebs away. He shook the earth from his leathery wings, shivered his long tail, and yawned like a cat as he flexed his delicate, claw-tipped toes.

His stone vault was particularly damp and dusty this time around. He had been here since the Norman conquest, and he always made sure to wake up every hundred years or so. He would carefully emerge, walk unnoticed amongst the humans for a while, and take note of the current trends of culture, arms and language. Not that it ever changed too much - England was England. He had awakened in thirteen hundred, fourteen hundred, fifteen hundred... Men rode horses and warred honourably with axe and lance, sword and bow. Good steel was the measure of a real man’s worth. The language changed, but as long as one spoke Latin, every learned or pious Englishman would always understand.

The clock that timed his slumbers filled half of the cavern, for Rufus the Red was a careful dragon indeed. The water clock sat on a pivot that fell and clattered when the reservoir emptied at the end of every century, and the resultant crash woke Rufus from his sleep. He patted the mechanism fuzzily as he passed it, never noticing the slow drip of water running from the cracked ceiling and down into the reservoir. He hobbled slowly about his vault, working the kinks out of limb and tail.

The dragon was on a vigil. He alone stood between the world of Fey and its absolute destruction. In self imposed exile, he slumbered here on Earth, ready to seek out and protect the Chosen One - the Champion of Fey - and lead him to victory against the Shadow.

The Chosen one - the saviour of Fey - would be a man born on Earth. And so the Dragon slumbered, awoke, watched the portents and waited. For one day, the moment would come when a world quivered on the brink of total ruination...

It was a noble exile! Only a dragon could have undertaken it: Only a dragon of vision, purity and soul. Right now, the dragon shuffled blearily about its cavern looking for the exit ramp. It was time to pee - then breakfast was definitely in order. Perhaps a good tapster could be prevailed upon to provide a repast of eggs, sausages and small beer. Rufus licked his pointed snout and hunted for the exit. All the while, his head echoed with an annoying, constant noise.

He frowned, then cocked his head to listen as he walked.

A rumbling noise - loud, irritating vibrations - leaked down through the soil. Dust shook from the ceiling and drifted down. The dragon caught a snoutful of dust, froze, then sneezed like hellfire, shooting a stab of flame through the chasm and setting fire to cobwebs, insect husks and roots.

The dragon sniffled, scrubbed his nose with one front paw, then cocked his head. Just what in the name of the Heavenly Virgin was making all this row? By his reckoning, it would be about eight thirty in the morning of April the eleventh, sixteen thirty or so - give or take a decade either way. Far too early to be waking people up with rumbles and bangs. Grumbling, the dragon finally found the exit tunnel and began the long, uncomfortable trudge towards the surface, breakfast and potty.

After progressing upwards for a hundred fathoms, he found his hidden exit into the world above. The Red Dragon spoke a rune and made the door stone roll ponderously aside. Crickets scattered from his path as he shouldered through grass and weeds, and up into the blinding light of day.

England! Dear England! Air as sweet as honey, and a countryside as changeless as the stars! Full of love for all creation, the dragon took a deep, ecstatic breath, eyes closed, then opened up his opalescent eyes.

"Bloody hell!"

A hundred short, chattering humans stood facing him, babbling excitedly. They rapidly put little boxes to their eyes, and a stutter of blinding flashes blinded the dragon’s eyes. He staggered wailing across the grass - then was bowled clean over as a rabbit bolted from the weeds and hit him full on the chest.

Two feet long, skinny as a grass snake and now blind as a bat, the little dragon spread his wings to flee. He took off, sped fifty feet across the ground, and ran smack into a chain link fence, bloodying his nose.

"You there! Oi!"

A human in a blue uniform fumbled with a gate and key. Flapping about the ground, the dragon gazed about himself in a daze. Stonehenge stood as it always had - a ring of monoliths, unending and eternal. But now some idiot had run a metal fence all around it! There were crowds of people standing all about the fence. More light flashes sent the dragon squealing into cover. Behind him, the human guard had finally gotten in past the gate.

"Oi! You there! This is a listed property. Hop it!"

The little dragon saw the open gate. Running like a hare he streaked between the guard’s legs and shot out through the fence. He sped clumsily past the chattering humans and their flashing boxes - then suddenly felt a hard road beneath his feet.

A Roman road? On Salisbury plain?

Behind him, the human guard fought his way back through the gate and gave chase, bellowing in a language that sounded only remotely English. The dragon put on a spurt, wings flapping and legs thrashing like a mad thing. The hard road surface gave fantastic purchase to his claws. The humans were left behind, and in a flare of pride and triumph, the dragon looked behind himself to carol out a triumphal ode.

A titanic metal monster was rushing down right on his tail!

The creature was enormous - big as a house and moving faster than a charging knight. With a squeal of fright, the dragon tried to escape, flapping awkwardly up into the air. An instant later, he was slammed into from behind. The charging behemoth caught him, and the dragon was plastered to its nose, held tight by rushing air pressure as the monster rampaged down the road.

Plastered to the front grill of a number 11 bus, the little dragon squealed and wailed. Behind him, another normal day began at old Stonehenge. Japanese tourists photographed everything in sight, coach parties threw empty coke cans at the ancient stones. Flattened to the front of an express coach to London, the little red dragon could only squeal - a sound ignored by all the humans as though they simply couldn’t hear.

*****

Rufus the Red - dragon of the ninth circle, chosen of the Goddess and Guardian of Fey - meandered cold, hard concrete sidewalks in a daze. He walked through streets crowded with humans, all dressing outlandish garb. A gaggle of girls in long black dresses, black lipstick and spiked collars swept past him. Terriers and lapdogs loomed overhead as their masters walked them on leashes beside the road. Little Rufus dazedly followed the crowds, limping, bedraggled and incapable of thought.

Horns blared, music screeched from shops and windows. Driven almost to tears in loss and fright, little Rufus sat panting at a cross roads. The black-surfaced roads thronged with garishly painted metal carts, which moved without being harnessed to horses. They ground and roared as if the clockwork gears that drove them were snarling with hunger. A vast metal bird passed overhead, banking effortlessly through the skies. Lights glared and unrecognisable shapes swirled past. The little red dragon could only sit and stare, his jaw trembling with shock.

Passing crowds narrowly avoided treading on him. Here and there a cat hissed at him or a dog barked - but the humans simply ignored him. If they saw anything it all, it was simply what they expected to see - a dejected, down and out figure that rang no mental alarm bells, and in no way jarred with their comfortable preconceived world.

Rufus retreated into an alley that smelled unpleasantly of garbage. Safe from the crowds, he stared out at the world and felt his mind skittering like a daddy long legs on a skillet.

How? What had happened to the Earth? What fell demons had descended upon the year sixteen thirty to turn it into such a nightmare? Rufus had fallen asleep, safe and sound, in the year fifteen hundred: In a single century, the world had gone mad!

Rufus took a deep breath, his little clawed feet taking a tight grip on the ground. He drew out to his full two feet of length and tried to get a grip upon his sense of purpose. The state of the Earth was clearly a sign that evil times had come. Perhaps this was it! The moment had come at last - the Unnamed Evil was about to strike at Fey itself! Rufus had a mission - a noble cause! For hundreds of years he had been self-exiled in magical slumber, awaiting the call to arms. He must search for signs and portents, and do his duty to his distant home.

Signs and portents - these were the province of the learned. Drawing himself up, Rufus put his highly trained dragon brain to work. No matter how changed, no matter how mad, the world of Earth would still obey logical customs and patterns.

Rufus climbed a lamp post and scanned the sky line. He looked for the tallest spire - this would clearly be the most important church in the city, and in the most important church, there would be the most learned men.

Unfortunately, the streets were crowded with titanic spires - buildings of glass and steel soared upwards from every street and every corner. Impressed by such clear and forthright piety, Rufus felt a surge of hope inside his breast. He slithered down the lamp post, landed on the path below, and then followed after a crowd of humans who swarmed across the streets while the metal carriages halted to allow them passage. Narrowly avoiding being trampled by the street crowds, Rufus worked his way down the street towards the tallest tower in view.

A huge glass door rotated around and around. Rufus stared, watched others pass through, then took his chance and dove into the device. It ejected him out onto a vast marble floor that echoed to the tramp of feet. The silence, the musty smell and empty spaces must surely be a church. Rufus picked himself up, shaking himself like a dog, then looked hopefully about himself.

Lines of humans waited at a long counter. Elsewhere there were booths and tables. Rufus spied a tall human wearing a strange ritual garb - possibly an under-priest or functionary. He trotted over and sat at the man’s feet, calling up to him in his clearest voice.

Prithee, Sirrah! May I beg your assistance in a matter of import?

The security guard looked down at the little red dragon at his feet, apparently seeing nothing out of the ordinary. He had the guarded look most men have when being forced to deal with utter idiots.

Sir?

Excellent! Rufus waved his front claws. I need to see your senior prognosticator. Is he at liberty to speak?

The guard kept his face carefully neutral, while measuring up the distance for a sharp blow the dragon’s skull. Prognosticator, sir?

Soothsayer! Your seer! Your man of signs - reader of stars. Foreteller of futures.

Futures? The light dawned! The Security guard waved towards the back of the building. Financial planning, floor seven.

The man’s face took on a blank, stern look, as though Rufus had taken more than his fair share of his attention. Rufus bit his lip and backed away, then looked over to the little room he had been directed too. His claws clicked on marble as he crossed the floor.

The room was small - seemingly a dead end - but as Rufus entered, four or five humans followed him. They all turned around to face the door expectantly. Rufus hurried to copy them, and the doors somehow slid shut of their own accord.

A long, lean woman wearing an absurdly short tweed skirt looked down at Rufus, arcing one well-plucked brow.

Floor?

Ah. Rufus frowned; the woman had carelessly forgotten to wear any underwear. Floor seven?

The room took a dizzy lurch. Rufus squealed and gripped the leg on the nearest human -the woman in the tweed skirt. The woman screeched, snarled - and instantly punched the man beside her in the guts. He catapulted backwards into another man - who pushed him back. The door to the little room opened, and Rufus shot out into the space beyond and left the humans to their brawl. He looked back as the door to the little room slid shut again. The woman in the tweed skirt had a creditable hammer lock on one of her foes, but would surely soon rue her lack of undergarments: A chill breeze was blowing. Rufus shook his head, turned, and discovered that the scenery had changed.

He was in a corridor lit with glaring bright lights that showed no flame. A plush carpet was underfoot, potted plants stood in ranks along the walls, and the air was filled with an annoying, insipid music.

A girl at a desk - apparently a tribeswoman from a far land, if the rings piercing her nose and ears were any indication - looked at Rufus and gave a vapid smile.

Hello! May I help you?

A friendly face at last! And her tribal background would clearly heighten her appreciation of signs, prophecies and portents. Rufus flapped his little wings and sprang up onto the desk. Tail high and little horns gleaming, he energetically paced the desk.

Yes, dear lady! How good of you to assist me. I seek your most persipaceous prognosticator! Your most powerful seer of the future.

Do you have an appointment?

No - for I am come from my chamber of isolation, drawn hither by forces beyond my control - but even now, mine senses feel that there is ill afoot!

Oh aye! I did one of them iso-tank things with my girlfriend. Ever so relaxing. The girl looked at a little window on a box on her desk. Hmm - well, Mister Angelion can see you in, say, an hour? It’s lunch time, so I’m afraid everyone’s off.

She had no sense of urgency! Rufus leaned in towards the girl and tried to make himself heard.

Good lady - is there no one I can talk to? The matter is urgent! All around me, I see the signs that disaster has gripped you all unheeded!

Well, there’s been a slight market down turn, but nothing to interfere with your portfolio beyond the short term. The girl clicked long, black painted nails against her desk. The boys will tell you all about it. The Dow Jones is still holding well.

Dow Jones?

The girl looked at Rufus kindly. Maybe I can help you. Perhaps if you tell me why you’re here?

Swelling out his little chest, the dragon eagerly declared his sacred mission.

I am the Guardian of Fey! I must find the Chosen One, so that all might be saved!

The girl brightened.

Oh! Well savings is on ground floor. Out to the corridor, first lift on the left.

No - you don’t seem to understand! Rufus felt his grip on the girl’s dialect slipping. It is imperative I see someone at once. I am The Guardian!

Oh, the Guardian! You’re from the paper! The girl seemed immensely pleased. That’s press and information, floor twelve. I’ll buzz you up!

Protesting and confused, Rufus found himself bundled back into the little moving room. It ejected him out onto yet another floor - and into another corridor filled with even worse music than before.

Hi-eeee!

A woman came bounding over to meet Rufus - a woman mostly made up of bobbed blonde hair, glasses and charm bracelets. She had a bubbling, twangy accent that was almost impossible to decipher. She stooped down to eagerly shake the little dragon’s claw.

Well, so happy to meet you! I’m Jadyn - with a y. Do you need coffee? Let me get us some coffee. She called back to an unseen presence behind her. Felix - two coffees! Decaf caf low fat cinnamon latte!

She seemed friendly enough. At least the charm bracelets showed Rufus that he was on the right track at last. He flapped awkwardly up into a chair that swiveled around, leaving him sea sick and a tad confused.

Jadyn made space at a desk.

So it’s nice to see you! You’re from The Guardian?

Rufus peered over the edge of the chair.

Good lady, I am in fact a small red dragon.

I’m a fish, myself! You know - Pisces? Wow - a dragon. Were you born in China?

I know not this ‘China’, dear Lady. I was born beside the Fell-water tarn beneath the Mountain of Sighs.

Wow. Jadyn slurped coffee and gave herself a foam moustache. So now, how can we help you?

The little dragon bemusedly sniffed his coffee, winced, and then turned to the girl.

Good noblewoman, first let me tell you the dire situation that faces us. As I have said, I am a dragon. I am the Guardian of Fey - dragon of the ninth circle. The Earthen emissary ordained to seek the Chosen One.

Jadyn steepled her fingers.

Uh-huh.

Quite! Rufus waved one claw. I am the opener of the way! The traveller between the twain! The sleeper who shall return bearing our salvation!

Yeah - with you. Jadyn sipped coffee. Do you need sweetener?

No no - prithee thank you. Rufus swept back his jagged cranial crest like a poet making an oration. Now I am risen from the crypt of ages, and behold! I see a world in the grip of powers unknown! Could this be a sign of the great disaster foretold for mine own world of Fey? Could this be the moment for which I have waited? Good lady, the stars will tell us - the portents will speak clear if the time of testing finally has come! So let us consult the stars together, pray to the olden gods and new, and consult the ritual entrails, the flight of birds! I must know whether my great quest has begun!

Sure. Sure. Could I have just a moment here? Jadyn picked up a device from her desk and held it to her mouth. Security? We have a nutter on twelve? There was a pause. ...Would you? That would be great! She put down her coffee and smiled. OK - sorry. So - entrails! That sounds very interesting. Tell me more...!

Rufus thrashed and raged as he was frog marched through the foyer by a huge, armed guard.

Take your godless hands from me! Do you not know me as a dragon born? Why, for such an insult, I should put this while vile structure to the torch! Little dragon feet paddled at the air. You can’t do this to me! I’m on a quest!

Out! The guard threw Rufus through the revolving door. We see you near the building again, and we call the Plods!

The revolving door hit Rufus’s backside as the guards propelled him out into the street. They threw him with such force he slid ten yards across the pavement. He ended up hard against a lamp post, arse over brow. Untangling himself, he raged towards the temple guards.

You are serving the powers of evil! Care you not that the child born of your own world may soon be destroyed? No one was listening! Call you this a temple?

A slurred voice came from a pile of refuse piled against the temple wall.

Temple of Mammon, man!

Rufus stared, alarmed, as some of the garbage moved. A disheveled figure apparently clad entirely in urine stains emerged from beneath a mound of papers, rinds and cans. He fixed Rufus with eyes that gleamed like giant, red-veined fruit.

Mammon. You can’t serve two masters - Just like the good book sez.

A holy hermit, sworn to poverty as an act of purest piety! The little dragon felt a surge of relief.

Good hermit! Do you tell me they truly serve Mammon?

"Body, heart and soul, man. What - you wanted sympathy? They’re The Man!"

The Man? Rufus looked at the huge steel temple. "So - there is an enemy here! An agent of Shadow."

True, man. That ‘bout wraps it up!

Rufus looked up at a sky that darkened between towers of glass and steel. I feel a premonition. I fear doom is upon us. This is my time of quest!

Wow.

The little dragon dazedly sat down. His opal eyes looked in bewilderment about the city.

Good hermit, I am lost. Truly, this world of sixteen thirty is beyond my ken! He stared at the lights and steel vehicles swirling past on the road. I must needs proceed upon my quest - but where may I find victuals? Where do we hunt?

Don’t touch the wild life! Cats taste like crap, and the pigeons have all got somethin’ in them, man. Put there by the space lasers - I swear!

Rufus bit his lip.

But is there no sanctuary? No monastery to put up the needy? No church to give alms? No Lord from whom I may ask largess? The dragon bowed to the hermit. I’m far from home. Good hermit, share your wisdom! How shall I find food for my journey?

The hermit waved down the street.

Hey - this is a good spot! An’ you can go beg change outside Seven-Eleven. Don’t sit by the door, though. That’s Mikey’s spot. He’ll stomp you some. The hermit pointed to a sign across the street. An when they’re closin’ up ‘Big Mac’s’ over there, they let you have the day old burgers free. They got those places all over every city in the world.

Rufus whirled and looked at the golden sign over the road. Suddenly he felt a surge of pure relief.

So there are fellow guardians of poor in this benighted century after all! The dragon held himself high. Then there is hope! All is not lost while Good still survives in Evil’s shadow! He bowed to the holy hermit. Good Hermit - I thank you! With your wisdom, I can continue my quest! For I am Rufus the Red! Dragon of the ninth circle and guardian of Fey!

The little red dragon swelled himself and thrashed his tail, feeling his courage return. Good Hermit - a final piece of wisdom, I prithee. With the temples turned to evil, there must still be people of the ancient faith hidden in your land. Where may witches and wise women of the woods be found?

Alternative book shop’s down the road, man. Lady there’s real weird, but she’s good fer a sandwich.

Then I thank you, Brother Hermit! I shall remember you in my prayers!

You want some wine?

Nay! For if the doom is closing upon us, then the gate must be flung wide, and I shall be there to cry ‘hold’ against the dark!

Bye man - have a good one!

Rufus trotted off down a side street - passed round a group of dancing bald people dressed in orange robes, and soon found himself before a shop hung with mystic signs. There were runes, astrological charts and statuettes of animal headed gods. Clearly here at last was a place where common sense would rule! Rufus leapt up, swung awkwardly on the door handle, and managed to open up the door. He plopped down into a soothing scent of incense, and the sound of mystic tribal drums.

Quiet worshippers stood beside walls smothered in sacred texts. Images of Roman Gods stood oddly at peace next to the war gods of the Celts and Vikings. Satisfied, Rufus wound his way between the feet of the humans in the room and climbed up a potted plant to reach the temple altar.

Two foot long, shimmering with ruby scales, his leathery wings folded neatly on his back, Rufus the Red sat upon the altar and curled his long slim tail about his feet. He cleared his throat, and a slim woman turned about to face him in a merry swirl of bells.

May I help you?

Only pure, innocent faith could see a dragon as it truly was. This human saw Rufus no more clearly than any other human. The dragon felt a little disappointed, but nonetheless bowed to the witch politely.

Blessings of the lady on you, Mistress. I have come to ask the auguries. Pray tell me - have you heard aught of premonitions? Has a doom been seen in the stars?

From next to the altar table, a young man whipped around with eyes wide as saucers. Such was his devotion to Celtic gods that his hair stood in magnificent disarray.

Asteroids! Death coming right out of the sky! They're coming! Don’t let anyone tell you it’s not going to happen! We might have minutes, we might have days - then WHAM!

Rufus swayed. This - this was why he had been awakened at this time! His mission had begun!

Truly, Sirrah? It is foretold?

The wild young man waved a book under Rufus’ nose. It’s all in here! Nostradamus never lies!

Then I must go! There is not a moment to be lost! Rufus swept his tail grandly outwards, rearing up to plant a forefoot against his heart. Wise ones - the world of Fey thanks you! For the unnamed evil shall be halted! The Chosen One shall come at last! Farewell!

The little dragon leapt down off the sales counter and off into the street.

Head up, hail high, grim and determined, Rufus marched off into the city lights, determined to complete a quest, to find a hero, and to save an entire world...

Chapter 2

Windsor Castle was well and truly closed at night. But the Royal arms were at least recognisable, and the guards dressed in their strange, fur-headed costumes at least bespoke a proper regard for ceremony.

Clutching a tourist map written in the weird dialect of sixteen thirty, Rufus came flapping awkwardly along through the night time sky. Battling a sharp headwind, Rufus thrashed through the dark like an ungainly red moth, following the eerie stream of lights shone by the vehicles that still swarmed the countless roads.

He was exhausted by the flight. What was worse, he felt decidedly ill. The food given to him by the servitors of Lord Big Mac had been as tasteless as old parchment and made mostly out of grease. He thought he could feel his tail starting to vibrate, which boded ill for the evening ahead. Nonetheless - the Guardian of Fey could not abandon his mission merely because of stomach ache! He steeled his little red self and circled down towards the castle.

Windsor castle, at least, seemed largely unchanged. The great keep, the curtain walls... all seemed to be in order. It seemed bigger, but then generations of kings would each have wanted to add to their family home. The same astonishing magic that lit the cities and the towns with glaring light bathed the walls with an eerie glow. Too ill to make a graceful landing, Rufus crashed into some bushes at the base of the keep, tangling himself in his map as he fell.

- But at least, he was here! The seat of England’s Royal Family!

Somewhere in the castle, there would be a register of the royal champions - the flower of the nation’s knighthood. If a Chosen One was to be found, then surely it would be a great knight, one of the Lords of Chivalry!

Guards marched past with a measured tread. Their magic allowed them to somehow shine a beam of