Dark Tales From The Strange Wyrld: The Number-Men

By Paramjit S. Bharj

BRIAN TRIFLE doesn’t usually trust wizards.  
Trapped and surrounded in an underground vault while stealing an ancient reliquary, an old wizard may be the former Number-Man’s only hope.

JIM TINKER finds his life turned upside down when ordered to journey from London to Aramon and investigate 
the

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wembley House
• Release date: Nov 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9781999969974

Paramjit S. Bharj

Paramjit S. Bharj has been writing short stories and poetry ever since he was a school-boy. His favorite genres include fantasy, horror, and science-fiction. Paramjit loves reading books on esoteric and spiritual subjects and likes to weave bits of wisdom he's picked up into his amazing stories. Writing is Paramjit's passion and he loves to spend as much time as he can crafting new worlds and adventures for his extended-family of characters. Paramjit attained his BSc(Hons) in Computer Science in 1999 and spent a couple of years as a web-developer, before developing my career as a professional Technical Author in Mayfair, London. Following that, he spent a few more years as a Technical Author and Marketing Executive in West Sussex, before being appointed the Managing Director of a Healthcare Provider.

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OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR:

The STRANGE WYRLD Saga

1. THE ELEMENTAL - April 2018

2. ASHES OF WAR - Spring 2019

The DARK TALES Series

FROM THE STRANGE WYRLD

1. THE JOBSEEKER - July 2018

2. THE BOY WHO RAN AWAY - Aug 2018

3. THE NUMBER-MEN - Nov 2018

COLLECTED WORKS (Hardcover)

1. TRAFFIC LIGHTS & ROUNDABOUTS - Nov 2018

Available at Amazon & all good online bookstores.

This edition published in 2018 by

WEMBLEY HOUSE

LONDON, ENGLAND

www.wembleyhouse.com

www.bharjauthor.com

Copyright © PARAMJIT S. BHARJ 2018

Paramjit S. Bharj asserts the moral right to be

identified as the author of this work in accordance

with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

ISBN: 978-1-9999699-7-4

Electronic Edition

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All rights reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of Wembley House.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

THE NUMBER-MEN

is dedicated to all my readers.

May your numbers forever increase.

ONE

A TRIFLING TASK

GAIA, ENG-LAND ACROSS THE SEA,

1763 A.Z. London - December 13

BRIAN TRIFLE was certain he had died and gone to Hell.

It had been a relatively short fall, but for a man his size, it felt a lot longer. His body was numb, lying there on the cold, dusty floor 150 levels below ground level; he wished it were all a bad dream, like one of those where you open your eyes and suddenly find everything as it once was.

Sadly, it wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t even a nightmare.

Brian opened his eyes to utter black, except for the feint glow of light seeping through the elevator shaft. The plan had been to lower himself to the cavern floor from under the lift carriage, but... things hadn’t exactly gone to plan.

Wish I was dead, he thought as the echo of whirring motors filled the air. Brian realised that the lift carriage was being called up and with it what little light he had left.

Torch!

Brian squinted his eyes as he ruffled through every pocket he could find.

Where are you, Torch?

Brian got back to his feet and froze suddenly as he felt every bone in his lower back click at once.

Shiiiiittttt he yelled as he straightened up and ever so slowly resumed his search for the torch.

Bloody wizards, he shouted as he dusted off his jacket and after a minute, which felt like a lot more, stopped. It hurt too much. Bruised and battered from the fall, the little African man gently sat back down.

Never trust a wizard, he told himself, remembering wyrds his great grandmother had once spoken to his father. Never trust’em. They’ll always get you in a pickle. Make you fall they will.

And fall he had from five floors up, landing hard on the ground, when his budget rope had snapped. With his only light source rising overhead, Brian grew evermore anxious, and felt the onset of a panic attack.

Not now, not now, muttered Brian to calm himself down, and tried to gather his thoughts.

I told him I wasn’t the right man for this… he thought, But no, it had to be his way.

Brian inhaled deeply. He wanted to achieve a state of peace, so he could think clearly, but ended up coughing hard and almost choking to death. His search had caused a cloud of dust to rise. Brian whipped out a large handkerchief from his left pocket and covered his face with it. Once the cloud had settled, he breathed in through the makeshift filter. The air was stale, despite the dust. Brian regretted being here. He should have been at home, reading, watching movies or even out with his friends. Giving in to the wizard’s request had been one of his worst mistakes, but... and there was a big but, in his heart, he knew that helping the old man was the right thing to do.

The whirring sounds stopped, which made Brian get back to his feet and look around. The lift carriage had stopped its ascent, so the little man from London found it easy to sit still and visualise. A couple of minutes later, he closed his eyes and found himself standing in stillness.

Cottonlike clouds wafted past him and then he was walking on long twisting branches. Round golden lamps floated in mid-air all around. Brian was home.

Home is where the heart is, he repeated like a mantra. Home is where the heart is.

Brian’s thoughts about the wizard who’d convinced him to break into the Vangard Vault and steal a reliquary known as the Quizzical dissipated and he settled into his dream of living in Absalom, kingdom of the Tree Druids. Brian smiled as the stillness set in and he floated away to the sound of his heartbeat.

Da-Dum… Da-Dum… Da-Dum, drip… Eh?

Da-Dum… Da-Dum, drip… That’s not right…

Idiot, shouted Brian, realising too late that the very thought had broken his standing meditation.

Drip……Drip……Drip…

The lift carriage was still sitting a few levels higher and was still sending down enough light for Brian to get a feel for the cavern deep below Sanctus Sanctorum’s London Headquarters. Brian