Malevolence

By John M Duhig

What would happen when a budding young assassin picks the wrong target and sends his world into turmoil?

What would happen when a narcissistic magical cat with a bad attitude problem and an urge for world domination decides to take a little trip?

So what would happen should the two accidently collide, literally, in the middle of nowhere.

Life may have seemed bad for young Tazean Machiavelli after his little mishap; however, now it seems like a paradise compared with the hell he will face, not so much from the many that now wish him dead, but from one downright demented feline hell-bent on ruining his day, his week and if lucky, his life.

Welcome to what would be a family tale if not so majorly twisted and with just a hint of sarcasm, a comical fantasy like no other.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley
• Release date: Dec 12, 2017
• ISBN: 9781786937070

John M Duhig

John Duhig lives in Perth, Western Australia and is happily married with nine children. He has experienced successful careers in the military and management and currently, that of a custodial role. He writes due to an inherent inability to read novels (aka the children and an existence with an ever-demented character named Mister Wobbles, one of the family pets).

Book preview

John Duhig lives in Perth, Western Australia and is happily married with nine children. He has experienced successful careers in the military, management and currently that of a custodial role.

He writes due to an inherent inability to read novels (aka the children and an existence with an ever demented character named Mister Wobbles, one of the family pets).

Dedication

For my Sharon, my muse and my inspiration,

For Mum, who brought me into this world and filled it with love

Sleep now dear lady,

I will forever miss you.

For Dad, you are as you always have been, my hero

And to Mister Wobbles,

may your madness never spread.

John M Duhig

Malevolence

Copyright © John M Duhig (2017)

The right of John M Duhig to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781786937063 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781786937070 (E-Book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2017)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

Malevolence!

Part 1

Crap, bugger, crap, crap, crap! came the yell from the uppermost parapet of the Old Storch Cathedral. A startled pigeon frantically flew skyward to freedom, leaving a trail of tail feathers that floated softly earthward, swearing to itself that it would never return to that roost again.

A yell came out of the darkness, Missed again eh’ Frank.

There was a shuffling in the shadows and an old fungus and bird poo covered gargoyle leapt onto the corner stone, cursing his bad luck. He resumed his vigil, as he always had, and awaited his next chance of an easy meal. On the opposing corner, another gargoyle sniggered to itself.

Shut up Bob.

The old gargoyle growled to itself and surveyed the grounds; he and his brothers guarded the old basilica, as they had for over a century. Frank had never thought to himself how strange it was that he had never been on the ground, he had never been lower than the upper courtyard wall, had never caught or dealt with any recalcitrant trying to enter the now abandoned cathedral.

Still, it was a career, better than being unemployed, even with the constant barrage of bird droppings that he faced on a daily basis, and Dad was proud of him; the best job his father had ever had was that of a retaining wall. So, Frank was doing alright, Frank thought, and the occasional slow moving pigeon as a snack gave an added bonus.

A movement in the shadows caught the gargoyle’s stone eye, Intruder, he thought, and shuffled in anticipation of a swift and deadly airborne attack. Then he spied another potential meal sweeping in from the river towards his spire, probably the same pigeon he had missed before, and the movement in the shadows was forgotten.

This had been a major oversight by the architects of the time; relying on the placement of gargoyles to protect buildings was not one of the best decisions they had made on the day because as everybody knew, apart from said architects, gargoyles had the memory of a goldfish, and that was seen as an insult to goldfish worldwide, not that they’d remember it to ever make any complaint though.

This entire flurry of gargoylic activity was unnoticed by the shadowy figure sidling along the courtyard wall. He was dressed all in black, his face obscured by the cloak’s hood, on his breast was an embroidered crest of the Assassins Guild, a four plate shield encompassing two opposing daggers, a noose and a sheep. Historians would argue that this crest was in fact the original Thief’s Guild livestock subdivision crest, long-lost and believed stolen hundreds of years before, although most of these historians would never be seen again, and those that were seen again would refute ever making such a ludicrous statement.

A sudden yell from the other side of the wall made the shadowy figure freeze, he frantically looked around but there was no pursuer to be seen in the yard. He could hear the city guard searching the outer compound of the cathedral for him, the clatter of swords on leg plates gave away their position with ease. Knowing their positions gave him little solace however; he was trapped like a fish in a barrel and knew that he did not stand any chance against the steel of the city guard with the measly little pair of lung stickers he was armed with. He knew there would be no protection in the shadows once the guard found the hole in the wall hidden by the overgrown mulberry bush, and that would be within the minute if Old Fessbone was in charge tonight.

Captain Charles Winterholm Fessbone was a twenty-year veteran of the city guard who had risen up the ranks of the law enforcement community by the tried and trusted method; bribery, corruption and the occasional mysterious death or disappearance of a higher ranking officer. He was however very proficient at his job, the brutal enforcement of the law and the bringing to justice of those deemed in breach of it.

He sniffed the air, the hint of sewer distracted his senses but he was sure he could smell the fear. He personally despised the Guild of Assassins, and though as essential to the political wheels of any city as was the guard that kept it safe, he would have happily brought all within the Guild to the gallows. However tonight, he would be happy with the head of just one small fish in the pond, and would personally run the assassin through and present the corpse before the city council. They would praise his diligence in bringing in a dangerous villain that had taken the life of one of their own earlier that night, heaping monetary reward upon him and increasing his status amongst the city’s elite.

Fessbone did not doubt in any way that the author of this callous act against the ‘innocent’ politician was in fact another member of the city council itself and nor did he care, as long as his rise to a future hallowed seat on the council was assisted. He was no less greedy than any other inhabitant of the city of Phyllus, and only wished for nothing less than unending wealth.

The villain he was hunting was of no consequence to him personally, any actual body he could produce would do the trick, however he did love the thrill of the chase. He knew that the prey had entered the boarded up cathedral; the people of Phyllus loved nothing better that divulging a bit of gossip and would gladly cough up any poor sod on the run. Tonight, he did not have to use dogs or even intuition, there were enough people out to simply point him in the right direction, literally.

A young Sergeant approached him, Nothing here sir, he must have scaled the wall or something, he’s not in the priory grounds and the house has been searched. Fessbone swore and turned his mount around to survey the wall surrounding the cathedral yard, it was clearly too high and smooth of surface to climb. He barked orders for half of the guard with him to search the cathedral front for an access point and the remaining to stay with him: he then dismounted and began searching the wall again. No human could have climbed this wall, and he was after a human, that was for sure as the Assassins Guild did not hire non-humans, so he began to search the foliage that grew on the wall itself.

The city guard was a role that school guidance councillors would reserve for the special few students who not only failed their classes but also showed sufficient malice towards their fellow man that would warrant immediate placement in juvenile detention. Fessbone knew this first part well and began backtracking the previous search pattern, and it was within the minute that he found the rat hole behind the mulberry bush and hailed his troops.

The shadowed figure also heard the call to arms and panicked; the only viable exit was the entry door into the Bishop’s vestibule and he knew that once in, he would have to face the wave of guard that was now pounding away at the rotting front doors of the old building. Realising his end was nigh, he drew his two kattari blades from their holsters and prepared to slay the first person to enter the Bishop’s garden, whether through the door or from the hole in the wall.

Fessbone was the first to hear the crackling, he was arguing with two young guardsmen as to who should be the lead guardsman through the hole to face certain death, neither had apparently appeared willing when the slightest of sounds caught his ear.

The hooded figure on the other side of the wall, knives out ready to pounce, also heard the crackling and believing that it was the vestibule door giving way, he turned to face the enemy. The sight that befell him was not what he was expecting and the young assassin dropped his knives in horror.

Before him, appeared the strangest sight he had ever seen, it appeared as a floating sliver, slowly growing, a vivid white light appeared flowing out of the wound. He could hear faint voices through the crackling fissure that was now growing with increasing speed.

The young guardsman, the one that had lost the argument with Fessbone, had popped his head out of the hole expecting it to be hit with a large rock, and was quite relieved when the rock did not appear. What did appear however made him blink several times before any comprehension set in; there was a vertical strip of light, brighter than any he had seen before, and standing before it was a figure, he believed the one he was here to be killed by, with a large rock to the skull. The figure had dropped his weapons at his feet and was just standing there, so with a degree of bravado the guardsman freed his arms and reached out.

The hooded figure stood there dumbfounded, staring into the light, not knowing what to do when suddenly, a hand lightly brushed his foot. He jumped and turned as the young guardsman grabbed one of his daggers and extricated himself from the hole…Then the hooded figure tripped over his other dagger that stuck out of the ground, swore, and was sucked backwards into the fissure which instantly closed behind him.

The old fungus and faeces covered gargoyle observed the commotion below with curiosity, if he had remembered, he was sure he would have brought a swift and deadly airborne attack down upon them, however he was happily munching on a slow moving pigeon and could not be bothered.

Hey Bob, you watching this, he yelled.

Watching what?

The light went out in the yard, as did the gargoyles recollection of what had occurred.

Nothing, he replied.

After a short pause, Bob the gargoyle asked, Nothing what.

Chapter 1

Phyllus sat on the western shore of the Arcus continent and was its largest seaport in the known world. It had become a lifeline for Main, the capital, and only larger city on that continent, it housed over twenty million persons of all races and species and most certainly smelt as good as it looked. The city was sectioned into seventeen boroughs of varying sizes, each with its own governing body, all of which was overseen by the City Council, the all-powerful panel of thirty prominent bodies. These were, to state what the Arcus royal family feared to think, the power behind Arcus, its’ real rulers.

For those that achieved this heady position, wealth would no longer matter, for should they wish for anything, it would become theirs without question. For each that sat in those seats, there were a thousand who served them in many different ways, from servants to soldiers, to subservient mistresses, to assassins; all would give their time, their bodies and their lives for these masters to whom they served.

On the night of the murder of Padraig Argonius, the youngest of the acquiescent mistresses that served the councillor, was preparing herself for the night ahead. She was the newest and most inexperienced of the thirty-one girls under the order, and had so far suffered only one night with the ‘fat turd’ as he was known to the others. She had spent the previous hour in a perfumed bath before covering herself in fragrance tinged talc as was the tradition with all subservient women. She dreaded the night ahead as she stepped into the flowing robe that would no doubt be torn from her body like during her previous night with him. The robe was designed to fall apart, however the exuberance of the councillor that night had left her slightly bruised around her shoulders.

She had replayed a blow by blow explanation to the attendant physician afterwards, describing the making of love to the ‘warthog in a nightgown’ as a life and death struggle. And now ‘that time of the month’ had occurred again, and she was once more to face another night of hell. She made her way to the vanity unit by her bed and turned as a fellow mistress entered intent on assisting with her makeup. The girl was waved away with a sorrowful smile and left without a word, leaving her sister to her formal duty alone.

Once the young girl was prepared, she left her suite and slowly began her self-named walk of shame along the marble hallway towards the councillor’s private quarters. As she mounted the stairs, she gave the daily welcome to the guards positioned at the entry to the councillor’s floor. Each gave her a sincere smile afforded to her position, and each dreamed of what it would be like to lay with her, to have her body on theirs. She paid the guards no heed and made her way towards the chambers.

The young girl pushed open one of the two doors to the chamber, not waiting for the guard to open it for her and stepped inside. The room was brash even by Regia standards, white marble lined the walls and floor and the bed was the size of the house the girl had grown up in. She knew she would have time to herself as the councillor would be devouring an entire cow for the evening meal, she only hoped he would quaff down several gallons of wine and upon arrival in his chambers, fall face first onto his bed in a drunken sleep, however she doubted her luck on that one.

The young girl stepped out onto the balcony, she always admired the view the borough of Regia gave, sitting atop a naturally forming mesa to the north side of the expansive city. Phyllus looked beautiful from here, the young girl did not know that that was the only view that this city would ever look good from; the elitist folk of Regia paid well for the inner boroughs to be regularly painted and cleaned to give the impression of a fine city from their perspective.

She stood there for what seemed a small lifetime preparing herself for the inept sexual barrage she would soon face. Eventually she heard the guards snap to attention and she knew her time had come, and turned as the city councillor entered. She knew that her dream would not be reality as the bastard was upright and walking, staggering really, but he had however some of his faculties and therefore she would have to service him once more.

Padraig Argonius stepped into his chambers and told the guards to close the doors and give him peace; he then surveyed the room for his ‘delight for the night’. He found her facing him on the glass lined balcony, with the setting sun behind her she looked like an angel, a beautiful, sexual angel in an almost transparent gown. He would have this waif tonight and he would not be kind, she would have him in every way he knew for he had spent the day in the heat of political battle and was in a mood to inflict satisfaction and pain, and only he would have the satisfaction.

The young girl braced herself, Oh well, she thought, It’s a job, as the fat lummox staggered towards her.

I’ll have her on the balcony first, drooled Argonius as he delicately made his way towards her (In his mind such movement was delicate, though not to others). His lust and excitement was almost at fever pitch as he picked up pace, he would have her now.

The girl braced herself for the inevitable although did not notice the silent lithe figure as he swung into position next to her from the rooftop of the mansion.

Padraig Argonius did notice however and let out a yell for his guards as his right foot, swollen with years of gout, struck the sliding door frame forcing the large mass to pitch forward and career out of control towards the startled girl.

He struck the girl head on and continued momentum through the glass balustrade and into the oblivion beyond.

The young girl was thrown backwards, the wind knocked out of her as she toppled downward with the hefty form of the councillor falling over her, his wine stained foul breath burning her face as he let out a scream. She did also feel a hand clasp onto her wrist and was swung unceremoniously clear of the corpulent bulk that continued its downward trajectory unabated. She hung clear but for a second before being hauled onto the balcony by strong arms.

The two guards positioned outside the door had stepped clear, not wishing to hear the vocal pornography that their employer would yell nightly as he took another poor woman to her depths of nightmarish sexual hell. Both heard the muffled yell and the breaking of glass, both in turn dismissed this as overly rough play by the councillor. One leaned against the wall and lit up a cigarette, the councillor would not leave the chambers till first light, Poor girl, he murmured.

The other guard nodded his head in agreement, Fat turd.

The young girl was hauled up by a pair of strong young arms and lightly deposited onto her feet, she blinked and looked into her rescuers’ eyes, dark pools swam under a black cloaked hood, Thank you sir, she whispered.

The rescuer was dressed all in black and his face was partially obscured by the cloak’s hood, on his breast was an embroidered crest of a guild, a four-plate shield encompassing two opposing daggers, a noose and a sheep. The girl blinked, thinking that the rescuer must have something to do with the Livestock Insurgents’ Guild, a division of the Thieves Guild that her father once was a part of.

You’re welcome, my name is Taz, I apologise for my entry, rather sloppy by my standards I must say, and may I have your name? The beautiful young girl kept blinking and murmured in a stunned reply, Victoria. He still held her close, his hand firmly around her thin waist, the scent of her talc wafted through his senses.

He continued to hold her, staring into her eyes, eyes that were as dark as a stormy sea until even he felt uncomfortable, then he let go her waist and stepped back, looking around rather feebly for an ice breaker to continue their little affair.

Mmmm, bit cold this time of year eh! blurted out of his mouth before his brain could apply the brakes and replace it with something that didn’t make him sound like a complete moron.

The girls sporadic starry eyed blinking abruptly stopped and was replaced by a look of determined questioning, Who are you and what the hell are you doing here? she demanded.

Taz glanced around looking for a plate or vase to hide under, his ‘little affair’ was imploding and his feelings of excitement with this nubile young girl instantaneously died a cruel and horrible death.

Mmmmm, Taz, I’m from the Assassins’ Guild, I was here to knock off, he leaned towards the balcony edge, indicating below with his thumb, Him.

Why? asked Victoria, not really knowing why she actually wanted to know.

Taz looked perplexed, he had never been asked ‘why’ he did what he did, and would never ask ‘why’ when given a job; this just wasn’t acceptable practice. So, he replied proudly Nobody, when approached by one of the Muggers Guild waving his badge with a Hello, my name is Wilfred and I’ll be your mugger today, asked ‘WHY’, nobody ever asks a baker ‘why bread’, you can’t ask ‘why’, it just is.

The young subservient mistress of the High City Councillor Padraig Argonius had thought her rescuer was dashing and mysteriously handsome, and had been contemplating satisfying the longing stirring in her loins up until this point. His previous statement however had washed any icing of that little cupcake and Victoria was quite willing to go against her better training and just be rude and walk away.

Taz had joined the Assassins Guild for three main reasons which were, killing the bad guys, saving the damsels and reaping all ‘rewards’. So far, he had only ever attained two out of three on the best of days, and this appeared to be going no differently than the rest.

He was contemplating another ridiculous statement in an attempt to dig himself out of the hole he was in when the house guard came barrelling through the door and saved him the embarrassment. They had been given a clue that something may be amiss when a large screaming hulk impacted with the carriage parked in front of the mansion. The guardsman drew swords when they saw the intruder reach out to grab the young girl obviously terrified by the whole situation, and charged forward.

The assassin reacted immediately the guards appeared, he gauged that these were as slow in movement as the two currently unconscious and bound on the roof, and therefore would have ample time for his calling card, the kiss and flee routine. He reached out and drew the startled Victoria towards him and planted a kiss upon her rose coloured lips and then whispered, Au revoir vous e’te magnifique.

He then leapt nimbly onto the balcony and swung himself up into the mansions’ ramparts and was gone.

The guards ineptly attempted to follow with resultant carnage and as they assisted each other back onto the balcony, Victoria thought to herself that she would like to meet this debonair assassin again – his former vocalised clumsiness had all but been forgotten.

The assassin flew across the rooftop, stopping only briefly to render one of the bound guards he had previously overcome, unconscious once more. Malevolence was something he was still working on, although not achieving the standard required by the Guild and its Master, his father. His older brother encompassed the very idealisation of the word and would dispatch a victim with speed, finesse and an extreme degree of malicious nastiness. That was probably why he had achieved the rank of Assassin Legate in record time whilst his younger brother, merely four years behind, could only achieve second tier acolyte, and on probation at that.

Even Taz’s mother, the dutiful wife and matriarch, had more malicious intent when in the kitchen than her son in the field of combat, well she had killed more people than Taz at any rate, it was never a smart move to cut in line at the markets when his mother was there.

Taz’s career appeared to be slowly going down the gurgler that was until three nights ago when, by chance, he came across a notice of tenure in his brother’s quarters. As Taz was still an acolyte, he was expected to assist the sanctioned assassins in cleaning and preparation. His brother had deposited his weapons as he always had, in a bloody pile in the centre of the room and Taz had commenced his loyal duties by the removal of whatever still remained impaled on the blades. His brother Marcellus had obviously suffered a highly successful and enjoyable night by the amount of meat left on his knives, and the younger brother had begun his chores with the washing of the robes his brother had worn.

As he prepared the robe, he noticed the corner of an envelope protruding out of a hidden pocket and on further investigation, found a very intriguing form. Most certified assassinations of the guild bore the wax stamp of the office and a signature of the Guild Sergeant at arms, an accountant by the name of Phil. This tenure however was opened, the plain wax seal broken and it carried no such guild stamp or signature, but simply a promise of payment upon delivery of deed at an address in the old Fleaside district and a name of the intended target.

It was prohibited for Principes or higher to take non- sanctioned jobs, although an acolyte such as himself would have the ability, and the prestige associated with the assassination of the name on this list would ensure acceptance by his father and hopefully cease the daily beatings by his brother. He would take the job, saving his brother the risk of expulsion from the Guild, and both would appreciate the sacrifice and risk by the younger son.

So, without the slightest consideration of any failure, the young Taz pocketed the form, completed his duties and began planning his new future, a future that would be full of respect, wealth and a chance to finally kiss his virginity goodbye.

He now leapt from the rear corner of the mansion into a large tree he had used to gain access to the upper level of the mansion, his previous reconnoitre of the grounds had shown the easiest entry and exit points he had ever known, obviously this councillor deemed himself too high to be touched. Within seconds Taz was over the wall and into the safety of the shadows, with nothing but the clamour of confused guards behind him.

Far across the clutter of rooftops, grimy streets, rats the size of crocodiles, wayward drunks and horse drawn carriages leaving trails of excrement, lay the house of Avitus Machiavelli, Master and high schemer of the Assassins Guild. The residence was deceptively generous in size for the suburb and elaborately furnished to suit the Masters’ position.

Avitus sat at the end of the very long dining table, he had never understood why his wife had demanded such an expansive, carved board, no one ever visited and assassins weren’t known for partying. His oldest son sat to his right, he was as large as his father and, like his father, loved maintaining his muscular body nearly as much as the love of the dispatching of some poor sod who either deserved it, or didn’t.

Marcellus sat with his head down, knowing not to speak until his father concluded his tirade of abuse. He would occasionally look up contritely and nod as his father added a few more descriptive words to the Arcus dictionary to illustrate the depth of his oldest son’s faux pas. His father terminated his colourful highlighting of the seriousness of the situation he had found himself in, by slamming his pewter stein full of beer into the table.

Doily, came the yell from the kitchen.

Yes dear, Avitus replied and roughly grabbed one of the small but lavishly stitched cloth mats. Doily, grab a bloody doily, he quietly mimicked, screwing up his face and bobbing his head back and forth.

I heard that, he looked up as his wife’s head popped out of the kitchen; although she stood only five foot and was waiflike compared to his massive frame, the Master of Assassins knew better than to take her on…ever.

He bowed his head, Sorry Aurelia.

The older son would never have the father know that, against express orders, he had inadvertently carried the paper in question with him on a non-authorised ‘removal’ of a person three nights prior, a vengeful former lover of a fair lady the son was now in a relationship with. If his father had discovered either part of this ruse, expulsion from the Guild would be the most pleasant of the retributions that would follow. Marcellus was in an almost hidden panic, sure that the paperwork had fallen out of his cloak during that night, and now rested in possibly anybody’s hands.

I had the notice, Marcellus stated, given an opening, You know I did, you saw it – it must have been lifted here in the house. His father slammed his fist into the table, And who would have done that, your mother? Certainly not Taz, that idiot couldn’t tie his shoes without poking his eye out.

Avitus had entrusted his newest Legate with this most clandestine task, there had been a freelance assassination notice placed on one of the councillors. This was not just any city councillor, but the councillor who enforced the treasury, the councillor who ensured all public workers including the city guard were paid on time, and the councillor who was secretly responsible for maintaining financial solvency of the Assassins Guild. Marcellus was to have investigated and eliminated any threat to the most important man in the guild itself, and he had buggered it up by losing the only lead that may have pointed to the source of said threat.

Avitus was contemplating punching his oldest son square in the head when his wife swung open the kitchen door carrying a tray of pastries, Sweet rolls boys, she yelled and both men sat upright, answering in unison like schoolboys, Yes please. As the tray was placed on the table each grabbed a handful, shoving pastries into their mouths like there was no tomorrow. Aurelia Machiavelli shared a loving eye over her men before slapping each in the back of the head, You eat like animals, she shrieked, Save some for Taz.

As she stepped back into the kitchen, both father and son looked at each other, Screw Taz, Avitus barked and the remaining pastries disappeared.

As the last of the pastries were devoured, and Marcellus was squarely punched in the face by his father, there came a loud knocking at the door.

One of the servants shuffled in with a Lieutenant of the City Guard in tow, he approached the table as Avitus rose and nodded allowing the Officer to pass a written message before turning to leave. Once the room was clear, Avitus opened the note. Avitus Machiavelli, Master and high schemer of the Assassins Guild went really quite pale.

Oh crap, he exhaled then punched his son squarely in the head again.

Four days travel to the east lay the small hamlet of Bagnip. A mostly geriatric population of around thirty, depending on the season, resided in picturesque hovels nestled in the Grimwood Forest. Though not what could be classed as postcard picture perfect, it did hold a certain appeal, much like a boggle eyed pug dog in need of major dental work could be classed as ‘cute’.

In the cottage that could have been classed as ‘the most hovel like’ sat Myrtle Attwater, she sat facing her open hearth fire, crackling away and bathing the darkened room in a warm yet disturbed glow. Myrtle had just celebrated her four hundred and eleventh birthday and the clatter of dishes and pots as they cleaned themselves in the kitchen lay testimony to one hell of a party, well, as much as witches over one hundred could ‘party on’ anyway.

Myrtle rocked slowly, a troubled look on her face; it was her birthday and her great great granddaughter Agnes had not appeared. It was dark now and Myrtle did not like her great great granddaughter potholing in the dark, you don’t know who you might astroplane into in the middle of the night. If she did not receive any message shortly, she thought, she would have to send Mr Wobbles to have a word with her and defer her travel that night.

At her feet lay a very large ginger cat looking rather old and war torn, it rolled and stretched out its massive paws, letting out a loud yawn. Myrtle leaned back into her chair, lay her knitting onto her lap and glared at the tabby as it tried to pretend to be asleep again. The obvious hole Myrtle was burning into the back of the cats’ head forced the poor creature’s eye to open in a questioning gaze. Myrtle tilted her head towards a pile of logs by the fire and softly ordered, Be a love and throw a log on for me Mr Wobbles.

The cat slowly rose and sauntered rather wobbly over to the log pile, clawing a log with its paw and rolling it in front of the fire. It then stood on its hind quarters, hooking both front paws under the round log and flung the wood into the fire. As the log left the cats’ paws, the tabby lost balance and toppled over face first into the glowing embers. This was followed by a high pitched howl as Mr Wobbles, its face now a ball of flame, shot across the room into the kitchen, leapt blindly headlong into the wall above the pot filled bench and fell unceremoniously into the sink.

Three minutes later Mr Wobbles, now even more wobbly on his feet and looking a little bit more war torn, entered the lounge room and lay at the old woman’s feet. Myrtle smiled down on her pet, Thank you dear, she said.

You’re welcome, the cat replied and went back to sleep.

Atop a humongous rock floating in the sea of mist that was known as the dark veil, perched a large bright and colourful beach umbrella. Positioned below this were a pair of rainbow shaded banana lounges and sprawled upon those were two demonic hobgoblins sipping cocktails. One was reading Tolstoy’s War and Peace and the other appeared to be eating what was once a small dictionary. For those that do not know, the dark veil is the region not of this astral plane, also known as otherworld or underworld, it fills the void of space and time that our dimension failed to. It was also used by magical beings for quick travel, much safer too as less chance of running into carpetbaggers or travelling salesmen and their endless stories of the road.

The hobgoblin eating the dictionary stopped for a second and had another sip of his cocktail– he thought he had heard something. Yes, there was definitely something, getting louder or, the hobgoblin thought, his tinnitus was getting worse. The second demon looked up also, the noise was approaching fast. Suddenly, there was a flash as a figure in a black cloak blasted past screaming like a banshee, on his breast was an embroidered crest, a four-plate shield encompassing two opposing daggers, a noose and a sheep.

Must be a subdivision member of the Thieves Guild, said the second, returning to his book.

"Something to do with livestock,