Cuthbert's Sword

By Jacqui Paler

Jet, a misfit within his own family, finds himself thrown into the chaos of slipping dimension and time. Freed from the apathy of his family by a white witch he finds himself catapulted into a war against evil. As the past touches the future Jet discovers the truth about his heritage and the sacrifices he must make.

The Dark Lord intent on spreading his malevolent evil seeks to harness all the magical powers around him and to turn them into darkness. In doing so he must destroy not only the White Witches but also the Ancients and those they give shelter to, the Seekers. A sword, steeped in history, and known to protect against the dark arts, would be their salvation. But, it has been lost for many years and only a chosen one can retrieve it.

Jet on his journey to find the Sword encounters, magic, mystical creatures and beings from other dimensions. He also discovers true friendship and family. Aware of the price he may have to pay Jet seeks the sword to raise against the Dark Lord.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tregill Press
• Release date: Oct 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9781738404216

Book preview

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Copyright © 2023 by Jacqui Paler

Published by Tregill Press

Printed in the United Kingdom

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording without the permission of the author.

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-7384042-0-9

eBook ISBN: 978-1-7384042-1-6

This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events, locales, persons living or dead is coincidental or they are used fictitiously.

Cover design and layout by www.spiffingcovers.com

Contents

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen.

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one.

Prologue

The Gods roared and the earth quaked as each one, terrible in their anger and greed let loose their powers. Mountains belched flames spilling white-hot lava that devoured all in its path quenched only by the sea that rose from its bed in mile-high waves that crashed onto the land. The earth shook and great chasms opened, swallowing man and beast alike before closing upon the unfortunates trapped within the moving rocks. Even as the sky boiled the Gods fought on. Each of them obsessed with being the sole survivor, holder of all the powers in their universe, master of all, subservient to none. When the awful power they unleashed collided, it recoiled upon them destroying their earthly bodies and reducing them to a spiritual existence for all time.

Small pockets of civilisation remained on the battered earth and now free from their tyrannical Gods, people and beast survived the aftermath of the holocaust. Some built new lives away from the influence of their old Gods. Others retained their loyalty to the old ways and the Gods rewarded them with knowledge and they became Mage, seekers of magic. To maintain their powers they had to be where the energy lines converged and so, for many centuries they lived, raised their children to the old ways and died, never leaving their village.

But their environment was not the only one affected by their Gods at war for at each side of their world lay another dimension. Beyond that were further dimensions and like a house of cards, when there was a card that waivered all suffered the repercussions. Pitted and scared from the onslaught of the Gods, the fabric separating the dimensions would drift open depositing creatures and beings into a lifestyle alien to them. Some made lives for themselves secreting themselves away and reproducing what had once been theirs. Others utilised their advanced knowledge of physics and science, integrating into society to be hailed as geniuses. Who can say if Descartes, Galilei or Faraday were not among their numbers? Many creatures, now passed into the myths of time, suffered the same fate, hurled into a world where their strangeness met with superstition, unicorns and dragons amongst them.

Slowly the rifts between the dimensions healed leaving only one point of danger. Over the converging energy lines lay a secluded village populated since before time began by those subservient to the old ways and refugees from other dimensions known as seekers. Outsiders came and went enjoying the oddity of their weekend retreat never realising that amongst them lived one with the desire to be master of all others, subservient to none. So, in this modern day, without the knowledge of our advanced society, evil festered, building its power on the innocent and weak, intent on controlling every aspect of life within its greedy grasp.

One

Silently, the Caretaker made his way through the forest. The new moon in the storm-heavy skies offered little light, but he did not need the light for he had walked this path for many years. Leaving the shadows of the trees he entered a clearing that rose and fell in gentle swells. Denude of trees but covered in many long forgotten herbs knitted together to form a thick green carpet. The aroma of Witches Brew, Hemlock and Lady’s Bedstraw rose from the earth to greet him.

The Caretaker had his bony hand wrapped tightly around the large cabochon of aquamarine which was often used as an enhancer of spells and a protector against evil. He placed his lips to the stone and whispered the chosen words. The stone pulsated throwing shards of blue light against the ivy and thorns causing them to curl back and reveal a darkened entrance. Stepping inside he removed from the depths of his cloak a small orb which erupted into light. Holding it high, he followed a stone path worn down by years of use into the main cavern where those he cared for rested.

Relief flooded through him to see that those he cared for still slept, their breathing heavy in the air, their great bodies relaxed and still. He had felt the tremors and knew forces were at work to change the order of things but were not yet strong enough to cause harm to those he was sworn to protect. But, fear stirred his stomach and ate into his soul for he knew that greed and lust for power would know no boundaries. Quietly he left the cavern, returning to the forest with a heavy heart.

Dorathea Dimmock struggled with the tray she carried laden with the paraphernalia needed to produce a tea. Casting a jaundiced eye over the occupants of the heavily furnished room, her brow squirrelled down to heat-flushed cheeks as she noted not one of the three women made a move to help her through the doorway. She was a tall woman – some would say statuesque with features that spoke of both intelligence and strength of character. The black dress that she wore swirled around her ankles and was covered for the most part by a voluptuous apron with many pockets.

‘It’s Stinkwitch!’ her lips grimaced in satisfaction as she imparted this information into the conversation. ‘Always has been, always will be.’

Felicity Cuthbert-Smythe squinted down her long narrow nose in annoyance at the elderly woman who plonked her best silver tea service down onto her antique table with enough gusto to make the delicate china rattle. ‘That will be all, Dimmock,’ she dismissed with an airy wave of her hand.

‘Mrs, it’s Mrs Dimmock,’ Dorathea corrected through gritted teeth. ‘Just like you are Mrs Smith, sorry Sm … ythe.’ She elongated the word enjoying the reaction as she prepared to leave the room.

‘Wait.’

Dorathea turned back to the room, unimpressed by the two guests in the house. Both were dressed in tweeds with sensible brogues on their feet and tightly permed curls on their heads. In fact, she thought them rather like the contents of the room masquerading as something they were not, old and musty, not quite antiques but out of place in the character of the village house.

The tall thin woman with a face that mirrored her disagreeable nature strode to Dorathea. Ignoring Felicity’s protestation, she demanded in an imperious manner, ‘Stinkwitch, explain.’

In reply Dorathea assumed her village idiot expression, ‘What’s yer mean, Mrs?’

‘Stinkwitch, why did you correct your mistress?’

‘Oh, ooh, my mistress … well see, that’s what this here place be called, Stinkwitch, named for the witches, whole coven there was. And the smell,’ she wrinkled her nose, ‘didn’t half used to pong. Not sure when or why the name got changed, but us that lives here, we call it by its proper name, Stinkwitch. Yes, that’s its right name.’ She nodded, curled her lip and repeated defiantly, ‘STINKWITCH.’ Not bothering to hide the smirk, she shuffled from the room.

Closing the door behind her she puffed out her cheeks in annoyance at the women on the other side. ‘Self-important twits,’ she muttered. Catching a movement out the corner of her eye, her arm snaked out catching hold of a young lad who was doing his best to look both invisible and innocent at the same time.

‘Them that listen at keyholes don’t hear no good,’ she said as she propelled him into the kitchen and plonked him into the nearest chair.

‘Cake, milk?’ Without waiting for his answer she slapped a large slice of chocolate cake down in front of him swiftly followed by a glass of milk. She then pulled out a chair and settled herself next to a strange-looking boy.

The young lad peered out of misty blue eyes. His face was as cherubic as any choir boy topped with a mass of honey-blond curls. His eyes shielded by long dark lashes swiveled between the two who sat opposite. ‘Whose he … are you—’

‘There,’ Dorathea all but crooned. ‘I knew you would be friends, he’s my grandson.’

Deciding that as a grandson all could not be lost, he shot out his hand as a less-than-cherubic smile lit his face. ‘Hiya, I’m Jethro but at school, they call me Jet.’

‘Why?’

‘Snook.’ His grandmother’s warning was clear in one word.

‘Snook … well if that’s your name, don’t see why you’d have a problem with mine. But just for the record, in our gang at school that’s what I answer to and bash anyone who says different. Not the teachers though … or the seniors.’

‘Ain’t you a bit short to go bashing?’

‘Small but mighty, are you going to shake or not?’ Jet waggled his hand.

With a grin spreading across his face, Snook stretched out his hand, ‘Might as well I suppose.’

‘There now,’ Dorathea grinned her approval. ‘More cake?’

Felicity could feel her smile slipping as she graciously nodded in agreement with the views of her guests. After all, the boy was an unwanted addition to the household, her husband’s son, though there was no resemblance physically or in demeanour. Didn’t she have enough to do without wondering what mischief he was up to? She turned back to her guests, her surprise guests, her uninvited guests. Guests she was sure only came to see her in reduced circumstances to enjoy her discomfort. She didn’t even like them; they reminded her of two old cats. Isadora with her pointed features always ready to sharpen her verbal claws and Miranda who now sat on her couch like some overindulged moggie finishing off another slice of cake.

Inwardly she cursed her husband, Godfrey, who had persuaded her to join him in this god-forsaken village. Admittedly