The Figment Wars: Search for the Caretaker

By David R. Lord

Thomas and Isaac Llewellyn are having a terrible first day back at school and they haven’t even had their first lesson!

A dangerous enemy has resurfaced. They are miles away from their cousin, Emily, the only person who will believe them. They are cut off from their allies in the Realm of Imagination. Can they stop Torvik on their own? Who is it that conspires against them from behind the scenes?

Thomas, Emily and Isaac may be the only humans to ever have visited the Realm of Imagination, but they are not the only ones who know about it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley
• Release date: Nov 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463513101

David R. Lord

David Lord is a preschool teacher from South Gloucestershire and an avid science fiction and fantasy fan. He dabbled in fan fiction and small writing projects for years but was encouraged to take on something bigger by several good friends. ‘The Figment Wars' is his first novel.

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David lives in South Gloucestershire with his partner. He enjoys acting and cosplaying, as well as writing. The Figment Wars: Search for the Caretaker is his second book.

For Jane Elizabeth Tranter and Trevor Alfred Lord, who never got to read these books. No longer with us, but always in my heart.

David R. Lord

The Figment Wars: Search for the Caretaker

Copyright © David R. Lord (2018)

The right of David R. Lord 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 9781788486323 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781788486330 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781788486347 (E-Book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2018)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

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Canary Wharf

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E14 5LQ

Prologue

Hindsight brought no comfort to Mr Fowler as he lay on his back on the floor of his cell. He would have been staring at the ceiling but for the fact that his vision was far too blurred, a searing pain jostling for position behind each eyeball. Besides, the cell was much too dark.

The smell of decade’s worth of accumulated grime permeated his blood-stained nostrils. He had given up trying to stand or even sit up, for every movement he made sent new ripples of pain throughout his bruised and battered body. Even the ordinary task of breathing was made harder by the blows he’d taken to his chest. All he could really do was think and not one of his thoughts proved helpful to his situation.

For a moment or two he considered what other people, regular people, might think about when placed in such a predicament. He supposed most of them took comfort in thinking about family, but Mr Fowler had none and not much in the way of friends either. Perhaps if he’d made better friends, he might not have ended up here. Indeed, as far as he was aware, no one had spoken up for him. Back when he had had some influence, he knew of many people who would have stood by his side, but one single blunder had left him without an ally in the world.

So, with thoughts of family and friends being out of the question, he tried turning his thoughts to work. This did him no good at all, for it was his work that had been the cause of the vicious beating he had received. Though he tried desperately hard not to, he found his thoughts straying to the possible fate that was waiting for him. As he envisioned his own death, he could feel the cold, dark hand of despair rising up from within him, ready to take hold of his senses. Finally, he thought of something that helped him to stay calm; his art.

As a child he’d been called gifted and talented. The happiest moments of his life had been when he’d had a paint brush in his hand, or even just a pencil. He’d always loved finding new ways to give form to the images in his mind. Copying other people’s styles for a stuffy art teacher or painting whatever lump of an object was placed before him had never appealed to him. He’d always preferred to create whatever happened to come to mind, wild impossible landscapes, people and creatures that could not possibly exist in the real world, explosions of colour and texture, all just because that was what he felt like doing at that given moment.

His work had been noticed by the right people at the right time. He had happily accepted the invitation to come live in the house of artists, the house under which he currently found himself imprisoned. He had created some of his most experimental and exciting works here, but once his time there was up he was obligated to take his place in the organisation’s true work. He had been trained as an agent, ready to continue the search.

Mr Fowler didn’t hear the door of his cell opening, nor the approaching footsteps. He cried out when two figures worked together to haul him to his feet, every muscle in his body on fire. Unable to resist them, he gritted his teeth against the pain as he was dragged from the cell and up the stone stairs, his bare feet hitting each step along the way.

Objects and what might have been people were nothing but blurred shapes as he was taken into a brightly lit room. The light stung his eyes, but before he could begin to adjust to it he was roughly deposited onto the floor, where he curled up in agony. He just about heard the sound of a door closing over his own laboured breathing.

Everything fell quiet for a few moments, then a voice spoke from somewhere nearby.

‘Mr Fowler, so good to see you up and about.’

He recognised the voice. It was the young upstart who was now in charge of the house, the new Primary. Fowler cringed as his thoughts turned to memories of the Primary he had served under. A truly brilliant young man dedicated to the arts. Not like this self-absorbed, preening egotist.

As his vision began to improve, Fowler managed to sit up, though it caused him great pain to do so. He could make out where the voice had come from; its owner was on the other side of the room, sitting at an easel.

‘I’ve had you brought up here because I’d like to get your opinion on this,’ said the Primary, looking up from his work and smiling.

‘True, it’s not my usual medium but I thought I’d give it a try. Your paintings, of course, are legendary around here and rightly so. One of them is still hanging out in the main hall…what was it called?’

‘The Endless Quest,’ choked Fowler as he tried to stand but failed abysmally.

‘Ah yes, that’s the one. Well, do come and have a look!’

Fowler knew the only way he’d be able to cross over to look at the easel was by crawling and that was only if he could bear the pain. Of course, to see him crawl was exactly what the Primary wanted. Such a thing would have been beneath Fowler’s dignity a few days ago, but that was before it had all gone wrong. Now he would do anything if it meant even a slim chance of surviving.

Focusing what was left of his strength; he thrust his hands out in front of him and began the long, slow crawl. His legs gave him no support, merely acting as long, burdensome weights attached to him at the hip. He could hear stifled sniggers coming from behind him. The two young men that had brought him in were still in the room and trying their best not to laugh at him.

‘The French Primary was extremely displeased with your actions, to put it mildly,’ said the Primary in a casual tone. ‘I’ve had him on the phone nearly all afternoon. Most annoying.’

‘It…wasn’t my fault,’ grunted Fowler as he pulled himself closer. ‘I was acting on a strong lead—’

‘Correction, what you believed to be a strong lead,’ said the Primary without looking away from his easel. ‘You forgot protocol, Mr Fowler. We have gone undetected for so long because we work together, planning our moves carefully. You, however, decided to act rashly, asking some rather clumsy questions of the Louvre’s curator. We were lucky that my French counterpart and I were able to hush it up.’

‘Please…give me another chance…it won’t…won’t happen again!’

‘I’m quite sure of that. I’ve promised the French Primary as much. Before we get on to that, however, please do tell me what you think of this.’

Having finally reached the Primary, Fowler struggled to lift his head to see the painting. What caught his eye first, however, was the look on the Primary’s face. In his expression, he saw precisely what he had meant by his promise to the French. Fowler knew that his fate had already been decided, so if he was going to die, he might as well tell the truth. He turned his head slowly to the painting.

‘Your brushwork…is sloppy…and your use of…colour…quite pedestrian…overall…nothing much to write home about…’

Exhausted from the effort of crawling, Fowler’s vision began to darken. He never saw the change in the Primary’s face, but he heard the change in his tone.

‘Make sure he’s found floating down the Thames,’ came the sharp, harsh voice.

Fowler felt himself being pulled up once again and then roughly dragged away. Just before they reached the door, he heard the Primary speak again.

‘And take that Endless Quest thing down and burn it. I’ve always thought it an eyesore.’

As he was dragged out of the house, Fowler thought of one last thing before everything went dark forever. The search, or indeed, the quest, would go on but it would go on without him.

Chapter 1

Popping Home to Change

The first day of secondary school can be nerve-wracking. There are new teachers to meet, endless corridors to navigate and the impending increase in homework after the first week or so. Some children have better first days at school than others. Isaac Llewellyn had had the worst first day in the history of schooling and it wasn’t even half over yet.

After meeting his tutor group, many of whom were children he knew from primary school, they had been herded into the school hall for the start of term assembly. Along with all the other Year 7 pupils, he had been seated towards the front, which meant he’d had a good view of the stage when the new head teacher got up to address the school. Unfortunately for Isaac, the new head teacher bore a striking resemblance to the man who had savagely tortured him by entering his very mind.

The moment he first saw Mr Newman clearly, painful memories had come flooding over Isaac, paralysing his senses. He saw glimpses of hideous creatures leering at him. He felt the restraints on his skin, binding him tightly against a chair. His mind went numb with the memory of the excruciating pain caused by a man managing to pass his hand through Isaac’s skull and violate his mind. None of his new schoolmates noticed this as they sat next to him in the school hall. All a few of them noticed was that Isaac had wet himself.

Isaac and his brother, Thomas Llewellyn, were currently walking home from school. Their route through the local park was much quieter than usual, but then it was half past nine in the morning. Mrs Oaken, the deputy head teacher of Pinetop Community School, had given them permission to go home quickly so that Isaac could change his trousers. Isaac’s little accident had caused a bit of a stir in the front rows of the assembly.

Mrs Oaken had quickly extracted Isaac from the hall, followed by his brother. She had done her best to reassure Isaac, saying that it was not his fault and that nerves can get the best of anyone. She hadn’t quite noticed how quiet the elder Llewellyn brother was being or the grim expression on his face.

As their parents would already be at work, Mrs Oaken had instructed Thomas to take his brother home to change and then come back as soon as possible. She’d promised them that if they were quick about it, there would be no need to let their parents know. If, however, they took it as an excuse to stay at home for a while, she had assured them they would regret it. For this reason and a number of others, Thomas and Isaac were walking at a brisk pace through the park in complete silence.

Thomas had also seen Mr Newman’s face from his seat halfway across the hall. The man talking so affably to the assembled pupils looked a great deal like Councillor Torvik.

A few months ago, Thomas, Isaac and their younger cousin Emily had been suddenly plucked from the human world and roughly deposited in a different world altogether. They had found themselves in the Realm of Imagination, a world populated by figments of human imaginings. Many of the figments they met were imaginary friends, but they had also had some unpleasant encounters with various kinds of monsters; creatures thought up by humans in those moments where your imagination plays cruel tricks on you.

It transpired that Councillor Torvik, a man they thought they could trust, had been responsible for taking them from the Realm of Reality in the first place. Torvik had indeed turned out to be extremely untrustworthy, for he was a manifestation of humanity’s treacherous and deceitful thoughts. The last time Isaac and Thomas saw him, he was plunging into an unstable portal between the Realms that he himself had opened. It was assumed that he had fallen into the Void of Nonexistence and ceased to be. Now they weren’t so sure.

They walked in silence the whole way home. This wasn’t because they had nothing to say to each other, quite the contrary. They stayed silent because they didn’t want to risk anyone overhearing their conversation. They left the park and walked at the same quick pace to the pedestrian crossing. Once on the other side they entered their own street. Isaac was shaking as they reached their front door and his brother took out his key. Thomas’ hand was shaking too, but he hadn’t realised it until the time came to unlock the door.

Once inside, Thomas threw his schoolbag onto the kitchen floor and sank into a chair. Isaac went straight to the sink and clutched the edge. His skin was pale and clammy, as though he were about to be sick.

‘This isn’t possible,’ said Thomas quietly. ‘This can’t be happening. Maybe it isn’t him…’

‘It’s him,’ said Isaac weakly, still clutching the edge of the sink. ‘I know it is.’

‘But he fell…he fell into the portal. He shouldn’t even exist anymore.’

‘Well it looks to me like he does!’ exclaimed Isaac shakily, turning to look at his brother. He took several deep breaths and then backed away from the sink. ‘I can’t…I can’t go back to school…I won’t!’

‘Calm down, Isaac!’

‘Don’t tell me to calm down!’ shouted Isaac. ‘The psychotic mad man who tortured me six months ago has turned up at my new school, he most likely wants to finish what he started and destroy my mind completely, and on top of all that I wet myself in front of the whole school!’

‘You think he’s just after you?’ asked Thomas incredulously. ‘I wasn’t exactly his best friend back in the Realm!’

Thomas and Isaac often referred to the Realm of Imagination simply as The Realm. They had referred to it by its full name at first, but began to shorten it after a month or so. They only ever discussed it in private, but there was always the chance they’d be overheard.

‘Now, first thing’s first. Go get changed.’

Isaac looked irritated at being ordered to do anything, but his wet trousers were beginning to smell. He plodded out of the room, still shaking and went upstairs to change.

Thomas rose from his chair and stood in the middle of the kitchen, his arms folded tightly. He wanted Isaac out of the room, just for a moment, so that he could think. He found himself wondering just how Torvik had survived. The portal he’d created had been extremely unstable. Belactacus, the Librarian of the Library that held all books, had been so sure that Torvik had been trapped in the Void between Realms.

Putting aside the mystery surrounding Torvik’s apparent survival, there was the question of what his plan was now that he was here. Whatever it was, Thomas had a sickening feeling that it involved him and his brother. That in turn brought him to the matter of what he should do now. Multiple scenarios and possibilities clashed in his mind, all in the space of a few seconds. As curious as he was about Torvik’s survival and his plans, Thomas tried with all his might to focus on the only thing he had any level of control over; his next move.

Isaac soon returned to the kitchen, wearing the other pair of school trousers his mother had bought during the summer holidays.

‘Isaac, we’re in this together,’ said Thomas quietly. ‘No matter what happens, we can’t start arguing. Agreed?’

‘Yeah…yeah, okay,’ muttered Isaac.

‘We’re the only ones who know about Torvik, apart from Emily. Mum and Dad will never believe us. Nobody will. We need to think about what we’re going to do now.’

‘I told you…I’m not going back,’ said Isaac, his voice getting higher.

‘Isaac, we have to go back! You heard Mrs Oaken, she only gave us permission to come back home so you could change. If we take too long she’ll call Mum and Dad.’ A sudden and terrible thought struck Thomas. ‘Or worse…Torvik could come himself.’

‘What?’

‘Think about it…our address will be in our files in the office. If he wanted to he could come here, on the pretence of seeing why we’ve been gone so long—’

‘That settles it then!’ exclaimed Isaac. ‘We have to leave! Get away from home!’

‘And go where, exactly?’

‘Anywhere! Somewhere he can’t find us!’

‘You’re getting hysterical! Think!’ snapped Thomas. ‘Just how far do you think we’d get before we’re found? Mum and Dad would report us missing and before you know it we’re hauled back here.’

‘Then what can we do?’ asked Isaac.

Thomas fell silent once again. They could both hear the hum of cars coming from the nearby road. People going about their business with no idea of the danger that could be about to befall them. Torvik could have come just to take revenge on Isaac and Thomas, or it could be part of a larger plan.

Thomas felt a sense of duty stirring inside him. The last time he felt this rising courage, he’d been about to storm the Tower of Realms and rescue Isaac. He knew exactly what to do now.

‘We go back to school.’ Isaac opened his mouth to protest, but Thomas cut him off. ‘We’re the only ones who know what he really is. He could be planning something terrible and if we run away, there’ll be no one to stop him.’

‘But what can we do?’ asked Isaac, sounding more weary than panicked now.

‘We stopped him before,’ said Thomas boldly.

‘Yeah, but you had superpowers.’

‘All you needed was your teeth, remember?’

Isaac couldn’t help but grin at this. It had indeed been Isaac biting down hard on Torvik’s hand that had sent him tumbling into the vast and unstable portal.

‘Besides,’ continued Thomas, ‘he can’t touch us. While we’re at school there are just too many people around. We’re going to go back, carry on as normal and keep an eye on him. We need to find out what he’s planning, and we’re not going to do that by running away. Come on, or Mrs Oaken will be after us.’

As they both picked up their school bags, Thomas couldn’t help but feel a little unsure of what he’d just told his brother. While it was unlikely that Torvik could make a move against them at school, it wasn’t impossible. Thomas purposely didn’t mention the possibility of Torvik finding them outside school for fear of upsetting Isaac further. They stepped out the door and as Thomas locked it behind them, Isaac asked a question Thomas hadn’t considered.

‘Do you think we should tell Emily?’

Thomas froze, the key still in the lock. Emily was the only person in the world who would believe them. The trouble was she lived on the other side of the country. On the other hand, she had a right to know. Despite this, Thomas shook his head as he put his key away.

‘No…not yet anyway. Wait until we know more. Come on, we need to be quick.’

They set off at an even faster pace than before but just as silently. There was nothing more to say for the time being. They arrived back at school in reasonably good time. They signed themselves in with the school receptionist, having signed out when they first left. Thomas made sure that Isaac found his way to his first class. He pretended it was purely because Isaac didn’t know the way, but the true reason was he didn’t want to let Isaac out of his sight until he absolutely had to. They didn’t see Mrs Oaken on the way, nor was there any sign of the man they’d have to get used to calling Mr Newman. At least, that’s what they’d have to do in front of others.

Having escorted Isaac to his classroom, Thomas made his way to where he was supposed to be. Unfortunately this meant getting to the chemistry room at the other end of the school. By the time he arrived, there was just under