Hammer the Exalter

By Anthony Payne

Caught in the middle of an ancient battle between good and evil, Darion Descartes and Isaac Evans are transported to the Island of Salnikov through the magical powers of the mysterious Wodan, a wizard who for millions of years has created worm holes through his paintings, to escape the monster Muntare.
Separated during their journey, Darion arrives inside the ancient mountain fortress of Mesania once occupied by the Aeserians, a race of giants who were ousted a thousand years earlier by the invading Omarins. Darion becomes embroiled in an Omarin civil war where he is made the leader of a rebellion from the Lower Ships of subservient labourers, against the repressive Upper Ships ruled by the Seeress Mara and her prelates. The rebels believe Darion to be the fabled Rok of Salvation as foretold in the Jharnell, an ancient book of prophecies.
Through his new rebel friends, Darion meets the beautiful Le Carra, the hidden half queen whose existence had been kept secret from the higher orders until the day when the rebels are victorious.
Meanwhile, Isaac has arrived on the other side of the island and travels to the city of Salnikovia where he meets the remnants of the Aeserians who, led by Hammer the Exalter, are on a quest to assault Mesania and return the mountain to their people. Two recalcitrant giants, Arad the Generous and Minar the Loyal rally against Hammer’s plans and are exiled from the city. Joined by Isaac, they seek out the mythical leader of their race, Kolin the Lawgiver, the only one of their kind who can avert a bloody and fruitless war.
As the clouds of battle gather the true enemy reveals himself and the races of Salnikov must rally in a last stand for freedom and the future of the universe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anthony Payne
• Release date: Jan 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311813374

Anthony Payne

The journey to Salnikov began many years ago when studying English language at university. I have always enjoyed the freedom fantasy writing affords the author. The writer is only bound by imagination. Talking animals, giants roaming the earth, evil and magic and of course champions and hated villains.The story stalled many times along the way through lack of time, interest or skill however always I could see the goal in my mind.of completing a quite long novel which hopefully would capture the reader to its finality and not discarded half way through (or earlier).Hope you enjoy

Book preview

Chapter 1

Isaac crunched on a small globe of ice, watching the last few minutes of the match, a sharp dart of pain in a molar telling him a nerve was perilously close to his thinning enamel. The noise of the television dampened the drunken laughter and the clashing of balls on the beer-stained pool table. He swung on his chair to face a suddenly louder voice breaking through the general din.

He could not immediately determine who the voice belonged to but knew instinctively what was about to occur. Like a thousand times before the story unfolded quickly and violently. A glass shattered and a girl screamed, a body dropped heavily on the tiled floor. Isaac moved his drink as a second body landed on his table, blood pulsing crimson from a shard of glass poking out of the unconscious man’s neck. A woman tried to stem the bleeding with a putrid bar towel her screams hitting a painful crescendo as she saw the vacant eyes looking back at her.

Issac skolled the remainder of his drink in a quick and easy motion his mouth tightening as the last more concentrated dregs in the bottom of his glass passed his taste buds. He left the bar and pulled the hood of his jacket over his head, the chilled night air scratching his face. He glanced at the door man who acknowledged him with a curt nod from a bulbous head poking out of a tree trunk neck strangled by a ribbon thin tie and sweat stained coffee coloured collar. The hulk glanced into the dark beyond the entrance to see what the noise was all about but made no movement towards it.

Isaac looked up and down the main street in the vain hope he might hail a taxi but knew none were brave enough to risk a fare so late in this part of town. He beat his hands against his thighs and pulled his jacket tighter as he commenced a long walk to his apartment.

Ubiquitous brown brick buildings and iron fire escapes of the walk ups lined the street on both sides of the road, broken only by narrow alley ways housing piles of stinking green plastic bags. He wrinkled his nose as he considered the amount of waste a human can create just from a few days of inner-city life.

His footfalls echoed around him when he noticed unusual movement ahead. He squinted through the dark and saw three black shapes scattering like cockroaches into the deeper shadows of a nearby lane. Alert but not yet afraid he moved across the road eager to avoid whomever the shapes belong to. In the few moments it took him to cross the street he worked several scenarios through in his mind. Should he be mugged there was not enough money in his pocket to make the effort worthwhile so he would then expect a customary beating. While strong enough to battle one or maybe two assailants he was not confident he could measure up against three. He looked back over his shoulder and saw the door man in the distance as a glob in the dark. He was certain the doorman would not be inclined to come down the street to help even if he noticed a disturbance when he would already have one dead body to manage.

Issac pushed his hands deeper in his pockets and kept walking, trying to step lightly and muffle his presence but the night seemed to amplify even the faintest of noises.

As he reached the alley, he saw the shapes glide into a darker corner, and he strained to see more clearly as the last feeble street light coloured the dark with a jaundiced yellow.

He tried shading his eyes from the streetlight, willing his eyes to see better than they were able. What he initially thought to be three men he now saw to be two men and a struggling female, the line of her hair and dress clearly silhouetted. He put his head down and continued walking knowing nothing good happens in this part of town at two o’clock in the morning. He slowed down until he stood motionless under a shop awning and stared at the dewy drops falling from the iron roof and splashing in time with his heart rate.

‘Damn it,’ he said aloud turning and crossing back over the road. He hated rapists. He could understand the blue-collar criminal who would beat money out of strangers or even rob the odd house to feed themselves, but he could not stomach men abusing women or indeed bullies of any type. He wondered where this social consciousness came from and decided it must be a result of no-one interfering when his father gave him the hairy side of his hand in one of the many drunken rages, he was prone to.

He rubbed a calloused palm against the stubble on his chin and looked for something he could grip as a weapon, the muffled cries of the woman becoming more urgent.

He found a club lengthed piece of timber among some packing crates and crept silently to the entrance of the alley pressing himself hard against the wall. His heart was racing and he could feel nervous sweat begin to slide down his neck. He peered around the corner just in time to see one of the men slam his hand hard across the woman’s face, the whip like crack momentarily stopping her struggle.

Issac took a deep breath and moved into the lane taking deliberate and careful steps towards the back of the first man, being mindful of always keeping both assailants in his direct vision. With two against one he could not afford to allow one to get behind him.

Raising the timber across his shoulder baseball bat fashion he approached the men.

‘You boys have very poor manners,’ he said as he swung at the head of the closest man.

He expected the blow to be an incapacitating one where he reasoned he could then threaten the second man who he hoped would flee, however the timber passed harmlessly through the air as his target reacted instantly to the noise, crouching the few inches necessary to avoid the impact. Stumbling with the force of the mis hit Issac knew the advantage of surprise had vanished. From his peripheral vision he saw the second man race towards him and within seconds he found his arm twisted behind his back, the piece of timber wrested from his grip and his cheek planted firmly against the alley wall.

‘Our hero.’ Said the first man who pressed his face against Isaac’s, the menace dripping from each word. Isaac tried turning his head away, as the man’s beer-soaked breath was making him gag but a hard grip kept his face still. Isaac studied the man’s face. It wore several old scars, the most significant crossing diagonally from temple to mouth. The eyes were squinted and bloodshot and his nose bloated and red from years of alcohol abuse, spider veins making his cheeks look like a red bird’s nest. The man’s clothes were no better than rags and both ears were pierced with crude brass studs. For some reason Isaac thought the man looked just a bit too ragged even for a criminal in this part of town but a swift knee into his back shook the thought from his head.

‘I’ll just finish what I was doing and then show you some street manners my old mate.’

The second man grunted a laugh and took a handful of Issac’s hair and smashed his face against the wall of the alley. Issac sunk to his knees as blood began dripping into his eyes. ‘Hurry up he might have some friends close by.’ rumbled the second man.

‘He has no friends,’ stated the first confidently as he returned his attention to the semi conscious woman.

Although bloodied and with an aching back, Issac had not been hit hard enough to lose his senses and while the man holding him had the advantage he just needed patience and an element of luck.

The arm holding him was sinewy and strong and attached to a middle-aged man with a narrow face and broken teeth behind thin lips. He was bordering on the skinny but hardened and surprisingly strong from years of rough living. Isaac knew he was not dealing with simple amateur criminals rather men who had to fight daily just to survive. He was certain they would kill him without a moment’s regret. He allowed his body to go limp hopefully signalling he was losing some of his fight and he immediately felt the grip on his neck loosen slightly as the second man became more interested in what his friend was doing. Issac saw his chance and sprung from his crouch snapping his head backwards in a whip like action straight into the mugger’s face smashing the man’s nose and splitting his lip, causing him to reel backwards several steps before collapsing.

Without hesitating Issac launched himself from what was now a sprinter’s squat and drove his shoulder into the first man as he hovered over the helpless woman, lifting the man’s leg off the ground at the same time and throwing him off balance. He continued to lift and slung the man easily over his shoulder and with a final effort back slammed him onto the concrete road. A rush of air left the man’s lungs and he lay on the ground groaning.

Isaac reached for his length of timber and pushed it against the man’s throat bringing his own face tight against the man’s ear.

‘Grab that piece of garbage over there and get lost and if I see you again down here you’ll regret it.’

He stood back and let the man get to his feet while levelling the piece of wood at his head. The man struggled to a frog like hunker holding his stomach the fight over. He started backing out of the alley keeping his eye firmly on Isaac’s weapon.

‘She is all yours hero boy. She is not much of a prize anyway.’

Isaac swung the timber, but the man was off down the alley dragging his friend with him and swearing oaths of revenge.

Isaac dropped the timber and rushed to the woman who was now sitting up rubbing her jaw. She inched away as he approached.

‘Hey, its ok I’m not going to hurt you. You should know better than to be out this late in this part of town.’ He said.

‘Well, a girl has to make a living. Call it hazards of the profession,’ she said attempting unsuccessfully to straighten her blouse.

Isaac helped her to stand and had a chance to examine her more closely. She was tall and lean, with a firm figure and a face that was likely once pretty but now showed signs of aging too early, probably from too much alcohol or drugs and not enough meals. Her makeup was generously applied, and her hair looked to be chisled out of thick hairspray and hardly moved as she tried to brush the dirt off her skirt. In spite of her dishevelled appearance Isaac decided she was awkwardly attractive.

‘I suppose you will be expecting some kind of reward’ she said in a casual manner, neither sleezy nor inviting and in a fashion, Isaac found particularly unappealing.

‘I don’t want anything, just so long as you’re alright.’ He said.

The woman regarded Isaac more closely her neoprene lips attempting a smile.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. It is just that in my line of work you tend to think the worst of men.’ She leant in close to Isaac and kissed him on the check.

Isaac’s face started to redden and even in the dim light the woman noticed and smiled.

‘You really are a nice man I think.’ She reached down and picked up her purse and attempted to strut down the alley casually as if nothing had happened tripping on her high heels as she walked.

Isaac watched her leave and shook his head. ‘This town really is the pits’ he thought as he recommenced his walk home.

Darion woke early, pushed his doona back and swung his legs over the side of his bed while trying to read the bedside clock. The sun was about to rise and in the morning grey he could only barely read the analogue hands of the throwback timepiece. Friends and family would buy him a new clock each birthday and he politely thanked them and gave it to charity. He liked listening to the ticking during the night and even the winding of the gold wingnut before sleep was part of a routine, he found pleasurable, a reminder of the simpler times of his childhood.

He fumbled for his t-shirt and shorts hanging from his dresser and he prepared for a morning run on the beach a regular practice he needed to start his day in what he thought to be a productive way.

He walked through the loungeroom and noticed the disheveled shape lying on the couch still wearing the clothes and shoes from the night before and smelling of mud and stale alcohol. The rhythm of breathing from the lump changed as Darion approached and a swift poke in the ribs produced a groan.

‘Had a good night mate?’ he asked pulling open the venetians, allowing a crack of new dawn light to shine directly into a face that looked like it was one big graze. ‘Hope the other guy looks worse.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Isaac who turned his head away from the light and buried it in the couch cushion. ‘Turn the light out will you.’ He moaned.

‘Gee Isaac how long are you going to keep this up?’

Isaac mumbled into the cushion. ‘Just trying to get through the day.’ he mumbled.

‘Have a shower I’ll be back in an hour and then we are going remember?’ said Darion.

Isaac didn’t say anything and heard the door close as his friend left. He knew he was supposed to remember something but even thinking hurt his brain, so he thought he better stop and go back to sleep.

‘I don’t know why I let you talk me into these things,’ said Isaac as he walked through the gallery. ‘I mean really, this stuff is rubbish.’ He stopped in front of an exhibit and pointed at the canvas.

‘What is this supposed to be? It looks as if someone has spilt paint and tried to clean it up with a towel.’

‘Maybe you should think outside your own universe,’ said Darion. ‘Try and be a little bit more cerebral, the whole world doesn’t revolve around football, beer and women.’

‘Well, my old man used to tell me, ‘spend most of your money on women, grog and the punt and waste the rest,’ said Isaac.

Darion looked at the fresh cuts and bruises on his friend’s face. He knew better than to ask what had happened but tried anyway.

‘You want to talk about your face?’ he asked.

‘Not really, said Isaac. ‘No big deal. Just tripped over in the dark.’

‘Really? How many times?’ Darion let the matter drop but was almost certain Isaac had been out on one of his trips to the West Side. He did not know why Isaac liked that part of town so much. It had no redeeming features, was poor, rough, and dangerous and the best thing to come out of the place was the road back to the East Side but Isaac seemed to have an uncontrollable attraction to the oddities of the poorest section of the city.

Although invited to make the journey many times he always politely declined. He almost certainly would get into a fight, and he could not see the point of covering the citizens of the West Side in his blood as he did not have that much to spare.

He smiled at his friend and considered why he liked him so much. Isaac saw the world a bit differently from others. He worked very much with his left brain, the analytical. If something looked like a duck and quacked like a duck, then it was a duck, and no further debate would be entertained. Darion however was the exact opposite, working always with a more existential view of the world, preferring to discover the said duck was masking a hidden meaning, maybe representative of something not quite obvious. He would probe and examine, always trying to discover why a thing existed in the form it did. For all their differences of perception, they were lifetime friends, from their early school days where Isaac spent much of his time getting into trouble and the rest protecting Darion to now when he still seemed to get himself into trouble and Darion felt he needed to start protecting him.

Darion stood beside his friend and returned his attention to the canvas. He did not recognise the artist, although he could read the thoughts transferred into brush strokes, the dream the artist made into a reality. An innocuous looking tree probably plucked out of the artist’s childhood, the rope hanging from a higher branch likely the one the artist swung from with friends, who would drop from the leaves and into a crisp creek. The vast ocean as a backdrop, punctuating the piece with its immensity, dwarfing the small-town reality of the child. Darion knew every portion of the work held some meaning for the artist and he enjoyed trying to unravel the artist’s secrets.

‘Here is an art lesson for you,’ said Darion not at all smugly. Isaac dropped his chin onto his chest.

‘I don’t want an art lesson,’ he said.

‘For once try not to be a Philistine and really look at the picture.’

Isaac studied the canvass for a long moment. The scene seemed at first chaotic, images and colours wafting through the canvas and then the story unfolded clearly in front of him. A dying man surrounded by cherubs, his hand extended pleadingly to a benevolent god and around him images from the man’s life showing him to be cruel and uncaring. Usurping money from the aged, beating children and in one graphic picture, a knife plunging into the stomach of another. The god in the picture forgave the man his many sins and after a life of decadence the man finally finds the meaning of God as he lay on his death bed. After a few minutes of contemplation Isaac broke the silence.

‘Well, who would have thought,’ he said. ‘It tells a whole story in one picture. The man has sinned and is now redeemed. It’s brilliant. It must be one of the great pieces of all time.’

Darion laughed. ‘No, it’s a normal painting. Good artists make sure some things are not always in plain sight. Sometimes you have to search for meaning. See rather than look.’

He moved down the corridor and past a few of the more well-known pieces when he noticed Isaac had not kept pace, still focused on the first painting and seemingly not in a hurry to leave.

‘He is so predictable.’ thought Darion. ‘Totally uninterested in something one moment and completely absorbed the next. It reminded him of the lovely Katie Foremost. She did everything to gain Isaac’s attention when they studied at university together and he was completely oblivious to her presence. She had virtually given up hope when one day she was being harassed by some very drunk dentistry students at the university student bar. Isaac noticed her distress. He walked calmly over to the group, split three lips and shook a number of teeth loose in twenty seconds of carnage and suddenly he had a new girlfriend.

Unfortunately, the same traits that attracted Katie to Isaac, particularly his casual nature became an increasing source of annoyance to her. The romance ended abruptly at her father’s sixty fifth birthday party which Isaac not only forgot to attend but also neglected to supply the refreshments as arranged, leaving one hundred and twenty thirsty and disgruntled guests. Isaac immediately had another ex-girlfriend to add to sizable list. However, his philosophical nature explained the events as almost preordained.

‘If we were meant to be together then I would not have forgotten something so important to her,’ he rationalised. ‘So, I really don’t think I am entirely to blame.’

It was logic like this that Darion liked most in his friend. There was a science behind everything in life which is why he could not now leave the painting. He could not believe that he could be duped so easily. The message should be obvious not hidden in the oils, to him it was an unnecessary inconvenience and was a major reason he had little time for art and artists. ‘Smart artists’ was the term he frequently used.

Darion conversely loved the art gallery, museums, or the library. For hours he could roam the corridors and step into another’s reality and be part of alternative worlds, sometimes exotic and sometimes so banal as to remind him that often life was a battle with meaninglessness. They were places of sanctuary where he could find peace and quiet. For him, it was a place of contemplation. It was also an entirely good way of avoiding engaging with other human beings whom he tended to sometimes like, often distrust and always was clumsy around. This was especially so with women where he found avoidance preferable to engagement and social activites an irritant he did not need. Better to avoid the party altogether than attend and be miserable and a socially flacid.

He studied the painting in front of him, bending at the waist to examine a corner. He straightened and sighed. He once fancied himself as an artist however he was unable to transfer his thoughts into the physical on the canvass. He had no ‘perspective’ he was once told, leaving him frustrated with the resultant effort being as Isaac would describe ‘absolute rubbish,’ so he was resigned to forever being the appreciator of other’s talents and forced himself to be satisfied with that.

Isaac eventually caught up to Darion. ‘He must one hell of an artist,’ said Isaac. ‘Wouldn’t be too many better than him I’ll bet.’

‘Well, I don’t know,’ replied Darion. ‘How about this one.’

Darion showed him a canvass by the Impressionist Monet which Isaac now studied with an expert air. After a minute he looked a Darion.

‘The bridge is crooked and where do all the water lilies come from, wouldn’t be that many in the entire country and he has them all in one paining,’ said Isaac. ‘and I don’t know a whole lot about bridge building and horticulture, but I do know that if even a slightly corpulent person were to walk on that bridge they would be pulling water lilies out if their ass for weeks.’

‘It’s a Monet,’ said Darion without humour, believing this in itself was explanation enough. Isaac looked at him without expression. ‘This is why it is so good. He borrowed greatly from Japanese art from the mid 18th century. His house was full of Japanese paintings, and he even built a bridge at his home and planted water lilies so he could copy it in his art. He was the greatest of the Impressionists who were all maestros of colours. He is my favourite artist of them all. His eyes could see the subject, but it was his soul that wielded the brush. This is what is really interesting Isaac, perhaps right in front of you is the first meeting of East and West in art, a synergy producing a masterpiece. Isaac, it is beautiful almost beyond words.’

Isaac knew his friend was serious which for him was the perfect opportunity irritate him.

‘But in an engineering sense the bridge is unsound. How did he get it through council approval? It looks stupid.’

‘You have no idea, it is like trying to sensitise a rock,’ said Darion.

‘Yeah, well what I would like to know is what the paints are made out off. Now that’s interesting. How old are they? A hundred and fifty years. No doubt oil based and maybe some rudimentary kerosene by-product or linseed oil mixed with some ochre. That’s science buddy not this abstract garbage.’

Darion shook his head and stormed off while Isaac followed smiling. He jogged along side his friend and placed his large conciliatory hand on Darion’s shoulder turning him down a narrow corridor. ‘Ease up Darion, no need to be sulky. Tell you what let’s explore a bit.’

Isaac picked his way down the aisle that narrowed with each step, nearly knocking over a pair of ancient Grecian urns. One teetered and was caught by Darion and as Isaac spun around to help, he promptly toppled the other which Darion caught with his spare hand.

‘Good work Isaac. How about you watch where you are going, either one of these vases is worth a lifetime’s worth of your wages you clumsy sod.’

‘It’s ok I don’t have a job.’ he said with a chuckle.

As they moved deeper down the aisle, they noticed the floor in this part of the gallery was covered in a soft talc of dust, the jarrah sheen on the parquetry timber fading from an obvious lack of maintenance. There were no artificial lights and only a dim brightness crept into the hallway through a tiny sky light far above. The way became so narrow both men turned sideways as the walls pinched inwards in a bottle neck. Neither consulted the other as they explored further tacitly committed to finding where the curious path led.

Their footsteps became a shuffle until the path suddenly widened and they stopped at what appeared to be a dead end.

‘Well, that seems to be a complete waste of energy,’ said Isaac.

They looked above and around the wall and silently decided there was no reason to remain in the fading twilight. ‘No logic in this design at all.’ He said, ‘Must be a Monet!’ He poked Darion in the stomach pleased with his joke and searched the space trying to fathom the purpose of such a corridor. It must have a purpose, as does all things, was his clear logic. It was small mysteries like this he and Darion always enjoyed.

They once spent a large portion of their summer holidays attempting to break a World War II code they stumbled across while helping Darion’s father with some home renovations. They found a small brass canister attached to the skeleton of a long dead bird in their attic, 3rd January 1943 etched on the outer shell. Inside the canister was a block message under the title ‘Bletchly Park’.

Fuujfu bjfo bmjs dtz fwj xywtsl

Fsi xywtsl bmjs dtz fwj bjfo

They examined the garbled message searching for clues both subtle and obvious to decipher it, with Isaac paying particular attention to the cannister whilst Darion tried to determine the language the letter was written in or whether it was a hybrid of several languages. After a few minutes Isaac smiled at Darion and exclaimed.

‘This is a World War II Mono Alphabetic Substitution Code predating the German Enigma Codes. A simple matter to decipher if we had the code book.’

Darion raised an eyebrow. ‘And you know this how?’

‘Elementary my dear boy,’ said Isaac. If you had taken some of my science courses rather than those arty things, you do you might learn something. I spent an entire semester studying the nature of codes and the related mathematics of trying to break them and these are particularly difficult to solve.’

They retired to Darion’s studio apartment and placed the message on a white board, ordered some Chinese food and began a committed program of trying to find a key to the code.

Parading the room as if he was a seminal lecturer Isaac began schooling Darion on the nature of substitution codes and how they were simple to construct and difficult to break unless you possessed the key without which you might be able to find a commonality in the message or recognise an abbreviation. Unlikely however it is the only avenue they had to explore further.

They considered the number of times letters repeated themselves. They knew that each word must contain a vowel and the most common vowel in English was E. They also knew T and A were the next most common letters in the language and so commenced substituting letters and looking for patterns. With great application and little argument they finally had some simple assumptions.

The message had twelve words 5 of which were repeated suggesting the note had a rhythm not unlike an iambic metre.

The afternoon evaporated as the friends began moving the alphabet one and then two and then three letters at a time, so an A became a C. Progress was made using what they now dubbed formally their ‘Exclusory Method of Decryption’

‘I think it is one of two options,’ stated Isaac confidently. ‘It is the first line of a poem or more likely since there seems to be a rhythm, it looks like a common saying, ‘as black as pitch’ or ‘as neat as a pin’, I’ll take the poems and you take the sayings.’

‘Hang on. What makes you think they are the only two options?’ said Darion.

‘Well, we have to start somewhere.’ He said simply.

Darion possessed a substantial library of poetry anthologies and a book of adages somewhere in his multitude of tomes most of which he used for his undergraduate studies and in literally minutes the puzzle was solved.

‘Here it is,’ announced Darion. ‘Really quite extra ordinary considering the time the message was actually encrypted.’

‘All right, all right just tell me the answer,’ barked Isaac.

Darion smiled and announced,

‘Appear weak when you are strong and strong when you are weak’ quoted from the great Japanese artisan of war, Sun Tsu in ‘The Art of War’. Words you should live by I think,’ said Darion in a accusatory tone.

The boys discussed how the message clearly was a training exercise for code breakers during the war, however this was not enough to tarnish the satisfaction the boys gained from the success of collectively solving a riddle that others would find difficult if not impossible to achieve.

The light dimmed further in the already darkened gallery corridor when Isaac spotted a crack of brightness seeping from the wall at the end of the corridor, clearly outlining the base of a door.

‘Why couldn’t we see that before?’ asked Darion as he searched for a handle of some sort. Isaac pushed lightly on the wall and a door swung effortlessly inwards opening into a large gallery, the walls covered in a multitude of canvasses. The floor was lined with the same jarrah coloured timber as the floors outside the room but fresh and gleaming. The room while large had no other points of entry, and the air was fresh and crisp with no suggestion it was rarely used.

They walked to the first picture housed in an ornate goldleaf frame twice the size of a man and they marveled at the complexity of the colours and fine detail of each image.

‘Incredible!’ Stated Darion as he ran his hand over the space in front of the picture careful not to touch anything.

He stood transfixed, eyeing every inch of the masterpiece. The colours leapt at him. He tried to find a brushstroke but could see none, every image on the canvass steeped in a tangible reality. The finest brush ever wielded by the greatest artist could not measure up to what Darion was looking at. Each hill, every tree, the very blades of grass a perfect facsimile of reality. He pulled himself away with effort and saw Isaac as mesmerised as himself, mouth opened in awe of the piece.

‘It’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life,’ he said.

‘It’s rubbish,’ snarled an angry voice. ‘It doesn’t look real. It looks like a blasted painting, it’s of no use to me and certainly no use to cretins like yourselves. Now get out.’

Darion and Isaac spun around and saw a wizened old man sitting on a small timber chair, picking dried paint off his fingers, an easel and canvass in front of him.

‘It has no depth and no character, it is no better than the others,’ he said sweeping his hand broadly around the room.

The two friends approached a second painting and studied it quietly. For all the old man’s complaints to the contrary, Darion thought it looked as exquisite and flawless as the first, and so perfect he felt he could reach through the paint and touch the scenery. He looked further around the room and saw all of the other paintings depicted exactly the same scene as the first 2, however each possessed some undefinable quality showing them to be somehow superior to the painting preceding it.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Darion. ‘but these are the most perfect paintings I have ever seen.’

‘Then you haven’t seen much and that’s for sure,’ said the old man. ‘What are you, twenty-five years old and you think you are qualified to comment, I don’t think you would know if your arse was on fire.’

Darion looked at Isaac who became annoyed, it was left brain time.

‘Who are you anyway you cranky old sod?’ he said. ‘We merely compliment the artist, who is obviously you and you insult us.’

‘You insult me by not knowing what is worthy of respect and what is not.’

He turned back to his canvass while the boys kept examining the painting in front of them keeping his head slightly turned, spying the boys under his bushy grey eyebrows, assessing each with a depth belying his supposed disinterest.

‘Are you two still here?’ he said.

‘No, we left five minutes ago you crabby old goat,’ said Isaac ignoring the disapproving nudge from Darion, ‘How about you act like a human being for a minute and tell us about the paintings.’

The old man burst into uncontrolled laughter, holding his stomach. He laughed so hard he launched into a fit of coughing the boys thought would end him.

‘I think the old fellow is going to cough up his pancreas,’ whispered Isaac.

Darion knelt beside the man trying to calm him and after some moments the old man composed himself and looked seriously at the boys through narrow eyes.

‘Why would I ever want to be like a human being,’ he said as he straightened his shirt. ‘Why would anyone anywhere want to be like a human being.’ He fell into hysterics again and both Isaac and now Darion were becoming annoyed.

‘I mean to say, just look at yourselves. You have spent the better part of the last three thousand years trying to annihilate your race, you think the whole universe revolves around

this insignificant little world and now you have the temerity to think that everyone else wants to be just like you.’ His laughter vanished as quickly as it arrived, and he looked them squarely in the eyes which made the boys extremely uneasy. ‘No, I certainly have no desire to be a human being.’

Darion looked at Isaac and motioned to leave but Isaac was beyond negotiating.

‘What are you going on about you silly old fool, do your carers know you have escaped.’

‘Don’t try my patience young one,’ threatened the old man. ‘You have no idea with whom you are dealing.’ The look on the old man’s face was so menacing Isaac jumped backwards as if struck but immediately walked back towards the old man with clenched fists. Darion placed a hand on his chest and tried to alleviate the tension.

‘We are sorry to have bothered you,’ he said. ‘We will leave if you wish, but if you could possibly spare some of your valuable time then I would very much like to speak to you to discuss your art, because to a novice such as myself it does appear very good.’

Darion kept his head low almost kowtowing to the old man.

‘Now that is a bit more like it. You could learn something from your friend,’ he said to Isaac. ‘There are little things called ‘good manners’ which exist on all cultures but are equally important in each. You come barging in here making wild judgements and proclamations and expect everyone to listen, well Darion you are most welcome to stay but you Isaac can leave anytime you like but if you elect to stay then sit down and shut up.’

‘How do you know our names?’ asked Darion warily.

‘I know lots of names, the names of all the stars and all the insects, all the trees and all the mountains, but why shouldn’t I know them. You pride yourselves on your intellect as primitive as it is, you try and work it out for yourselves. I would be very interested in hearing the answers.’

‘Here is my answer,’ said Isaac. ‘You eavesdropped on our conversation and heard our names that way. You pretend to be some sort of clairvoyant and appear to enjoy speaking in riddles but to me you are nothing except a very large pain in the backside who should probably take his medication.’

The old man stood slowly and surprisingly towered over the two boys. He took two giant strides towards Isaac, grabbed one of his ears and twisted it until Isaac squealed with pain while swinging some poorly timed punches that missed their target.

‘He is tearing my ear off,’ he screamed. The old man relaxed his grip and sat back down in his chair appearing the harmless figure he was a few moments before.

‘You should always show deference Isaac. Now look at your friend. Respectful, polite, and as far as I can tell more perceptive than the average in your race.’ The old man stared at Darion which made him uncomfortable. Throughout the entire engagement, Darion felt an unexplained excitement build within him and an adrenaline charge of expectation he had never experienced before. He sensed an energy in this old man, enhancing his own untried adventurous emotions.

Isaac whimpered next to Darion muttering under his breath, careful not to let the old man hear him.

‘I have had enough. Let’s get out of here,’ he said to Darion. ‘I don’t know what is going on, but I don’t like it one bit. This old fellow is crazy.’

Darion ignored Isaac’s urgings and felt compelled to remain. The old man seemed a little eccentric but what great artist wasn’t. He possessed an attraction Darion felt difficult to resist and he wasn’t going anywhere until he found out more.

‘May I look at your work?’ asked Darion tentatively, shaking his arm free from Issac who grabbed his elbow. The old man nodded, and Darion moved to a seat next to the artist. What he saw amazed him. The landscape scene was no different from the other paintings and indeed appeared again to merely be a replica but just as each of the previous works were in some small way an improvement on their predecessors, this one appeared complete. The mountains and rocks, the forests and stream were all similar to the other paintings but here more real. The creek while flawless in the others, on the canvass appeared cool, the sun warm and the grass and shrubs exuding a redolence as if the viewer became part of the landscape. Small fish, while static in the stream, could be imagined swimming in glistening water and occasionally leaping and gasping into the sky. Small gnats buzzing among the reeds as a tiny waterfall could be heard cascading over some shallow rocks and trickling into the deeper pools below. A distant white mountain glistening with snow and ice held court over the picture. Darion could not remember ever seeing such a place of tranquility.

He could sense rather than see all this in a glance. He knew intuitively that this painting was the end work of all the others, impossible to complete further, its exactness creating a reality as factual as the ground he stood on. He looked imploringly at the old man.

‘How could anyone create something like this? It’s perfect,’ he said.

The old man nodded.

‘It is a bit difficult to explain Darion and even harder for you to accept. The painting and the world it represents are the same thing. The painting creates the world but is only a reflection of the world it creates. The painting cannot exist without a world to copy but my world only exists because I have created the painting. Be careful Darion because this a Great Paradox and many before you have gone quite mad trying to rationalise the concept.’

Darion thought for a moment. ‘You would have me believe that through your paintings you have created a world but unless this world existed somewhere in the first place then how could you possibly report it in such detail on the canvass.’

Darion smiled, feeling quite satisfied he was as cryptic as the old man.

The old man however did not smile. ‘It seems you may have been chosen well,’ he said.

‘What do you mean chosen?’ said Darion, but the old man refused to answer and seemed to Darion to be in deep thought, occasionally nodding to himself. Darion kept looking over the canvass.

‘What is this place?’ he asked.

‘It is the island of Salnikov,’ said the artist. ‘Haven’t you seen it before? Maybe in a dream.’ He asked.

Darion was sure he had never seen the terrain before, but something tickled the back of his brain as if a dream memory was indeed tucked away somewhere, but who remembers all their dreams he thought.

‘No, I have not seen it before, or I don’t think I have. In fact, it is different than every place I have ever seen. What do you think Isaac?’

Isaac moved to the far end of the room, rubbing his head with feigned disinterest while listening to every word with his good ear.

‘I don’t care, and you and your new friend can go and get stuffed. I would like to leave now thank you.’

Isaac walked to where he remembered the door being but strangely found a solid wall.

‘What is going on here?’ he exclaimed.

Darion also moved to the wall, and he too could see no trace of the entrance. They both searched the entire perimeter of the room sliding their hands over the walls and could find no doors or evidence of any way to exit. It was only then they realised the room had no windows and importantly, no lights. The room appeared to be illuminated impossibly by the paintings themselves, each one creating a natural light no different than if they stood outside on a clear autumn day.

‘I think you had better explain yourself,’ said Darion.

‘Oh really,’ replied the old man. ‘You are an extremely brash breed for sure. You are obviously reliant on me to get you out of here and you have little idea of what is happening to you but you will stand here almost threatening me to do your will. Suffice to say boys, should I desire it, I could snuff out your paltry existence with only slightly more effort than I am expending sitting on this chair. However, if you would be so kind as to sit down then perhaps we can get down to cases because curiously enough, you two have been chosen to help me. Now I don’t mind telling you I told them I did not want any help, but they insisted. It seems they believe you have been preordained to help me and you may have a role to play in all this and I am to accept their decision.’

‘Ridiculous!’ I said. ’I have been handling things quite well up until now and I don’t need or want interference.’

‘This has become much too serious for one man,’ they said.

‘What good would a couple of youths with no experience and little potential be to me. I am not running a childcare centre, they will just slow me down.’

‘The Jharnell tells of this, so do as you are told.’ they said.

‘I will not,’ I replied and then they left. Now as far as I am concerned, I do not have a contract to take you two with me, however, now I am in a dilemma. Here you are and here you have also seen too much to be allowed to merely walk away. I could try and wipe your memory but that is extremely difficult and not often successful. The last time I tried it I left the poor soul thinking he was a washing machine stuck on the spin cycle, so I guess like it or not you are now involved. They knew this would happen. They are very canny you know.’

Isaac was becoming upset, he was unused to such a situation. He could not physically contend with the old man, which he found frustrating enough considering he was at least a quarter of his age, but more so he felt quite claustrophobic and trapped. He was left with only one alternative. He punched the wall.

‘Aaagh,’ he cried as he held up his rapidly bleeding knuckles to Darion. He paced the room and swore creatively and profusely.

‘Most interesting,’ said the old man. ‘Your friend is a masochist as well as a brute, two traits that will threaten his survival I would think. Now Darion you want to ask some questions I believe. Please proceed.’

‘Well, I heard you call this place Salnikov and from what I know of geography it is no-where I am familiar with, but what I really want to know is who you are, how long have you been here and what do you want with us?’

The old man nodded.

‘You have certainly asked the right questions young man. I will withhold an answer to two of your questions until later as they are very complex. Who am I? I would need a great many of your lifetimes to give you a full answer to that one and even then there would be omissions. Why? This will become self evident in time however I can give an answer to how long have I been here. Let me see, I haven’t really added it up before but now is as good a time as any. I have to do some mental conversions here as not everyone uses your months and days although it is quite a sensible method of keeping time. Multiply by six and divide by nine, yes one hundred and twenty years, yes one hundred and twenty years, two months and four days, near enough.’

Isaac spat a derisive laugh.

‘You don’t seriously expect us to believe you have been sitting here for one hundred and twenty years painting these pictures. What sort of morons do you take us for. Old fellow, you have definitely lost your marbles. Now you may have buddied up to old Darion here but not me, I’ve had it. As soon as we get out of here, I am going straight to the cops and have you arrested. I think deprivation of liberty, kidnapping, and assault should be enough to stick your ass in the big house for a couple of years and let’s face it you only have a couple left.’

The old man glared at Isaac. ‘I'm sorry Darion, I may have to take you both with me but I am under no obligation to listen to that in the process.’

He placed his hand across his mouth and muttered some words Darion could not hear properly. He looked at Isaac then pointed a bony finger at him and sat down.

Isaac opened his mouth to continue his tirade and only garbled noises ground out of his mouth. He looked at Darion with a wild panic in his eyes.

‘Wha ith the matter wiff me?’ he said. ‘Iff loft ma voiffe.’ Isaac clutched his throat and tried coughing sounding like a cat with a hair ball.

‘What did you do to his voice?’ Demanded Darion

‘Try and think a little bit laterally Darion, it will come in handy in the future. I did nothing to his voice. I did however alter his hearing slightly so he can hear everything except his own voice. It really is amazing how disconcerting that can be. Puts your equilibrium way out. Don’t you think that is a little bit more flamboyant than merely ripping his tongue out? Anyone can do that. This has a certain panache.’ He looked at Isaac under bushy eyebrows furrowing to a frown.

‘Now listen carefully Isaac. I will return you to normal once you learn something called ‘respect’, do you understand?’

Isaac nodded, sat down on the floor and rubbed his chin and neck making small gurgling sounds.

‘I would think that noise would be more annoying than before,’ said Darion.

‘Perhaps, but I think you would agree he needed a lesson in humility.’ The old man leaned closer to Darion and grinned, ‘Don’t worry I won’t hurt him, I am just having some fun’ he said.

Darion relaxed. When he first met the old man he felt an unusual excitement he could not explain. He sensed he knew this old man who had a familiarity Darion wondered about. He definitely had not met him before and indeed did not recognise anything about him but he equally felt a nagging itch making him desperately curious about the old man. He could think of no other way to explain it. The man simply seemed familiar.

‘What is happening to us?’ he asked finally.

‘Well Darion, it is like this. I have been given a task to perform. In fact, I was given it some time ago now, about five thousand of your years, ever since we discovered its existence. I have had some difficulties completing the task, and on a few occasions, it has almost bested me. Whether through good fortune or good favour however I am still here.’

He reclined in his chair and locked his fingers behind his head. ‘The task I am allotted is a very important task, the most important task ever issued I would think and if ultimately, I fail, then we all fall. It must be destroyed Darion, but it is not an easy thing to do. The circumstances must be perfect, the time right, the pieces on the game board aligned perfectly. I have tried on other worlds to destroy it, thinking in my pride I would succeed but of course I was wrong. My arrogance nearly ending everything. And if I am gone Darion, then we surely are lost because with me also go my powers and he is aware of this. He won’t kill me, no, he knows that is foolish and futile, but he can absorb me. I become him and all that I am and know also become him. Horrors beyond imagination would follow. Oceans would boil, deserts flood, worlds collide, suns explode, and planets would fall to him one by one until nothingness. And then what? I do not think that the fool knows himself. Once he had absorbed everything then he could only devour himself and then we really would have an end to all existence. An evil triumph that would finish all life.’ He was looking over Darion’s head into the middle distance now seemingly talking to himself.

The Keepers know all of this, and they know, as powerful as they are, that one by one they too would fall. It would be only a matter of time, and time is something he has plenty of. So they all sacrificed some portion of themselves and bequeathed it to me, their champion, or more so their final hope. Even though they have been weakened dangerously, they knew it was the wisest thing they could do. Collectively, through me, we may have a chance, but chance is all we have, wild frivolous chance, and one we must place all our faith in.’

He sat quietly now neither waiting for a response nor ready to continue. Darion was entranced in the old man’s story. It was too incredible to believe there was some kind of universal force at play here, but he could not deny his own eyes. This was not some staged play just for his benefit. It was real, as real as the adrenaline thumping through his body. He was part of something immense and he felt his entire life to this moment was a simple prelude to a great adventure. Why should he believe this story or moreso why did he desperately want to believe it. It all seemed credible to him. He needed no further proof and believed the old man without hesitation, even though his inherent pragmatism, a trait he had long been proud of, told him this must all be false.

‘The end game is upon us Darion,’ said the old man. ‘We are slowly moving to the day when he and I meet for the last time, but he does not know about you two and neither do I. I have no prescience of your and Isaac’s role, but my instincts tell me it is a variable he has never considered in his arrogant calculations. Personally, I am skeptical, and you may simply be led to your death. There is however an itch that I cannot scratch with you two that tells me you may be the difference. Only time will reveal these answers.’

The old man chortled, his beard jiggling against his chest.

‘A couple of youths from Earth will determine our futures, who would have dreamed? Laughable really, especially since your entire history has produced precisely nothing of any tangible good. Earthlings do not value add to the product of life. Unfortunately, you are too self centred and destructive. Too eager to kill first and question later. Too eager to rape the environment that sustains you and,