The Rulers Above: Volume 1 The Traitor's Fool

By Del Winterbottom

Inside the King, through the glittering streams of his blood, there were three miracles sleeping together, and they were very small, and they each had a little face, and little arms, and little hands, and little legs, and little feet, and as they breathed slowly in, and out, they each made a beating sound, and these three little things, pleasantly dreaming away, were none other than the King’s Hearts.

In a miraculous world of angels and gods, a young woman from London becomes a hero as she helps the angels in an ancient war between good and evil that has been ongoing since the dawn of time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Del Winterbottom
• Release date: Sep 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005623036

Del Winterbottom

Author of The Silent Sheriff, The Rulers Above series, Take Me, Fable King, The Wishes In The Stones, Connie, and Fable Queen.

Book preview

The Rulers Above: Volume One

The Traitor’s Fool

By Del Billy Winterbottom

COPYRIGHT: 2018

All books written by Del Winterbottom

The Silent Sheriff

Take Me

The Rulers Above: Volume 1 The Traitor’s Fool

The Rulers Above: Volume 2 Awakening Of The Hearts

The Rulers Above: Volume 3 Eternity’s Glow

Fable King

The Wishes In The Stones

Connie

Fable Queen

When the Traitor killed the King, the world above was split into

Three

One for each Step

Each level of the sky

CHAPTER ONE: PEACE AT LAST

Unbiblical it all was.

Bibible, the floating kingdom, city of kings and queens, and stronghold of the Piepels, was blasting cheer across the third Step. Countless crowds of angels were celebrating, all over the sky. Whistles blew from every direction, from flying angels to others standing on Bibible’s stone floor, the many sounds of cheer ceaseless.

Bibible was the largest kingdom ever created among the three Steps, dwarfing Hinus Etrona of the second Step, and Highlow of the first Step. Bibible was over one hundred and fifty stories high as it floated motionlessly beneath Sky’s End. Its prodigious capacity was packed to the brim with smiles; ebullient angelic families stood gazing upon the victorious Archlords, as they composedly waved at thousands of excited children while ambling through the highest plains of the sky. A child stood in the crowd, utterly entangled in amazement, with his mouth wide open. The boy next to him was jumping up and down in animation, waving at his heroes. The boy in excitement looked at the other boy who had his mouth open.

WAVE TO THEM! the boy yelled.

The boy with his mouth open looked to his side at the other boy, looked back, and began waving, still powerless to shake off his amazement. Ten Archlords toured the whole of the three Steps, and wherever they travelled, crowds of jaunty angels would greet them with open arms. Over fifty proud angels staunchly accompanied the Archlords, and every now and then, as they flew past a fleet of homes, an odd angel out of the crowd would fail to control him or herself and would try their hardest to reach an Archlord – of course, they were stopped by an attendant and shoved back into the line. Bibible was the final stop for the ten Archlords, and the crowds were even more welcoming and cheering louder than the rest of the angels in the Steps, who were all still bubbling about their fantastic encounter and everyone knew that it would be a memory cherished for the rest of their lives. It took the ten Archlords two full days to greet the whole metropolis. Bibible’s structure was a vast tower with hundreds of thousands of areas, rooms, and bridges scaling the stories right up to the very end and inside the kingdom were homes and streets, and towns, and cities. It was a beautiful kingdom, cream-white walls, bridges, and grounds, all glittering, its vista displaying its divine majesty. When looked at closely, the kingdom resembled an army of statues, all holding hands, all linked together in an alliance. Statues of angels of all ages, telling their own unique stories in a memorial of the kingdom’s stone. Some statues along the walls depicted children, playing with one another in everlasting delight. Many of the bridges told stories of soldiers, defending their positions in a time of war. The ground, where millions of feet would walk every day, told stories of the wounded; angels of all ages, mostly young, sick and in desperate need of help as they lay next to one another with their arms extended to connect to the next arm. All of those memories provided the ground, for the latest angels of all ages to walk over.

From afar, the view of Bibible’s structure would change; the armies of memories could no longer be seen, and now, the tower was formed of only four humble angels, spread out evenly in a single circle. Bibible, from far away, was developed to look like four giant statues of angels, and each of them was holding onto the others’ shoulders, as they formed the circle of the tower’s plumpness. The four angels’ wings were all spread out high, in all directions of the sky, and all four statues were focused upon a single huge pedestal in the centre of their unity. In the middle of that one pedestal, a city could be identified, but it looked small from afar; when close up, the city was massive, its design a range of homes, pillars, and bridges. Angelic activity was spread over a lagoon, which cascaded as a surrounding, ravishing waterfall over the pedestal. As noon closed in on the kingdom, the Archlords’ tour of victory neared its end.

Above on one of the highest levels of Bibible, and deep within, through many rooms, each more narrow than the last, the hall of the Elders lay in wait, for Trance of Skyrise, who was making her return. Trance walked into the hall, her robust physique suited in immaculate gold and silver armour. She removed her helmet; her blond hair streamed down her back, regaining its flexibility. She marched down to the far reaches of the room. Eight Wingrests were built into the stone pillars behind. There was only one Elder present and his wings were nowhere to be seen. The Elder, dressed in white robes, had a long, streaky, grey beard, hanging down to his chest. Age had formed many deep wrinkles on his face. He sat observing the mighty Archlord as she kneeled and bowed to him. The repetitive sound of cheer and laughter could not be heard within the soundproof walls of the hall. Absolute silence reigned now and part of the Archlord was pleased of it.

I trust you know why you are here? the Elder said.

Yes...I am here...I have come to put an end to what’s left of the war, the Archlord said, her head still bowed.

The war is already over. Normandis knows his time is at an end. I and the other Elders have all made a decision together. You are to journey to Melthom. Apprehend and arrest him. He will be dealt with appropriately for his crimes against countless angels, some of whom once served him. Some of whom once served you, said the Elder.

The Archlord stood up.

As you wish, Trance said.

Stop…I am not finished; you will assist yourself with two of your finest soldiers. Normandis will be expecting you. We have sent him a message, foretelling your arrival. Any power he once had is now gone, due to Volance’s defeat, and with the disappearance of his son, I feel this final task will be no trouble at all. That being said...you must tread with caution. This is it, the moment we have all been waiting for. Normandis’ reign is finally coming to an end. Now, what you must do is clean up the mess that he has made. Start by bringing him here, where justice shall be exacted upon him, said the Elder.

Trance bowed her head briefly.

It shall be done, she said, then she turned away from the Elder and started walking.

Trance...

The Archlord stopped and turned to face the Elder.

Thank you, for everything that you’ve done, said the Elder.

What have I done? she asked.

You…have restored peace to our world, said the Elder, his face expressing immense gratitude.

The Archlord stared at the Elder, as if she did not understand the extent of the recognition that she had just received. Nevertheless, she bowed her head, still thinking of his last words, and moved on out of the hall, confidently……

Normandis was walking down a long dark corridor. His disciple was walking with him.

I trust everything is in order? said Normandis.

Yes it is, said his disciple.

What about the message? said Normandis.

I presume they are already on their way, said his disciple.

You presume? said Normandis.

They should be here any moment; we should not waste time, said his disciple anxiously.

Do you have any idea how important this is? If they find out my plan, then we are doomed, said Normandis.

They both walked through the end of the hallway and stopped. In the faint light, their features became distinguishable, as they stood before a broken bridge, inside a giant, desolate, sphere-shaped city. Vast segments of the concavity had recently collapsed. Dark clouds ambled inside, through large crooked holes. Normandis’ physique was quite large; muscles were tensing through his chest, arms, and shoulders. The shade of his body was raven. A black robe covered the bottom half of his body, while the top half was naked. They both looked up at the same time. Normandis unfurled his revolting quill-less wings: scars over the membrane – chips and cracks in the stick-like bones holding the membrane together. The colour of the membrane was the same as his body. The back of his wings was much thicker, and resembled a sable cape. They flexed their wings. Normandis’ wings rose slowly into the air, and then flapped down quickly, but before the edge of the wings could scar the floor, he had already launched straight into the air. His disciple did the same, but his wings were a third the size of his master’s, and they did not hold nearly as well in the air either.

Normandis had almost reached his destination; his disciple was going to be at least ten seconds later. Fitchlings were working their wings as fast as they could, as ten of them were organised into two lines, trying their best to hold up a large dining table in the air from underneath at both sides. Fitchlings were puny, winged, deformed creatures, with the body of a tailless weasel. Not a hair could be seen on any of their skinny little bodies. Their arms, wings, and legs were paper-thin, and they had only one muscle in each of their limbs, while three muscles were straining in their torso. They had two muscles in each wing, which they were working rapidly. None of them could speak intelligibly. They were all making brief wails, moans, and groans. Five Fitchlings were each holding a candle, at least ten feet above the table, dimly illuminating the room. The dripping candle wax was making one Fitchling very nervous as it melted. The first drop only just missed its shoulder. The Fitchling’s eyes were almost popping out of its head, clearly worried as the next drop was about to fall directly above it. The drop of molten wax landed on the Fitchling’s bold head. The Fitchling jumped away from the candle in pain and shock, peddling its legs in the air as its wings pulled it higher. The creature screamed, yahoooo, ha, ha, ha, haaaaa, as tears leaked down its face, while its lipless mouth quivered. The candle fell and bounced off the table as the flame extinguished. The four remaining Fitchlings were getting worried now, as their eyes peeked from their skulls.

Normandis shot up past the dining table; his wings yielded to gravity; the force sunk him onto a Wingrest, conveniently. Wingrests were special structures, made to hold an angel’s wings in comfort, to restore health, and to relieve stress from an angel. This Wingrest was of stone, its condition forsaken; its tarnished state was rich with blemishes and pocket-sized holes; its structure was similar to a tablet, but it had a carved seat in the middle with two armrests, which looked like two miniature pillars. The Wingrest had a wing-shaped hole at each side.

Normandis’ wings carefully slotted into the wing-shaped holes of the Wingrest, which then started supporting the bones and muscles of his wings. He placed his hands on the armrests; the Wingrest horizontalized; Normandis was now prone, his feet clinging to stone and his hands holding onto the armrests. Six Fitchlings appeared from behind the Wingrest, with wide cheeky grins on their little faces, as they chuckled to themselves. They planted themselves separately onto a spot of Normandis’ wings. Three of them, on each side, began stroking the wings gently. They next charged an electrical beam from their index fingers and started jolting the wings. The Fitchlings continued to shoot small strokes of electricity at the wings, making sure a new area was targeted every time they struck. Normandis could feel tingles of pain and it seemed to relax him and his wings. Another table, vertical, was facing him, this time supported by gravitational magic. Three throne-like chairs were static in the air, separately supported by six Fitchlings, who were holding onto the armrests, trying their hardest to hold the chairs up, in line with Normandis and the table. The table measured eight feet in length, and there were a good three feet in between Normandis and the table, and another three feet in between the chairs and the table.

Trance and her two assistants were closing in on the ruins of Melthom. The cocoon-shaped city floated idly in the darkest atmosphere of the three Steps. Night had fallen, the white clouds had turned black, and the sky looked miserable. Winds were soaring, and lightning strikes could be heard every now and then, shooting down from a distance with a bright warning firstly. Trance flew in, through one of the many craters in the sphere, and as soon as the three angels entered the ruins of the city, they instantly changed their course of direction. They all shot upwards, with Trance in the lead. She could see Normandis ahead lying patiently in the Wingrest. She prepared herself for the worst before she even got close to him. When the three angels had arrived, the Fitchlings fled hurriedly as Trance and her followers’ wings lowered them gently into the chairs, which they were now holding in the air due to their own manipulation of gravity.

Normandis was facing them, while Trance was looking up at him, as her two followers sat vigilantly behind her.

Osgoth – leave us, said Normandis, without breaking his focus from the three.

Osgoth looked at his master uncertainly.

Are...are you sure? said Osgoth.

Yes, now go, said Normandis.

Osgoth did not question his master a moment longer; he flapped his wings and left.

I believe you have quite a story to tell me? said Normandis.

Trance looked puzzled for a moment as she cocked her head to the right.

I’m sorry? said Trance.

Well – are you not going to go back to your Elders? Are you not going to return to them, with me in chains? Are you not going to tell them how you captured me? You can tell me first, if you’d like, said Normandis.

Normandis, it does not matter what I tell them, and do you think for a moment they would care for what I had to say? said Trance.

...I suppose not; well, go on then, you had best get it over with. Aren’t you going to arrest me? said Normandis.

Trance shook her head.

I find it pitiful, all of this, why? Why did it have to be so? You knew straight from the start that you could not win the war, and still you remained defiant enough to drag out your loss. What was once a beautiful sanctuary is now nothing more than a wretched ruin, doomed, and damned; innocent brave soldiers, being forced to fight for their Step; thousands died, families suffered and it was I who had to visit each and every one and tell them, that their mother, or their father…or their son…or their daughter had fallen. All of this...all because of you. Truthfully, I never thought it possible, that you, an agent of order, and one who believed in the greatest justice, could fall so low, and rise so high as an enemy of our cause, said Trance.

I still do believe in justice, which is why I have allowed you to come here today. In order to end this rebellion the right way, the war must continue. You think the war is dying out; the war is rising in ways you cannot predict, my long, lost, friend, said Normandis.

Your words are meaningless, Normandis, and they have all lost their sense, said Trance.

Trance carefully started unsheathing her sword as she continued to say her final words.

If you truly believe in the greatest justice, then you shall surrender yourself to the rulers, said Trance.

You just said to me that my words are meaningless—

Trance’s wings cautiously crept up, ready to propel her forward at any moment. Her followers were ready to defend her.

Perhaps I should show you something that does hold meaning, said Normandis.

Where is Angelica? said Trance, the full length of her sword was out now.

My son is dead, said Normandis.

Trance looked horrified at what Normandis had just told her.

What do you mean? That cannot be, said Trance.

On the contrary, I think you will find that the means of his death is about to attempt to kill you as well, said Normandis.

The Fitchlings around the Wingrest started trembling, as they knew all too well what was coming. The Wingrest began to shudder; a quaking sound could be heard from where the wings were resting. Normandis’ wing ground through the stone and submerged somewhere behind the crevices that were spreading along the right side of the Wingrest. The right side exploded as his wing smashed through – rocks spraying. His left wing was just as strong as his right, and the three angels in front of him were fascinated by the strength of his angelic tools. After a brief struggle, the other wing managed to burrow within the left side, then it blasted the other part of the Wingrest. What was left of the roof collapsed immediately afterwards. The Wingrest was now nothing more than a cratered seat. Normandis’ wings spread high. Trance was prepared to strike at him with her sword, but before she made her move, she decided to hold back at the decisive instant. Curious of her enemy’s move, and confident in her security, she watched.

Normandis lowered his head, groaning, as if discomforted. The groaning became a roar as his wings extended. Two fissures appeared from both sides of his spine; new flesh broke out, peeling the surface of his back, as the wings looked as if about to disengage from his body. An arm sprang into existence, next to his right wing, and it was extending above the head. At the end of the arm was a fist, and as it sprouted, it revealed proof of nothing natural. It was a twilight hand, with a human-sized palm, but more so, a claw made of steel so sharp, that it hinted at barbaric possibilities. The claw opened wide, its soft palm hugged the back of Normandis’ head; the shadowy threat of the steel claw masked his head. Another arm was approaching from the left side, slithering out of his shedding skin, rapidly growing in length. As soon as the left arm grew into the same size and length as the right arm, it stirred around Normandis’ ribcage and held its palm against the left side of his chest. At that moment, two identical, amphibian-like surreal entities emerged from Normandis’ back. They had long wavy tales, as they floated above their master. They had one arm each, and each possessed one of Normandis’ wings. A face could not be noticed anywhere around them; all that could be seen was a tail at the bottom and a wing at the top, and the middle looked like a raven bag, the same shape as a birdcage. Both of the bags looked like something was moving from inside. The two bizarre things dropped onto the floating table and slithered towards the three angels, making squelching sounds. When they got halfway to Trance and her soldiers, the two bags pressed their hands, each, onto the table, and leaped at the three. When the thing that was in the lead, lunged, its bag-like form naturally flipped over onto its back, revealing its terrifying, true appearance; the impression of its skeletal chest and ribcage poked from inside its shrivelled skin. Its neck was human-like and coarse, and there was no sign of any lump in its throat. Its human-sized head and back were joined as one, its neck from behind could not be seen. Its jaws pulled its great-white-shark-like mouth, which was twice the size of a human’s mouth, as far back as they could; teeth like shivs, held still, as it glided. Its single elf-like ear was listening at its right temple. Its face was missing a nose, eyes, and lips, and although both creatures had no eyes, it seemed they knew where everything was, what everything was, and what was moving; their skin felt like smooth rubber. Its claw rose, ready, as if it was about to grab something. As soon as Trance and