#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #36: Reconstruction

This is episode 36 of my ongoing web serial, updated weekly as a part of #fridayflash. If you are new to The UCF Stories and would like to read from the beginning, or if you've missed an episode, you can find a full index of the episodes here.

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Twinkle buzzed low over the river, the weight of The Book forcing her dangerously close to the fast-flowing water. Up ahead she could see the fairy fortress swathed in scaffolding, a myriad of workers scrambling about on it like so many tiny ants. The ache in her wings forced Twinkle to land on the riverbank, and from there she followed the circuitous land route up the cliffs to the fortress' main gate.

Once past the sentries, Twinkle found herself in the familiar surroundings of the courtyard, familiar but yet different since the collapse of the fortress wall. Piles of dressed stones lay everywhere, jockeying for position alongside heaps of rubble, tools and building supplies, through which were sorting several creatures, apparently gnomes. Twinkle hailed the nearest one.

'Well met, Master Gnome. How goes the re-building?'

The gnome ignored her, so Twinkle strode closer. The nearer she got, the more uneasy she felt. There was something odd about the way the gnome kept scratching his beard, as though he was uncomfortable wearing it. And his tunic did not seem to fit properly either, bunching up around his middle so that he had to re-adjust it every few minutes. It was almost as though, Twinkle thought, he was straightening a lumpy stomach rather than his tunic. She was on the point of calling out to the gnome again when a soft cough sounded behind her.

'M'lady,' said Oberon, 'How nice to see you.'

'Captain Plan...'

Oberon rolled his eyes.

'Oh, sorry,' said Twinkle, 'I forgot. My Lord Oberon.' She bowed.

Oberon waved away her apology.

'Think nothing of it, M'lady. There are times when I am addressed with my new title that I think my previous Lord is standing right behind me. I just can't shake that feeling.'

'Is there any news of my father?'

'No, M'lady. I have my agents abroad in both this realm and the other, but there's not been a word of your father since his banishment.'

Twinkle sighed. 'No matter. I presume my mother is in her chamber?'

'Yes, M'lady. I have managed to,' he coughed, 'Escape for a few hours to supervise the building work.'

Nodding to Oberon, Twinkle set off across the coutryard in the direction of the royal chambers. Half way there she paused, half turning back.

'My Lord, is there something strange about the gnomish builders?'

'I have decided that is something best left well alone, as long as the work is progressing.'

Twinkle nodded, turned and disappeared through the doorway to her mother's chamber.

* * *

Titania lay wrapped her blankets and snoring like a hog when Twinkle arrived. Polite enquiries as to the state of her mother's wakefullness were met with snorts and grunts, so Twinkle was forced to give Titania a sharp poke to the shoulder in order to elicit a response.

'Ugh? What? Who is it?' Titania slitted open an eye.

'It is I, Mother...'

'Who?'

'Twinkle,' Twinkle sighed. 'Your daughter.'

'Whaddya want, daughter?'

'I have The Book.'

Titania sat bolt upright in her bed, eyes wide, a grin spreading from ear to ear. Her tousled bed-hair gave her the appearance of a maniacal hedgehog. Twinkle stifled a giggle.

'You have it?!'

Twinkle nodded, still fighting to keep a straight face.

'You have it!' Titania crowed. 'We're saved! Let me see it, let me see it.'

She snatched The Book from Twinkle's outstretched hands and held it up to a shaft of sunlight which fell across the bed from an open window. Sunlight draped the battered leather cover and Titania laughed. It was a high-pitched, squeaking laugh that made Twinkle wince.

'Perhaps now you will give me leave to go and find my father?'

'Your what? Who?' muttered Titania. 'Oh, him. Yes, yes, I suppose so. Off you go.' She waved Twinkle away.

* * *

Twinkle was halfway across the courtyard when a piercing shriek rent the air. Since it emanated from Titania's window, Twinkle could only presume her Mother had discovered she lacked the key required to open The Book.

Oberon winced as Twinkle approached.

'Is that scream anything I'm going to need to deal with, M'lady?' he asked.

'Hopefully not,' said Twinkle, 'And will you stop calling me M'lady?! My mother has just discovered that when she bid me bring her The Book I took her precisely at her word. She never mentioned the key.'

'Ah.'

'She has however, finally given me permission to go in search of my father. If she wants the key, she's just going to have to wait until I have found him, isn't she?' Twinkle winked.

'Meanwhile, I shall be the one stuck here on the receiving end of your mother's temper. I can understand why your father took to the bottle.'

'For that I apologise. You were always kind to me while I was growing up. You don't really deserve this. I will try to return quickly, but for now I must fly lest my mother has the chance to change her mind. That will be difficult though, I had her scribe make an official note of her permission.'

'It's alright.' Oberon hugged her. 'Now, away with you while you still can.'

As Twinkle swooped low over the fortress wall, Oberon once again turned his attention to the gnomish builders.

'We don't employ Goblins, my arse,' he muttered as a nearby builder's false beard fell off at his feet.

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #36: Reconstruction

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #35: The Key To It All

This is episode 35 of my ongoing web serial, updated weekly as a part of #fridayflash. If you are new to The UCF Stories, or have missed an episode, you can find a full index of the episodes here.

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Gardner's enjoyment of his snack was spoiled by something sharp poking him on the end of his nose. Swivelling his eyes, Gardner went cross-eyed to discover the source of the prodding was the tip of Pogmorton's wand, which now hovered dangerously close to his left nostril.

'Leave it,' said Pogmorton.

'I...err...umm.'

'You remember what happened the last time time you messed with a pixie. The night we first met, as I recall?'

'Yesh,' mumbled Gardner, his mouth still full of Twinkle's neck.

'Then put the fairy down.'

Gardner released his grip on Twinkle's neck and shuffled reluctantly backwards, his eyes still focused on Pogmorton's wand.

There's something not quite right about that pixie, Gardner thought, he's never been quite right since he came back.

Pogmorton extended a hand and pulled Twinkle to her feet.

'Thank you,' said Twinkle quietly.

'Don't thank me yet. If anything happens to Rushalka, I'll make you wish you'd never been born. Now, get down those stairs.'

Pushing Twinkle before him, Pogmorton made his way through the trapdoor back into the basement. As they reached Swazzle's hut, Pogmorton shoved Twinkle onto the front step.

'Wait here, I'll get The Book.'

As he walked away, Pogmorton tossed an angry look back at her, which yapped and ran around her feet snarling.

'If you move, it'll shred your wings,' Pogmorton offered by way of an explanation.

Twinkle visibly paled.

* * *

Creeping silently through the small door next to Rev Beresford's fireplace, Pogmorton emerged into the priest's study. The vault he had created the night he died hung in the air near the sofa. Pogmorton scrambled onto the arm of the sofa, pulled out his wand and began a ritual of immense complexity that involved many intricate wand gestures.

As the ritual reached its conclusion, Jamieson appeared from behind the sofa carrying a dustpan and brush, just in time for Pogmorton to shout, 'Catch!'

The Book winded Jamieson as it landed on him, but what upset him more was the fairy hand that landed full in his face, dripping blood down the front of his second best tunic. Jamieson let out a shriek, shook the appendage from his face and, glaring at Pogmorton, vanished.

Pogmorton grabbed The Book and Twinkle's hand and dashed back to the basement, where he found Twinkle exactly where he'd left her, still guarded by the angry look. He threw Twinkle her hand.

'Antidote. Now.'

'Alright, alright, but call that thing off first.' Twinkle gestured towards the angry look.

Pogmorton let out a low whistle and the angry look's ears pricked up. It turned and scampered towards him, climbed the front of his clothes and re-attached itself to his face.

'Get brewing that antidote.' Pogmorton pushed Twinkle ahead of him into Swazzle's hut and stood over her while she set about brewing. By the time the antidote was ready, Rushalka was wreathed in sweat and clawing at her bedclothes, gasping for water. She recoiled visibly at the sight of Twinkle when the fairy approached her bed, and it fell to Pogmorton to lift the cup to his sister's mouth. Rushalka greedily sucked down every drop then collapsed back against her pillows.

After a few moments a warm glow seemed to settle about Rushalka, the sweat evaporated from her brow and her breathing eased.

'She'll be alright now,' reassured Twinkle.

'She'd better be.'

* * *

Rushalka was recovering nicely as Pogmorton escorted Twinkle out through the air brick onto Goddess Rising's back step.

'Here's The Book.' He handed it over. 'Now piss off.'

Twinkle took to the air, flapping furiously to gain height under the additional heavy weight of The Book, and buzzed low over the back yard wall just as Swazzle and the Draig returned from their stroll.

'Was that Twinkle I just saw leaving?' said Swazzle as the Draig nuzzled Pogmorton's leg.

'Yup. I had to give her The Book.'

Swazzle was aghast.

'She poisoned Rushalka. I had to.'

'But, but...'

'It's alright though,' there was a gleam in Pogmorton's eye as he fished around in his pocket before holding up a small spherical object. 'She can't do a thing with it. She's bollocks'd 'cos I've still got the key.'

Swazzle recognised the walnut shell they had appropriated from Simeon some weeks previously. A smile began to twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Peals of pixie laughter rent the night air, the Draig lolloping in happy circles at their feet.

'You do realise she'll be back?' said Swazzle between sniggers.

'Of course she will.' Pogmorton dabbed tears of laughter with his handkerchief. 'And when she does, I will kill her.'

One look into Pogmorton's eyes left Swazzle in absolutely no doubt he meant it.

'No-one hurts my sister and lives.'

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #35: The Key To It All

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #34: Twinkle in the Pixies' Den

This is episode 34 of my ongoing web serial, updated weekly as a part of #fridayflash. If you are new to The UCF Stories, or have missed an episode, you can find a full index of the episodes here.

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Twinkle examined the air brick in minute detail but there appeared to be no opening mechanism, magical or otherwise that she could find. She pulled it, pushed it, swore under her breath at it, but the brick wouldn't budge. She was on the point of trying a particularly explosive kind of magic when the brick swung open and Twinkle only just had time to dive into the shadows.

Salkeld emerged, whistling to himself as he upended a rubbish bin off the back step. Twinkle took the opportunity to slip silently inside. Salkeld was sure he'd caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye, but when he swung round he found himself alone. He shrugged and ducked back inside, tapping the lock with his wand and hearing a reassuring “click” in response. Salkeld sauntered back up the passage towards the basement.

Keeping to the shadows, Twinkle crept into the basement. She had seen Salkeld lock the door behind him and her throat tightened with the knowledge she was going to need help to get out again.

* * *

Upstairs in the shop, Gardner was pacing. Crowley leafed through yet another ancient tome, desperately searching for a method by which he could re-create the ritual to restore his human form. Gardner's pacing was beginning to get on his nerves.

'For goodness sake! Will you stop that?'

'Eh? What?' replied the cat, still pacing.

'You're wearing a hole in the bloody carpet! How am I meant to concentrate?'

'But I'm hungry,' wailed Gardner. 'I always pace when I'm hungry.'

Crowley rolled his eyes. 'You were fed not three hours' ago. Where do you put it all?'

'It's not my fault I have a fast metabolism.'

'Ha! Fast metabolism? Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately? The only thing fast about you is the speed with which you clear your dish. Now do me a favour, would you?'

'What?'

'Sod off and pace somewhere else so I can concentrate.'

Grumbling, Gardner set off to pace in the corridor instead. Crowley sighed, and turned back to his book.

* * *

Twinkle eased open the door to Swazzle's hut, marvelling as she did so at the shoddy workmanship of Pixie construction. Slipping inside, she pulled a small pouch from her clothing and sprinkled its contents liberally into the pottery cup next to Rushalka's bed.

'Hey, what are you...,' murmured a sleepy voice behind her.

Her heart hammering, Twinkle spun round to find Pogmorton sitting on the edge of his bed, staring bleary-eyed at her. She was on him before he could finish the sentence, the tip of a wicked looking dagger held to his throat. Pogmorton's Adam's apple wobbled up and down in an attempt to avoid the tip of the blade.

'Not another word,' hissed Twinkle, 'Or I'll open you from ear to ear.'

Pogmorton nodded gingerly.

'I must talk to you about The Book. But not here. Somewhere private. Let's go.'

Motioning with the dagger, Twinkle followed Pogmorton outside.

'The shop,' said Pogmorton keeping his voice low. 'It should be nice and quiet up there.'

Good idea, thought Twinkle. And closer to an escape route.

'Lead the way.'

Pogmorton, dressed in his nightshirt, lead the way over to the stairs, his curly-toed slippers slapping against the floorboards as he walked. Every footstep sounded to Twinkle like a drum being struck. She wondered how on earth Pogmorton hadn't wakened the whole basement.

'It's this way,' whispered Pogmorton, absently scratching his behind and yawning.

Twinkle shuddered, trying not to think what lay under the nightshirt as they reached the stairs. Soon they were at the trapdoor, which swung open a few inches to Pogmorton's touch and they clambered through the gap into the shop.

'Evenin' Pogmorton. Who's your friend?'

Twinkle was sure her heart would burst as she desperately scanned the shop for the source of the voice.

'Evening, Master Crowley,' replied Pogmorton as Twinkle caught sight of the large, grey rat on the shop counter.

Twinkle's mouth opened and closed, the rat seemed to be, no, it couldn't be. It was, the rat was reading a book.

'Allow me to introduce Mistress Twinkle, a fairy of my,' Pogmorton paused, fixing Twinkle with a steely gaze. 'Acquaintance. She needs to speak to me in private, apparently.'

'Oh, don't mind me,' replied Crowley, 'Once I get my nose, err...snout in a good book, I'm dead to the world. You carry on. Pretend I'm not here.'

'Right then,' said Pogmorton, turning to face Twinkle. 'What's all this about The Book?' He wiggled his fingers in the air to emphasise “The Book.”

'It's a long story,' Twinkle began. She caught sight of Pogmorton's expression. 'But I'll keep it short,' she added, 'Under the circumstances. The Book contains a very old and complex ritual which, if performed correctly...,' Twinkle bit her lip.

'Go on.'

'Which if performed correctly, has the power to rob my people of their magic and power of flight. We, the fairy kingdom that is, need to destroy The Book, but there's a snag. You are the pixie who sealed The Book in its vortex, so only you can break the enchantment and retrieve it.'

Pogmorton did not look convinced.

'My right hand is in there too and I'd quite like it back,' she added with a weak smile, glancing at the crystal appendage poking from the right sleeve of her tunic.

'I seem to remember, and correct me if I'm wrong here, dying to stop you getting your hands on The Book,' Pogmorton said flatly. 'Why on earth should I help you get it now?'

Twinkle's eyes gleamed. 'If you want the antidote to the poison I slipped into Rushalka's cup, you'll help me. The spell of thirst I placed on her should be working just about,' Twinkle paused, 'now. She'll wake desperate for a drink. And before you get any bright ideas, it is a formula of my own invention, and only I have access to the antido...'

The rest of Twinkle's sentence was cut short as she pitched forward with a grunt, a large cat's paw planted firmly in the middle of her back.

'Oooh, Pogmorton! You brought me a snack.' Gardner smiled. 'You're too kind,' he mumbled as he clamped his jaws to the back of Twinkle's neck.

'Nooooooooooooo!' wailed Pogmorton.

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #34: Twinkle in the Pixies' Den

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #33: Of Draigs and Gnomish Builders

This is episode 33 of my ongoing web serial, updated weekly as a part of #fridayflash. If you are new to The UCF Stories, or have missed an episode, you can find a full index of the episodes here.

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The draig paced inside its cage. Swazzle had been gone for hours and the draig was hungry again. The fortnight since Christmas had been a period of frenzied activity in the basement of Goddess Rising, activity the draig had not been invited to help with. It had spent much of its time cooped up in its cage and was beginning to resent this new arrangement.

If it could have asked him, the draig would have known how guilty Swazzle felt at keeping it locked up. His nocturnal wanderings took him farther and farther afield in search of this and that for Botchett, patrolling for any signs of fairy activity or procuring enough food for the draig. Privately Swazzle thought the draig was comfort eating. He was also convinced that, unless something could be done soon, it was only a matter of time until the local butchers reported the continuing thefts of sausages to the Big Folk's Police.

Pogmorton had proved a poor companion for the draig. Still weak from his ordeal, he spent much of his time in bed, or speaking in hushed tones with Rhusalka when she came to visit. The draig had tried to engage him in play, earning itself a smack on the snout when it snapped playfully at Pogmorton through the bars of its cage.

It was late in the evening when Swazzle arrived home, shaking the rain from his cloak as he stamped mud off his boots on the doormat.

'Blimey! It's pissing down out there,' he announced to the room in general.

Pogmorton opened a bleary eye. 'Eh? What?'

'I said it's raining. Absolutely chucking it down.' Swazzle dug in his satchel, producing a package wrapped in butcher's paper. He strode over to the draig's cage. 'Here you go, lad. No sausages tonight I'm afraid, but I've brought you a rabbit. I'll take you out for a walk later.'

The draig fell upon its meal, the taste of rabbit a welcome change from pork sausage. The draig had been thinking you could have too much of a good thing. The endless diet of sausages had begun to give it wind, and it didn't think Swazzle appreciated the sudden vents of fiery gas through the door of its cage at all hours of the day and night. In seconds the rabbit had been devoured and the draig sat, swishing its tail in front of the cage door.

'That thing eats like a unicorn,' mumbled Pogmorton.

Swazzle chuckled softly. 'Aye, it has quite an appetite and no mistake.' He turned to the draig, 'Come on then, lad. Let's go and have a wander.' Swazzle opened the cage door, deftly attaching the draig's lead as it attempted the dash past him, and waved to Pogmorton as he was dragged out the door.

* * *

Oberon had serious misgivings about the two gnomes as they clambered over the ruins of the fairy fortress, tape measures in hand, pausing now and then to scribble in small notebooks and suck their teeth. After an hour of such treatment, Oberon could stand the suspense no more and bellowed at the pair to tell him what was going on.

The gnomes trotted over deep in conversation, the fatter one holding up his pencil against Oberon's question while he concluded his conference. Sensing Oberon was about to explode, the fatter gnome reached into his waistcoat pocket and handed over a business card, which read: Messrs Flaecem & Scarpa, Structural Engineers. Oberon was almost sure he caught another line of text swim into view as the card was handed over: Fortress renovations a speciality.

'Hmmm,' considered Oberon.

'We can start tomorrow,' piped up the smaller gnome.

'I dunno.'

'We're very reasonable,' reassured the larger gnome.

'You don't employ goblins?'

The gnomes consulted. 'Nope, only gnomes,' they replied in unison. Oberon noticed the smaller gnome writing something in his book. Attempting to read it upside down, Oberon was sure he saw the words “false beards” before the gnome snapped the book shut and beamed a most disarming smile at him.

'I suppose it would avoid the whole tendering process,' Oberon mused, stroking his chin, 'And you reckon you can begin work tomorrow?'

'At first light,' chorused the gnomes.

'Oh, all right then. You're hired.'

'Champion,' said the larger gnome.

'See you in the morning,' said the smaller one.

It suddenly occurred to Oberon that he ought to get a price before the work started, but when he shouted down the castle wall, which the gnomes were scaling with alarming speed, they didn't appear to hear him. Oberon shrugged and walked back to the quarters he now shared with Titania. I mean, what could possibly go wrong with gnomish builders, he wondered.

* * *

Twinkle watched from her vantage point on the roof of Goddess Rising as Swazzle swung the air brick open and climbed out into the night, the draig close on his heels. Picking his way carefully between the piles of rubbish in the back yard Swazzle and his pet soon vanished over the top of the back yard wall.

Rubbing her hands, Twinkle beamed. So that was the way into the basement, she thought. Her ten day vigil behind the chimneypot had finally born fruit. She thought as she crept towards the edge of the roof, that she would not miss sharing the roof with the feral pigeons who seemed to take great exception to her presence. Brushing the last of their droppings from her cloak, Twinkle dropped silently over the edge, gliding down to the back step.

She made straight for the air brick, wondering how on earth she was going to get it open.

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #33: Of Draigs and Gnomish Builders

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #27: Questions, Questions

This episode is number 27 in my ongoing web serial, updated weekly as a part of #fridayflash. If you are new to The UCF Stories, you can read from the beginning here.

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In his sitting room above Goddess Rising, Rev Beresford was on the phone.

'Yes, Your Grace, I am still working on it, but the witch seems somewhat distracted at present.' He paused, listening. 'There have been developments though. Pardon, Your Grace? No, on another matter I have been unable to inform you of as yet.' Another pause. 'Of course, Your Grace, as soon as I can get away. On the original matter, did you receive the video footage I sent you? You did? Good...'

Rev Beresford's voice trailed off, his eyes drawn to the wooden cabinet on his sideboard that had begun, very gently, to vibrate.

'My apologies, Your Grace, I will have to call you back.' Rev Beresford replaced the receiver and struggled to his feet, his arthritic knees creaking in protest. The vibration had become a rattle and he began to worry the cabinet would shake itself onto the floor. Not wishing to risk damage to its valuable contents, Rev Beresford shuffled towards it as fast as his old legs would carry him, absently picking up his copy of The Daily Telegraph newspaper as he went.

By the time he reached the sideboard, heart pounding and palms clammy, the vibration had become quite violent. Resting his hip against the sideboard to roll up the newspaper, Rev Beresford felt the vibration coursing through his whole body. Steadying himself with one hand, he carefully reached into his waistcoat pocket for the small, brass key and reached out towards the cabinet.

'Hold still,' he muttered as the cabinet tried to escape its key, jiggling across the sideboard top.

Eventually, he managed to insert the key into the lock and, taking a deep breath, opened the lock. The cabinet doors shot open, Rev Beresford staggering back with a gasp clutching his cane. Something flew out of the cabinet like a bullet, buzzing around his head, easily eluding the newspaper he swatted ineffectually at it with. With a high-pitched squeaking cackle, the old fairy flew straight at the Rev's face, raking his cheek with razor sharp claws. Rev Beresford cried out in equal measures of shock and pain and the fairy, still cackling, sped off, flying a tight spiral course that took it straight up the chimney.

As Rev Beresford hobbled over to his armchair and poured himself a large whisky the fairy, trailing smoke from its wings shot out of the chimney pot with a “phut” like a cork from a bottle and climbed into the cold morning air. It was last seen riding a very recalcitrant seagull towards the climbing eastern sun.

After a few minutes when the whisky had taken the edge of the Rev's jangling nerves, he risked approaching the cabinet again. How on earth did Oberon escape he wondered, the thought freezing as he spied the fairy, wild-eyed and thrashing as it attempted to loose its bonds.

'My goodness!' said Rev Beresford reaching into his pocket for his spectacles. Bending forward, he took a closer look at the cabinet's new incumbent. Similar in size to the previous occupant, this fairy, he noticed, seemed a little more richly dressed, though the stain on the front of its trousers seemed a little suspect. And it looked drunk.

'Well, well,' Rev Beresford straightened up slowly. 'I'll have a proper look at you later, my lad,' and with that he shut the doors of the cabinet, locked them and dropped the key back into his waistcoat pocket.

* * *

Swazzle bumped into Salkeld on his way to the hospital to see Rushalka.

'Captain Swazzle,' Salkeld waved and hurried toward him. 'I've been looking for you. There's something at the hospital I think you ought to see.'

'I was just on my way there now,' Swazzle fell into step with Salkeld. 'I was meaning to ask you, how did you survive that fairy attack?'

'It was a close run thing,' replied Salkeld, hoisting up his shirt to reveal an ugly scar. 'Still hurts a bit, but I'm getting better day by day.'

'I also owe you an apology, and my thanks for rescuing us. How did you find us?'

'That was the Goblins,' chuckled Salkeld. 'I've been spending quite a bit of time with them since we got here. Their healer is,' he lowered his voice to a whisper, 'Better than ours. I owe my good health to him really.'

Swazzle raised an eyebrow.

'No, seriously. I've no idea what he did to me, don't remember much of it, but it seems to have worked.' Salkeld flexed his arm. 'See?'

Swazzle saw and looked suitably impressed.

'You'll have to meet him,' Salkeld continued, 'He's quite something. From the Balkans originally, at least that's what I think he said, my Goblintongue's a bit rusty. Came over here after the siege of Sarajevo apparently, which is where he learned his doctoring, so he says.'

Swazzle and Salkeld chatted in amiable companionship as they walked to the hospital. Once Swazzle got Salkeld off his hero-worship of the Goblin healer, he began to explain his predicament with the Draig.

'Aha!' beamed Salkeld, 'I know someone who might be able to help.'

Swazzle looked questioningly at him.

'Another of the Balkan Goblins who came over with Mratic, that's the healer's name by the way. Anyway, this other chap's a dab hand at make do and mend, so he's bound to be able to scrounge you something up. You know the Goblins have installed gas heating in their burrow?'

'No I didn't. How'd they manage that?'

'Broke through the building's gas pipe and rigged up something involving garden hose and tap fittings apparently. I'm still a little hazy on the details. We should go and have a word when we're finished at the hospital.'

Reaching the large tented hospital, Swazzle and Salkeld ducked inside, a ragged cheer erupting from the patients when they saw Swazzle. He was on the point of asking where Rushalka was when a nursing Pixie bustled up.

'Captain Swazzle? Yes? Good. Follow me please.' She turned without waiting for Swazzle's reply and led him and Salkeld to an alcove, curtained with blankets, in the corner. 'In here,' she whispered, holding the blankets back for them to enter.

A strange creature inhabited the alcove's only cot. Thin and gangling, the creature was apparently covered head to foot in soft black fur. Its emaciated arms lay on top of the bedclothes, ending in wide, spindly hands, each finger tipped with a sharp black claw. The large eyes were closed tight, a sheen of sweat dampening the fur of its forehead.

'It has a fever,' the nurse explained. 'We're not quite sure what to do with it.'

'What is it?' Swazzle asked, aghast.

'A Night Packer,' whispered Salkeld. 'It was with the prisoners you rescued.'

Swazzle was shocked, 'Why would the fairies take it prisoner, I thought they were allies?'

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This week also marks the release of the tenth episode in The Great Chocolate Conspiracy multi-part story. You can find episode 10 over at Cecilia Dominic's blog Cecilia's Random Writings. Don't forget to follow the #GtChocCo hashtag on Twitter for more updates on this project. For more information, and to read from the beginning, please go here.

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #27: Questions, Questions

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #26: An Unwelcome Guest

This episode is number 26 in my ongoing web serial, updated weekly as a part of #fridayflash. If you are new to The UCF Stories, you can read from the beginning here.

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Master Jamieson was halfway across the landing, on his way to discuss accommodation arrangements for the newly-arrived escapees, when the other front door opened and Swazzle stepped inside, the little wyrm at his heels. Jamieson took one look at the beast, let out a very Scottish sounding squeak and fled back into his Butler's Pantry, slamming the door behind him. Swazzle listened curiously to the lock being thrown, the door bolted, shrugged and headed for the stairs.

Botchett was in his kitchen and in a foul mood to boot when Swazzle arrived.

'There are times, Mother,' Botchett said to his wife, 'When I could cheerfully strangle that bloody witch, like.' He cast an angry glance towards the ceiling.

'Yes dear.' Mistress Botchett continued stirring the huge pot of pease pudding on the stove.

'I mean,' Botchett thundered, 'Is it my fault Lady Mandrake's the only person in these parts who could've supplied the amulet we needed? Well, is it?'

'No dear.'

'So Aveena owes her a favour, like. So what? It could have been a lot worse. She's had a few favours out of me over the years, and I'm still here, aren't I Mother?'

'Yes dear.'

'And will you stop saying “yes dear,” “no dear,” “three bags full dear.” This is serious, like'

'Yes de... Oh look, it's Captain Swazzle! How are you, bonny lad?'

Swazzle nodded to Mistress Botchett.

Botchett gave his wife's back a hard stare. 'Aye, well...' he muttered, trailing off as the little wyrm poked its snout around the leg of the kitchen table. Botchett's eyes widened and he leapt backwards off his chair. 'By the god's balls, bonny lad! What's that doing in here?'

'Hello, Master Botchett.' Swazzle indicated the little wyrm, which was now rubbing its head against the table leg. 'What, him? Followed me home from the fairy castle raid. Cute isn't he?'

Botchett had gone pale, sweat beading on his forehead and there was a definite tremor in his voice when he spoke. 'Do...do...do you know what that is, like?'

'Some sort of baby wyrm?' Swazzle shrugged.

'Bonny lad, that,' Botchett pointed shakily at the little wyrm, 'Is a young Welsh Draig.'

'Oh good,' beamed Swazzle, 'I'd hoped you might know what it was. I'm going to need a hand looking after it.'

'Looking after it?!' Botchett's eyebrows climbed into his hairline, his eyes now the size of saucers. 'Looking after it?! It's not stopping here, Captain. No way, like.'

'Why ever not?'

Botchett took a few deep breaths. 'You wouldn't happen to know what Draig's eat, would you, bonny lad?'

'No.' Swazzle skritched the Draig behind its ear. 'I was rather hoping you could enlighten me on that score.'

'Gnomes, bonny lad. Gnomes!' wailed Botchett. 'Pretty much anything else as well, but Gnomes is their favourite, like.'

Swazzle looked crestfallen. This could be a problem, he thought.

'And it's not just that,' Botchett ticked points off on his fingers. 'Draig's only understand Welsh. And need a fire to sleep in.'

Swazzle noticed the Draig eyeing Mistress Botchett's stove covetously.

'And they're totally untrainable,' Botchett continued. 'No, bonny lad, it'll have to go. Off back to Wales with it, and the sooner the better, like.'

'What about the Welsh Gnomes?' Swazzle asked, stalling. 'Won't they object?'

'Aren't none,' replied Botchett, 'Bloody Draigs ate 'em all, like.'

As if on cue, the Draig made a sudden break for the stove, growling and snapping at Botchett as it rounded the table. Mistress Botchett shrieked and fled into her husband's arms as the Draig leapt, squirming into the firebox until only the tip of its tail hung down the front of the stove like a limp, scaly bell-pull.

Botchett glared over his wife's shoulder at Swazzle, who, hands raised in supplication, backed out of the kitchen intent on finding someone who could make him a stout cage with central heating.

* * *

When dawn broke, the wyrms broke off their attack against the fairy fortress and all uninjured personnel set themselves to the task of searching the rubble for survivors. Titania thundered into the courtyard just as Oberon tumbled unsteadily from a hole beneath a heap of stones.

'Seize him!' Titania bellowed, fairies from the nearest rescue party jumping to her command. Grabbing Oberon they dragged him unceremoniously to where Titania stood seething, the guard captain, shirtless and slicked with sweat, snapped a salute.

Titania sniffed Oberon's breath. 'Drunk. Again.' Oberon stared blearily back at her, belched, then grinned. 'Oh, I have had enough of this,' she sighed turning to the fairy guards, 'Hold him still.' This should have been done a long time ago, she thought.

'King Oberon, you have, and not for the first time, been found drunk when this kingdom needed you, when your people needed you. You have run from conflict, endangering your people and your Queen. The finding of this summary court is that you are guilty as charged. Our sentence is banishment.'

Oberon's legs gave way as sentence was passed, a dark stain spreading down the front of his hose. His eyes pleaded with Titania to give him just one more chance, his body sealing his fate by at that moment letting loose a stinking fart that made his guards gag.

Titania raised her wand, flicked her wrist, and Oberon vanished in a cloud of silver sparkles.

Turning to the guard captain, her eyes appraising the rippling muscles of his slick torso, Titania slung a languid arm round his shoulders.

'Captain...?'

'Plantain, my Queen,' he replied as Titania steered them toward her private apartments.

'Plantain, eh?' she purred, 'I'm not so sure I'm keen on that.' She thought for a moment. 'I know! I'll call you Oberon.'

If Titania had but looked she would have seen the dubious look in Captain Plantain's eyes.

___________________________

This week also marks the release of the ninth episode in The Great Chocolate Conspiracy multi-part story. You can find episode 9 over at Icy Sedgwick's blog Icy's Blunt Pencil. Don't forget to follow the #GtChocCo hashtag on Twitter for more updates on this project. For more information, and to read from the beginning, please go here.

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #26: An Unwelcome Guest

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #25: Escape and Banishment

This episode is number 25 in my ongoing web serial, updated weekly as a part of #fridayflash. If you are new to The UCF Stories, you can read from the beginning here.

___________________________

The last of the prisoners only just cleared the tunnel mouth when the outer wall of the fairy castle shuddered and, with a great sigh, began to slip, falling in a single piece right along its length like the icing from a cake. There was a good deal of sphincter twitching as the Pixies and Goblins raced to outpace the falling masonry. When the wall reached the base of the cliff on which the fairy fortress was built and started to break up, stones the size of cows rained down around the slowest of the group, throwing up a hail of dirt clods as they landed and miraculously missing the last in line by mere inches.

'Close run thing, eh?' shouted Salkeld above the rumble of falling granite.

'Yes,' wheezed Swazzle as he half carried, half pulled Rushalka along. Either she's getting heavier, Swazzle thought, or I need to take more exercise.

The little wyrm capered and gambolled, scampering in rings around the group, gently herding them in the direction of the forest and safety. Suddenly it stopped dead, raised its head, ears cocked and stared into the night sky. Swazzle glanced in the direction the wyrm was looking, his insides turning to ice water as he spied, silhouetted against the moon, a huge flying wyrm bearing down on them.

'Run!' bellowed Swazzle kicking forwards. The company sprinted for the border, Swazzle knowing with a certain dread they would never make it. Behind them, wyrms burrowed and crawled over the ruins of the fairy fortress, winged ones swooping and wheeling above the shattered castle, breathing deadly fire over anything that moved.

The little wyrm dashed towards its flying cousin, wings beating furiously until finally it managed to claw its way slowly into the air, making a beeline for the incoming beast. Its flight seemed ponderous to begin with, the little wyrm rising uncertainly into the night sky, though after a few moments a new confidence seemed to sweep over the little creature and it streaked forward, a small red dart aimed directly towards the head of the larger beast.

Some of the prisoners stopped to watch, and even Swazzle found himself involuntarily slowing down, eyes fixed on the unfolding drama above him while still trying to keep the group moving. He watched transfixed as the distance between the two wyrms decreased rapidly, then his mouth fell open as the larger beast sent a jet of flame right at the smaller one, sending it tumbling over and over in mid air as flames washed over it.

As the fiery breath died away, the little wyrm righted itself and flew at the larger beast again, smoke trailing from its singed tail. Swazzle accepted the inevitable and stopped dead to gawp at the unfolding drama above him. Salkeld ran straight into him and went sprawling just as the little wyrm reached the larger beast, executed a neat wing-down turn above its snout and sank its fangs into the tip of the larger beast's nose.

Bellowing in rage, the larger wyrm abandoned its attack run, wheeling away and climbing over the fairy fortress, the little wyrm clamped firmly between its nostrils. In that instant Swazzle recovered his composure and amid much shoving and cursing got the prisoners moving again, not stopping again until they were through the forest and in sight of the portal. With the last of them through the portal, Swazzle took one last look around before stepping through himself, wondering idly what had become of the little wyrm.

Swazzle had just begun to erase the chalk outline when something caught him full in the chest, knocking the wind out of him as it threw him a few yards up Hangman's Passage. A faint singed smell accompanied the missile, which came to rest tangled in his clothes. Swazzle strained to get air into his protesting lungs as the missile struggled and wriggled, then proceeded to wash his face affectionately with its serpentine tongue.

'Urgh! Argh! Gerroff!' spluttered Swazzle, batting at the little wyrm in a vain attempt to calm it down. The creature was now sitting on his chest, bouncing happily up and down on his bruised ribs. One of its ears was badly burned and there was a nasty gash across its snout, but the little wyrm seemed in raptures to see Swazzle again.

Eventually, Swazzle managed to struggle out from under the creature and clamber shakily to his feet. Struggling over to the wall, he completed removing all signs of the portal, the little wyrm twisting through his legs the whole time. The task completed, Swazzle turned and set off up Hangman's Passage in the direction of Goddess Rising, a sad whimper bringing him up short after only a few paces.

'Come on then,' Swazzle called resignedly over his shoulder, rewarded with the sound of claws clicking on the cobbles and together, Pixie and wyrm strode away up Gallows Close.

___________________________

This week also marks the release of the eighth episode in The Great Chocolate Conspiracy multi-part story. You can find episode 8 over at Danielle La Paglia's Flash Fiction blog here. Don't forget to follow the #GtChocCo hashtag on Twitter for more updates on this project. For more information, and to read from the beginning, please go here.

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #25: Escape and Banishment

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #24: Dragonrise

This episode is number 24 in my ongoing web serial, updated weekly as a part of #fridayflash. If you are new to The UCF Stories, you can read from the beginning here.

___________________________

Swazzle felt as though he'd been sitting on the damp flagstone floor in total darkness for hours. Rushalka huddled next to him, wrapped in a threadbare blanket. Elsewhere in the chamber, other prisoners sat or lay, the only sign of their presence the occasional cough or groan.

When the door had been slammed shut and the grille obscured, Swazzle had attempted to pace out the dimensions of his prison, for no other reason than to keep himself occupied. Based on his estimate, the chamber probably held around twenty prisoners, though who or what they were, and why the fairies had not returned them to the camps, were questions to which Swazzle did not yet have answers. Presuming the rest of the prisoners were in the same physical state as Rushalka however, Swazzle was sure there could be no assistance for an escape attempt from that quarter. It looked like he was on his own.

Swazzle must have been dozing because he felt a moment of confusion when a bellowing roar echoed along the corridor outside and jolted him awake. There was movement among the prisoners as they shuffled further away from the door as the roar sounded again, and some of them screamed or whimpered as a tremendous bang shook the walls of their chamber. A second thump blew a cloud of what Swazzle presumed was stone dust over him as the wall around the door shifted slightly. The chamber door twisted a couple of inches in its frame, a thin shaft of light illuminating scything across the chamber floor.

The prisoners retreated from the light into the shadows while Swazzle pressed his eye to the gap and squinted into the gaoler's chamber. Torches still burned in the wall brackets, but of the gaoler Stinkweed, there was no sign. Swazzle put his shoulder against the door and heaved. He heaved, pulled, kicked and battered at the door but it would not budge. He had just collapsed, exhausted, to the floor again when there came a commotion among some of the prisoners, who retreated to reveal a small drain in the middle of the floor from which came a faint flickering light.

'Captain Swazzle?' hissed a voice from the drain, 'Are you in there, sir?'

Swazzle dashed over to the drain. 'Yes, I'm here...'

'It's him,' said the voice, speaking rapidly to someone else in the drain passage. 'Start digging.'

The ringing of metal on stone echoed from within the drain.

Swazzle addressed the prisoners. 'It looks like someone's come to get us out. As soon as they break through, you need to be ready to move. I know some of you are very weak, but either we all go together, or...'

A general muttering, which Swazzle took as agreement, came from the assembly as once again a great thumping came from outside the chamber, this time dislodging a stone from the roof that missed Swazzle by inches as it crashed to the floor, stone chips and dust blossoming outwards from where it fell. A few seconds later, the stonework around the drain collapsed in on itself and a pointy hat appeared in the resulting hole.

'Cap'n Swazzle, sir?' asked Salkeld as he stuck his head up into the chamber, lighting his way with a firefly lantern.

'Here,' called Swazzle. 'By the gods, am I glad to see you.'

'We'd better be quick, sir. It seems the fairies was keeping a number of Wyrms captive and somehow they got out. They're raising merry hell and I wouldn't be surprised in the whole castle's about to collapse.'

Swazzle grabbed Rushalka by the shoulders and began steering her in the direction of the hole. A couple of goblins clambered out of the hole, and between the three of them, the prisoners were soon passed down to waiting hands in the drain passage. Swazzle was passing the last of the prisoners through the hole when there came a huge bang as the prison chamber door was hit by something powerful and collapsed inwards. Swazzle swung round in an instant, anticipating combat, but there, silhouetted in the doorway, was something the size of a very stocky rabbit, growling and swishing a scaly tail back and forth.

For a split second, Swazzle simply stared, then the beast let out a series of sharp barks and, claws scrabbling for purchase against the stones, hurled itself forward. Swazzle threw himself desperately into the drain hole, and had only just scrambled to his feet before the creature tumbled in after him, landing in a heap of claws, wings and tail at his feet. Righting itself, the creature sat at Swazzle's feet, thumping its tail on the floor. By the light of Salkeld's lantern the creature appeared to be a very small wyrm, russet coloured and sporting a full compliment of clawed feet as well as a pair of leathery wings. Lowering its head, the Wyrm dropped something cylindrical and wooden at Swazzle's feet. As Swazzle bent to retrieve the object, he was sure the beast was panting, then it flicked out a long serpentine tongue and licked him right on the end of his nose.

'It is!' Swazzle held his wand up to Salkeld's lantern. 'It's my wand! Well done, lad,' Swazzle ruffled the beast's ears and it gazed adoringly at him.

Salkeld coughed softly.

'Yes, you're quite right,' replied Swazzle, 'Let's get out of here.'

Preceded by the goblins, Swazzle, Salkeld and the prisoners made their way along the newly dug tunnel, some of the prisoners walking unaided, others supporting eachother and the weakest carried in makeshift blanket stretchers. Above them the fairy fortress rocked and crumbled as the Wyrms vented the fury of their incarceration upon their gaolers. At one point Swazzle was sure they were done for as the tunnel shook violently before a Wyrm tunnelled straight through it and vanished out the other side. The goblins diverted into the Wyrm's tunnel and they were soon at the mouth of the tunnel, cool night air rushing over them as they crouched, looking out at the scene of devastation surrounding the fairy fortress. Much of the surrounding area was burning as flying Wyrms wheeled this way and that, blasting anything that moved.

Swazzle turned to Salkeld and his Goblins, 'And how are we going to get past that lot?'

___________________________

This week also marks the release of the seventh episode in The Great Chocolate Conspiracy multi-part story. You can find episode 7 over at Anne Tyler Lord's Don't Fence Me In. Don't forget to follow the #GtChocCo hashtag on Twitter for more updates on this project. For more information, and to read from the beginning, please go here.

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #24: Dragonrise

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #23: Rushalka

This episode is number 23 in my ongoing web serial, updated weekly as a part of #fridayflash. If you are new to The UCF Stories, you can read from the beginning here.

___________________________

Keeping close to the wall, Swazzle skirted round the edge of the courtyard until he came to a door, which, he presumed, lead into the undercroft of the keep. Judging by the barrel, small piles of ash and partly burned pipe-herbs next to the door, this was where the servants came for a smoke, so Swazzle was relieved when he found the door not only unlocked, but the hinges well greased so it swung open silently. He slipped quickly inside and shut the door behind him.

A wide corridor stretched ahead, firefly-filled lanterns making shadows dance along the walls. An opening in the right hand wall gave onto a set of smooth stone steps leading down into darkness. Swazzle crept slowly down the steps, keeping the side wall at his back until his eyes adjusted to the gloom. The steps seemed to go on forever, the air was cool and damp by the time Swazzle reached the bottom. Stepping off the last step, he flattened himself against the wall and peered into the blackness.

To the right darkness continued unbroken, to the left a faint flickering glow hinted at occupation. After a moment's hesitation, Swazzle started carefully down the left hand passage, keeping close to the wall and stopping every few yards to listen.

A few dozen yards down the passage was a doorway on the right from which came the flickering light and a faint sound of contented snoring. Peeping quickly round the corner, Swazzle saw a portly fairy reclining on a low chair in front of a small brazier, hat tipped down over his eyes, feet up on a stool and swaddled in his wings. Beyond stood a heavy oak door, locked by the look of it, with a small iron grille set at eye level.

Swazzle tiptoed silently to the door and squinted through the grille. There was no illumination beyond, but just enough light filtered into the chamber that Swazzle could make out several shapes huddled together on the floor.

What we need here, thought Swazzle, is a diversion.

Re-tracing his steps, Swazzle set off back down the corridor, past the steps and on into the darkness beyond. Conjuring a tiny flame into his palm, Swazzle found himself in one of the castle's cellars, crates and barrels stacked floor to ceiling. He was pondering how flammable the contents of the store might be when he spotted a small door on the far wall. Moving quickly over to it, Swazzle tried the handle and was surprised to find the room unlocked. Slipping inside, he found himself in a small chamber about the size of Rev Beresford's sitting room and filled to the rafters with piping, valves and arcane looking machinery. The air in here was distinctly warm.

Swazzle was just wishing Botchett were here to make sense of the equipment when he noticed a line of wooden boxes laid out on staging down one wall. Closer inspection revealed a familiar design, the faded and peeling lettering marking the boxes as the property of Botchett and Son. Wisps of steam rose intermittently from the farthest box into a metal hood suspended above the box that in turn connected to the piping.

An icy chill ran down Swazzle's spine as he realised what the boxes held. Cheeky bastards, he thought, they're using them for central heating.

Moving closer, Swazzle nearly jumped out of his skin when something cold and limp brushed his hand. As he fought to control his hammering heart, Swazzle held his light closer to the box, the small flame illuminating the tip of a leathery wing poking out from an aperture on the side of one of the box. Swazzle laid a hand gently on the box. It was cold. He checked the others, all bar one other gave off a gentle warmth.

A grim smile was fixed on Swazzle's face as he moved quickly to the last box in the row and began to loosen the fastenings, the Wyrm within growled low and Swazzle felt it moving about. Undoing the last fastening, Swazzle sprinted for the door and was halfway along the corridor when an unearthly roar reached his ears. He ducked quickly into the gaoler's chamber and in one fluid movement, hoisted the gaoler out of his chair and pinned him against the wall, his wand poked into its ear.

'Now,' snarled Swazzle, 'Get that door open.'

The fairy gaoler could do nothing except comply, blinking repeatedly in fear and surprise as he fumbled with the key to the cell. The door squeaked in protest as it swung open.

'Rushalka?' called Swazzle softly. 'Rushalka, are you in there?'

In reply came a general rustling among the inhabitants of the chamber before, after a few moments, a ragged figure struggled to its feet and shuffled slowly towards the doorway, it's pace quickening as it recognised the questioner.

Rushalka threw her arms around Swazzle's neck, nearly knocking him off his feet. Had he not already shoved the gaoler in front of him, the fairy would have bolted as he lost his grip on him, overwhelmed by Rushalka's grateful hug.

'Well, well, well, what do we have here?' a familiar voice dripping with malice sounded behind Swazzle. He swung round, still almost smothered by Rushalka, to face Twinkle and a squad of fairy guards standing in the doorway to the gaoler's chamber.

'Drop the wand, Captain Swazzle, and back away.' Banshee rifles were cocked and levelled at the doorway to underline Twinkle's order. Swazzle did as he was ordered.

'Stinkweed!' barked Twinkle, 'Get out of there and lock that door at once.'

The gaoler scuttled past him, scooping up Swazzle's wand as he went.

The door slammed and the cell was plunged into darkness. As the key turned in the lock Swazzle could hear Twinkle berating the gaoler. Swazzle slumped to the floor next to the softly sobbing Rushalka.

'It's alright,' he soothed, cuddling her to him. 'There's got to be a way out of here.'

___________________________

This week also marks the release of the sixth episode in The Great Chocolate Conspiracy multi-part story. You can find episode 6 over at JimBronyaur.com. Don't forget to follow the #GtChocCo hashtag on Twitter for more updates on this project. For more information, and to read from the beginning, please go here.

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #23: Rushalka

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #22: Infiltration

This epsiode is number 22 in an ongoing web serial, updated weekly as a part of #fridayflash. If you are new to The UCF Stories, you can read from the beginning here.

___________________________

As Botchett and Aveena sat down to dine with Lady Mandrake, elsewhere in the Other World, a small figure could be seen darting between the trees, heading in the direction of the fairy fortress.

Swazzle was making slow progress. Since the recent events at Goddess Rising, the fairies were taking no chances and had flooded the forest with sentries. For hours it had seemed that whenever he'd taken one step forward he'd been forced to take two steps back. Getting into the fairy fortress was going to be particularly difficult, Swazzle thought as he pulled himself deep into a patch thick of brambles to consider his position. He was halfway through one of Mistress Botchett's ham and peasepudding sandwiches when he spotted the hole in the bramble roots. The beginnings of a plan began to germinate.

By the time the sandwiches were finished, Swazzle felt sure the plan would work. Firmly grasping a small stick he'd found lying on the ground, Swazzle gingerly poked it down the hole, stopping now and then to feel for any resistance. After a moment or two something grabbed hold of the end of the stick and there followed a brief tug of war before Swazzle was able to haul the spider from its lair. Popping it deftly into Mistress Botchett's sandwich bag, Swazzle tucked the spider into his satchel and set off in the direction of the fairy kingdom's border again.

* * *

Oberon weaved unsteadily across the castle courtyard, a large bottle of Marigold nectar clutched in his fist. The castle had been on high alert for two days and nights and all the stress had shredded his nerves. Carefully climbing the rough stone steps to the castle wall walk on all fours, Oberon shushed theatrically every time the nectar bottle chinked against the stones. As usual these days, Oberon was hammered. At the top of the steps Oberon waved at the two sentries who snapped a neat salute as he staggered towards them, waiting until he had passed and disappeared into the garderobe passage before rolling their eyes and sniggering.

Once inside the garderobe passage, Oberon slumped onto one of the seats and took a long swig from his bottle. The cool darkness of the passage did go some way towards soothing his frazzled nerves, the Marigold nectar did the rest and soon Oberon was snoring, his face pressed against the cold stone wall as drool ran slowly from the corner of his mouth and dripped onto his tunic.

* * *

It was past midnight by the time Swazzle reached the midden beneath the fairy fortress walls. Picking his way carefully up the slimy pile, Swazzle soon reached the base of the wall and, as he stared upwards, he could just about make out a hole in the overhang high above him. He pulled the bagged spider from his satchel, musing idly about why fairy ordure had the faint aroma of flowers.

Whispering soothing words to the spider, Swazzle encouraged her out of the bag to sit in his palm. As he stroked her abdomen she began to spin, Swazzle deftly weaving her silk as it appeared until he estimated he had enough spider rope to reach the opening above him. Thanking the spider for her help, Swazzle set her down at his feet and she scuttled quickly into the darkness while he fashioned one end of the rope into a sticky ball of spider silk before swinging it round and round, letting go at the opportune moment so the ball flew silently up the castle wall. With unerring accuracy, the ball sailed straight through the opening and came to rest somewhere within, a few hefty tugs on the rope satisfying Swazzle that it had attached itself firmly to something immoveable. He began to climb.

* * *

Oberon was awakened by an urgent need to relieve himself. Lurching to his feet, he fumbled with the front of his leggings before bracing himself with one hand against the back wall of the garderobe to relieve himself. Oberon had a blissful look on his face, which changed slowly to one of confusion when he spotted the silvery thread stuck to the adjacent toilet seat. His aching bladder was thanking him for its relief when a pointed hat, smeared in excrement and looking somewhat wet appeared through the hole next to him, closely followed by a head. Oberon recoiled in horror as the head swivelled towards him.

'Thanks a lot,' muttered Swazzle, fairy pee dripping off his eyebrows. He hauled himself quickly through the hole and dropped lightly onto the stone floor. The fairy was still looking repeatedly from the bottle he clutched to Swazzle and back again when Swazzle whipped out the small club he kept for such occasions and whacked the fairy right between the eyes. The fairy crumpled in a heap at his feet, the bottle glugging the remains of its contents all over the fairy's tunic.

Wiping himself down with a handful of the leaves placed in a small basket next to holes, Swazzle crept silently to the doorway of the passage and squinted out onto the wall walk. Two sentries lounged a few yards away, deep in muttered conversation and passing a small flask back and forth between them.

Damn, thought Swazzle. He'd rather hoped this section of the wall might have been unguarded, or at least sparsely patrolled. He'd have to get past the sentries the old fashioned way, he was sure the fairies would have enchantments in place to detect Pixie teleporting by now. Taking a deep breath, Swazzle eased out of the doorway, dashed along the wall walk and began to descend the steps.

So far, so good, he thought. Now, to find what I came here for.

___________________________

This week also marks the release of the fifth episode in The Great Chocolate Conspiracy multi-part story. You can find episode 5 over at A Shift in Dimensions. Don't forget to follow the #GtChocCo hashtag on Twitter for more updates on this project. For more information, and to read from the beginning, please go here.

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #22: Infiltration

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #20: Lady Mandrake

The Asian youth crouched, terrified, at the base of the dais. Shirtless and grubby, his upper torso bore the signs of a recent beating. Wide-eyed, he stared up at the woman on the throne above him, flickering light from oil drum braziers making her eyes periodically sparkle with an unsettling intensity.

'Asif,' she commanded, 'the court has found you guilty of pilfering, and everyone here has heard the confession you gave after questioning. Do you have anything to say before sentence is passed?'

Wiping the sweat from his eyes, Asif stammered something about being sorry and was begging for a second chance when the woman cut him off.

'You know the penalty for pilfering. We rely on each other here. There are no second chances.'

Asif began to cry, great wracking sobs so that he almost did not hear when his name was called.

'Asif.'

The youth looked up, shivering.

'There can be no leniency in cases of pilfering, however...'

Asif looked suddenly expectant, praying that perhaps a lifeline was about to be thrown in his direction.

'You have been a valuable member of our community, and we are not without compassion. The sentence of this court is banishment.'

Asif sighed with relief as a murmur ran through the assembled crowd. The woman held up her hands and the murmuring ceased instantly.

'The sentence of this court is banishment. You will be taken from this place and expelled from our community. There will be a hunt.'

Asif screamed as the guards seized him under the arms and began dragging him towards the door, the assembled crowd cheering as he passed by.

The woman glanced left to where a tall, thin-faced man stood cradling an ornate antique tortoiseshell box. 'Vincent, the box if you please.'

The man stepped forward, bowed and held out the box.

Asif's screams were quieter as she opened the box, the guards having dragged him the full length of the former shipbuilding yard's cathedral vaulted drawing office. Taking a moment to consider her choice, the woman carefully withdrew two amulets from the box, each a large quartz stone wrapped around with silver wires. Within each the demon could clearly be seen snarling and scrabbling to escape, their claws scratching ineffectually at the inside of their prisons.

The crowd shuffled back to the margins of the room as the woman held both amulets above her head. She paused for a moment.

'Release the prisoner.'

As the guards relaxed their grip, Asif sprang to his feet and sprinted, limping, out of the double doors into the night.

Laying the amulets gently at her feet, the woman closed her eyes, threw her head back and began a murmured incantation. The stones seemed to grow, then fall back upon themselves, dissolving to leave two snarling creatures at her feet. Seemingly part dog, part something else characterised by glowing red eyes, a mouthful of fangs and leathery wings, the demons growled and scratched at the floor, their mistress's bond holding them back.

Reaching the climax of the incantation, the woman brought her hands suddenly together, the sound like a rifle shot in the silence, and the demons surged forward, their claws throwing up chips from the sandstone floor as they accelerated. Swooping down the length of the room, each executed a sharp gliding turn and vanished through the same doors Asif had exited a few moments earlier.

The woman reclined on her throne, one leg thrown casually over its arm. The thin-faced man stepped forward once again, this time with a crystal goblet of deep red liquid proffered before him.

'Thank you, Vincent.' She took the goblet and drank deeply.

* * *

Heart pounding in his ears, chest heaving, Asif rounded the corner and could see the compound gates a couple of hundred yards distant. He felt no pain from his injured leg, though the tightness and ache in his chest made him regret not giving up smoking years ago as he pounded towards the gates.

With a hundred yards to go, Asif risked a glance over his shoulder but of any pursuit there was no sign. He could not hear anything either, save for the wind in his ears as he ran.

Fifty yards to go and a low, rumbling growl from behind him made Asif's bowels turn to ice water. He risked another quick glance and saw, eyes wide in terror, the two demon dogs bearing down on him, though still a good few yards distant. Sprinting as fast as his leg would allow, Asif reckoned there was still a chance.

* * *

'And let me do the talking,' Botchett instructed Aveena, 'Lady Mandrake and I go way back. She'll be more likely to help if I talk to her, like.' He pulled the bell rope for the second time. 'I wonder what's up. There's usually someone on the gate all the time.'

'Here's someone now, so,' Aveena pointed at the Asian youth running full pelt for the gate. 'Are they always that keen to attend to visitors?'

Botchett pushed Aveena suddenly back into the shadows and away from the gate. 'A hunt,' he said grimly. 'Well, that explains the lack of a reception committee, like.'

Aveena was about to ask about the hunt when there was a tremendous crash as the Asian youth collided with the gate. After shaking it ineffectually a couple of times, he began a desperate climb to the top, and was halfway over, relief on his face, when something grabbed his leg and hauled him quickly back the way he had come. For a split second his eyes met Aveena's, then he was gone.

Botchett shuddered as an unearthly scream rent the night air, followed by a few moments of growling and scraping before everything was still and silent again.

Shortly afterwards, a face appeared from a nearby doorway as a stooped figure dressed in layers of ragged clothing shambled towards the gate.

'I request audience with Lady Mandrake,' demanded Botchett.

The figure squinted down at him before the filthy face split wide into a huge grin. 'Why, it's Master Pilgrim, isn't it? Come ye in, come ye in.'

A heavy chain was removed from the gate, and it was dragged open just far enough for Botchett and Aveena to squeeze through the gap, before being slammed and securely locked again.

'Ye know the way, Master Pilgrim,' said the gatekeeper, 'Just mind your step, it's likely to be a mite slippery underfoot this evening.

Botchett and Aveena gingerly picked their way across the cobbles in the direction of Lady Mandrake's citadel.

________________________

This week also marks the release of the third episode in The Great Chocolate Conspiracy multi-part story. You can find episode 3 over at Attack of the Muses. Don't forget to follow the #GtChocCo hashtag on Twitter for more updates on this project. For more information, and to read from the beginning, please go here.

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #20: Lady Mandrake

#FridayFlash: Botchett and the Lambton Worm, a True Story.

For my final WeSeWriMo post, we interrupt our normal programming to bring you a glimpse into the early life of one of The UCF Stories' favourite characters, Master Botchett the Gnome. I haven't numbered this as a true instalment of The UCF Stories, though it unofficially forms Episode 20. If you'd like to read The UCF Stories from the beginning, please go here.

As you can see from the WeSeWriMo Progress Meter in my blog's sidebar, with the publication of this post I have achieved the goal I set for myself at the beginning of the month. Yay me! *Ahem.*

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Young Botchett sat on the river bank, when round the bend came a knight in full armour, splashing through the shallows. Botchett sighed, the fellow was sure to scare away all the fish, and he'd promised his mother something nice for tea.

'We's thew?' asked Botchett.

'Pardon?' said the knight.

Botchett sighed, 'Who. Are. You. Sir knight?'

'I am Sir John Lambton. My castle is over yonder.'

'Castle?!' Botchett raised an eyebrow. 'Divent kid a kidder, bonny lad, I've seen it.'

Sir John looked crushed. 'Alright, manor house then.'

'That's more like it,' Botchett continued. 'And what brings you down to the river with all them spear heads on your armour, like? You look like a hedgehog.'

'The witch told me to do it.'

'Who? Old Mother Blackett?'

'Yes, that's her.'

'You want to watch her, like.'

'Whatever for? She told me I should cover my armour in spear points and fight the wyrm in the river if I were to kill it.'

Botchett couldn't help his excitement. 'A wyrm, bonny lad? Not the one that's coiled himself round Lambton Hill, over yonder, like?' Botchett pointed.

'Yes, that's the beast. How did you know?'

Botchett tapped the side of his nose. 'You'd be surprised what I know about witches and wyrms, like. My Lord.'

Sir John studied Botchett intently for a few moments. 'And who, pray, are you, good sir, to be speaking to a knight in such a fashion? You don't look like one of my tenants.'

'Ah, well...' Botchett began.

'And what are you doing with that fishing rod? Don't you know I own the fishing rights on this stretch of the river? Not poaching, are you?'

'Now hang on a minute.' Botchett was indignant. 'One question at a time, bonny lad. First, my name is Botchett, a Gnome of these parts. Second,' Botchett looked ruefully at his fishing rod, 'Aye, it is a bit of a cliché I know, like, but I promised my Mam a little fishy on a little dishy when I got home, not that there's much chance of that with you plodging about like you are, bonny lad.'

'Oh,' said Sir John.

Botchett continued before the question of poaching was raised again, 'Anyway, Old Mother Blackett. I bet there was conditions?'

'Yes,' Sir John uncertainly, 'How did you know?'

'Always is with Old Mother Blackett, like.'

'Oh,' said Sir John, again.

'And what are they?'

Sir John hesitated. The fact he was conversing with a Gnome on a riverbank was beginning to sink in. 'She said I'd be sure to be victorious with my armour so adorned,' Sir John indicated the spear points again, 'And once I've killed the wyrm, she said I've to slay the first living thing I see, lest my family be cursed for nine generations.'

'That sounds about right.' Botchett rubbed his chin.

'So my father is going to tether a hound outside our gate,' continued Sir John, warming to his story, 'And I'll slay it on my way home. That ought to take care of the conditions.'

'There is another way.' Botchett looked mysterious.

It was Sir John's turn to raise an eyebrow.

'What if you were to catch the wyrm, not kill it? The bargain is for you to kill the wyrm. If you take it alive, the conditions don't come into it, eh bonny lad?'

Sir John thought for a moment. 'You know, Master Gnome, you may just have something there. But how could such a thing be done?'

'Aha,' chuckled Botchett, 'I might just be able to help you there, bonny lad.'

Botchett and Sir John's discussions lasted long into the night, and both were feeling anything but rested when they returned to the riverbank before dawn. Botchett rigged a large net and some strange apparatus while Sir John kept a close eye on the path to Lambton Hill, from whence the wyrm would come down to the river to drink every morning. Botchett had read the instructions and was sure he knew what he was doing.

The early morning sun was attempting to burn off the mist from the river when Sir John heard slithering approaching from the direction of Lambton Hill.

'It's coming,' hissed Sir John, wading out to a sandbank in the middle of the river.

Botchett rolled his eyes as Sir John splashed and clanked through the water. Unless the wyrm was stone deaf it must surely know someone was waiting for it. So much for the element of surprise. Botchett threw himself flat behind the iron-bound wooden box he'd borrowed from his father, adjusting the drinking horn that stuck out of the top of it from his prone position.

As Botchett remembered things later, none of what followed was his fault. Perhaps the net snagged on a branch, or maybe the wyrm moved faster than he expected, either way it barrelled straight through the trap and into the river once it caught sight of Sir John. The knight had only time to cast a withering look in Botchett's direction before the beast was upon him, and Botchett watched from the riverbank as the fight became more and more vicious.

At one point, Botchett was sure Sir John was done for as the wyrm coiled itself around him, though in so doing it impaled itself on the spear points attached to Sir John's armour and reared up, bellowing in agony as the sharp points dug deep into its flesh. Seizing his opportunity, Sir John lunged and buried his sword blade deep into the beast's brain. The wyrm fell lifeless at his feet.

Sir John waded ashore, muttering something about hanging every Gnome he could get his hands on, and marched purposefully off in the direction of the manor house. Botchett felt obliged to follow at a safe distance, hoping the knight would calm down enough for him to explain.

Nearing the gate of the manor house, Botchett's blood ran cold as there, instead of a hound, stood Sir John's father, wringing his hands. Sir John paused, advanced, raised his sword, paused again, then collapsed to his knees at his father's feet.

'Father,' Sir John wailed, 'Where is the hound?'

His father opened his mouth to speak, paused, then closed it again. Tears ran down the old man's cheeks.

'I cannot kill you, Father,' continued Sir John.

'Then we are cursed, my son.'

'Shit,' muttered Botchett and ran home to start packing.

___________________________

Author's note: Surprisingly, Botchett's part in the slaying of the Lambton Worm does not appear in the “authorised” versions of events, nor in C.M. Leumane's 1867 folk song of the same name, but we know better, don't we?

For more information on the legend of the Lambton Worm, there is a good article on Wikipedia here, and if you'd like to hear the song, sung more-or-less in the Mother Tongue, I have great pleasure in presenting Mr. Tony Wilson, Storyteller, Writer and Musician of these 'ere parts with his rendition of the song of the Lambton Worm:

#FridayFlash: Botchett and the Lambton Worm, a True Story.

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #18: Aftermath

This week marks the second of my WeSeWriMo (Web Serial Writing Month) posts. If I'm to meet my goal, August's #FridayFlashes will all have a UCF flavour with, all being well, something a little unusual, at least for me, coming up towards the end of the month.

Aftermath is the eighteenth installment in my on-going flash fiction serial, The UCF Stories. If you'd like to read the story from the beginning, please go here.

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Following the fairy attack, Swazzle and Botchett mourn Pogmorton's demise.

'Wait!' Aveena knelt beside Pogmorton's body and stared intently at it for a moment. She saw a swelling blue aura begin to blossom from Pogmorton's mouth.

'There's still a chance. The spirit has not yet left the body.' Golden ink flowed into Aveena's right hand, solidifying into a finely wrought torc, which she passed quickly to Botchett. 'Slip this around his neck. Quickly.'

Botchett did as he was bid, and Aveena noticed with satisfaction Pogmorton's aura start to drift back into his body.

'Is that it? Will he be all right?' Swazzle asked in a small voice.

'Not yet,' replied Aveena, 'That was just the first stage of a long and dangerous process. I'm not even sure it will work, but it's the only chance he's got.'

'What happens next, bonny lass?' Botchett couldn't see any change in Pogmorton's condition.

'I need somewhere safe to keep him,' said Aveena, 'While I do some research.' She cast her eyes over the assembled company and sighed. 'There's only one thing for it.'

Aveena stood and began unbuttoning her jeans. She pushed them down to her ankles and hunkered down next to Pogmorton again. Rev Beresford tried not to look, and failed.

Aveena took hold of Pogmorton gently under his arms. 'Give me a hand there, Master Gnome,' and with Botchett's help she managed to position Pogmorton over her right thigh.

'Now back off a bit, I'm not sure how well this is going to work.' Botchett took Swazzle by the shoulders and the pair stepped back, watching in fascination as Aveena began to chant quietly.

Rev Bereford, his face somewhat flushed, dabbed at his brow with a large white handkerchief, never once taking his eyes off Aveena.

After a few moments Aveena's chanting grew louder, her face contorted in a grimace of pain. As Botchett and Swazzle watched, Pogmorton's body seemed to dissolve and sank into Aveena's thigh. With a final repetition of the chant, which ended in a blood curdling scream, Pogmorton disappeared beneath Aveena's skin, leaving behind a perfect picture of himself, complete in every detail.

After a few moments Aveena struggled painfully to her feet. 'By the gods, but that smarts a bit, so.'

'That's one heck of a trick, like' marvelled Botchett. 'Is that how your other tattoos were done, bonny lass?'

'Oh no, Master Gnome,' Aveena smiled, 'My other pictures are something quite different. What I've done with, err...'

'Pogmorton.'

Aveena nodded. 'What I've done with Pogmorton is another thing entirely, and it's only temporary. I've no idea how long it'll last, so if you'll excuse me, I'm after sticking my nose in a few of Simeon's books. Master Gnome, would you be so kind as to collect up as much of Pogmorton's blood as you can, and that puddle of fairy blood? Make sure the two don't mix, mind.'

Botchett did as he was asked.

Once the blood had been gathered, Aveena picked up her sword and without a word to Rev Beresford swept from the room, closely followed by Swazzle and Botchett.

Simeon groaned and sat up slowly rubbing his head. 'There were fairies,' he mumbled.

* * *

For the next two days Goddess Rising looked like an explosion in a library. Botchett and Swazzle rushed this way and that, collecting and returning one obscure tome after another while Aveena sat, cross legged in the middle of the shop table with piles of open books and notes scattered all about her, moving only to stretch her aching muscles or answer the call of nature brought about by Simeon's endless cups of tea. Simeon himself seemed positively eager to help, even if his sole contribution was, at Aveena's insistence, to keep out of the way and make tea.

In the early hours of the morning of the third day, Aveena suddenly sat bolt upright.

'Aha!' she crowed, 'I've got it.'

'Got what?' mumbled Swazzle who had fallen asleep through sheer exhaustion atop a nearby bookcase.

'I've got it,' Aveena repeated, 'I think I know how to help Pogmorton.'

Swazzle was wide awake in an instant, looking expectantly at her.

'I said, I “think” I know what to do, there are no guarantees, but it's the best chance he's got. Where is Master Botchett, I'm going to need the both of you to help with this.'

'Botchett!' roared Swazzle.

Botchett's head appeared around the kitchen door. 'What, bonny lad?'

'Aveena's on to something, and she needs our help.'

Once Aveena had run through what would be required, Botchett thought for a while. 'The blood we've got, the herbs are easy enough to find, and I'm sure Master Swazzle will be able to locate whatever you need from the Other Realm.'

He paused and rubbed his beard, 'The amulet's the thing that's going to cause the most problems. They're very hard to come by, like. There's only one thing for it, we will have to pay a visit to Lady Mandrake.'

Botchett shuddered at the very prospect.

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #18: Aftermath

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #17: The Tome of Levelling (Part 2)

This week marks the first of my WeSeWriMo (Web Serial Writing Month) posts. If I'm to meet my goal, August's #FridayFlashes will all have a UCF flavour with, all being well, something a little unusual, at least for me, coming up towards the end of the month.

The Tome of Levelling (Part 1) is the sixteenth installment in my on-going flash fiction serial, The UCF Stories. If you'd like to read the story from the beginning, please go here.

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The Pixies and Botchett have just surprised Rev Beresford in the act of showing Aveena the Book when a squad of Urban Combat Fairies, lead by Twinkle, burst in through the front window of the Rev's rooms above Goddess Rising.

Simeon took one look at the fairies, made a small mewling noise and fainted. The thud of his body hitting the floor made everyone jump, and Twinkle took this as her cue to lunge for the Book.

'Oh no you don't.' Aveena jerked the book out of Twinkle's reach. She wasn't sure what the book contained, but from its aura she could tell it was powerful, hugely powerful, and it didn't seem like a good idea to be handing it over to fairies, to anyone, until she had a better idea of the damage that might be done.

'Give me the Book,' demanded Twinkle.

'Not so fast, bonny lass,' growled Botchett, producing two unfeasibly large ducks-foot pistols from inside his tunic. Each one had seven brass barrels that fanned out from a single trigger, glinting in the firelight as Botchett levelled them in the fairies' direction. Swazzle and Pogmorton exchanged looks, their eyebrows climbing into their hairlines.

'Err, Botchett...' Swazzle began.

'Not now, bonny lad. I need to keep an eye on these tricky buggers.' Botchett continued, his voice a little louder, and harsher, for the fairies' benefit, 'What we have here is a bit of a stand-off, like. The first one of you little bastards moves, and I'll do for the lot of you.' He smiled dangerously at Twinkle.

'If you do not hand over the Book,' Twinkle locked eyes with Aveena, 'I will order my squad to open fire.'

The stand-off lasted for a few moments, until Rev Beresford, grimacing in pain, leant suddenly over the arm of his chair and attempted to grab Twinkle, then everything seemed to happen at once.

Twinkle neatly sidestepped the Reverend's lunge, yelled, 'Fire!' and dived for the book again. The screaming reports of her squad's Banshee rifles were all but drowned out by the two terrific booms of Botchett's pistols, which filled the room with clouds of black powder smoke and made everyone wince. Banshee rifle rounds slapped into the wall behind the Pixies.

In the brief mayhem of the exchange of fire, Twinkle managed to get a hand on the book and began a tug of war with Aveena that only ended when Aveena shrugged her shoulder and Twinkle watched with growing horror as a dark liquid ran rapidly from under Aveena's jacket cuff into her hand and dripped towards the floor. Instead of forming a puddle on the floor at Aveena's feet, the liquid quickly solidified into a wickedly sharp short sword, which Aveena brought upwards with a neat flick of her wrist, severing Twinkle's hand at the wrist.

'Warned you, so,' said Aveena flatly.

With the sudden release in pressure as Twinkle fell back gasping in pain, Aveena's arm recoiled and the book slipped from her grasp.

As the book sailed through the air over Aveena's shoulder, Pogmorton whipped out his wand, and with a few deft movements, folded the book, with Twinkle's hand still attached, neatly into a pocket of space before collapsing backwards himself. The only sign the Book had ever been there was a soft imperfection in the air, like a fault in a medieval window glass. Rev Beresford would marvel later at how he could see the imperfection was there from any angle, and the rest of his room that lay beyond it, but that he could not touch it, the faint fault line seeming to elude his grasping fingers every time he tried.

As the smoke cleared, the carnage wrought by Botchett's “deck-clearers” became all too apparent. Twinkle's entire squad lay broken and bleeding, the walls behind them peppered with shot. Twinkle edged slowly backwards over their bodies toward the window.

Aveena became aware her left arm was bleeding. Shrugging off her jacket to reveal a white vest top beneath, Aveena noticed a thin, angry red line where a Banshee rifle bullet had grazed the side of her left bicep. A small rivulet of blood curled slowly down her upper arm. While Aveena concentrated on her wound, the rest of the assembled company merely stared dumbstruck at the two full arm sleeves of tattoos Aveena's jacket had concealed, each running completely from shoulder to wrist, and intricately interwoven with mythical beasts, Celtic weaponry and the four elements. There was a sword shaped space in the design on Aveena's left forearm.

With everyone's eyes on Aveena's tattoos, Twinkle slipped quietly out of the window and fluttered unsteadily away.

'By the gods!' marvelled Swazzle, 'Those are impressive. Hey, Pogmorton, have you seen...'

Swazzle turned to find, lying at his feet, the motionless body of his best friend, blood fountaining from a gaping wound in the side of Pogmorton's neck.

'Noooooooooo!' wailed Swazzle, dropping to his knees and cradling Pogmorton in his arms.

Botchett checked for a pulse, then laid a gentle hand on Swazzle's shoulder. 'I think he's gone, bonny lad.' He paused. 'I'm sorry, like.'

Swazzle threw his head back and let out a blood-curdling, keening howl.

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #17: The Tome of Levelling (Part 2)

#FridayFlash: UCF Stories #15: Repercussions

Repercussions is the fifteenth installment in my on-going flash fiction serial, The UCF Stories. If you'd like to read the story from the beginning, please go here.

____________________________________

Having at last captured the Wyrm, Botchett, Swazzle and Pogmorton are preparing to return with it to the mortal realm when they come under attack by a fairy patrol...

Hastily dismantling his apparatus, Botchett grabbed his backpack and pulled from it a three-barrelled shotgun-type contraption. Pumping a round into the shotgun's chamber, Botchett loosed off a shot as another five fairies, flying in a “V” formation, appeared close behind the first. A green-glowing pine cone arced through the air, exploding with a terrific bang amid the fairy flight. One of the fairies clutched her face and spiralled into the ground.

'By the god's balls, Botchett! Where did you learn to do that?' Swazzle was amazed.

Botchett laughed. 'I wasn't always a Wyrm catcher, bonny lad.' Turning to the fairies, he roared, 'Howay, ye little winged bastards, come and get it! Pilgrim's back, and there's gonna be some dying this fine morning, like.'

As the fairies began to return fire, rounds from their banshee rifles screaming overhead, Swazzle and Pogmorton joined the fray, loosing off shots from their wands while Botchett deafened them with the reports of his shotgun. Two more fairies went down under their combined fire before a banshee rifle round took Swazzle's hat clean off his head. Swazzle's black look by return, flew unerringly towards its mark and began to claw the fairy's face off; she was still desperately trying to pull it off her when she flew full tilt into a tree, her body landing with a sickening thud among its roots.

The remaining two fairies were by now adept at avoiding Botchett's shotgun blasts, and their fire was becoming dangerously accurate, so with Botchett holding onto the travelling box, Swazzle and Pogmorton grabbed him under the arms and dashed off in the direction of the portal, Delilah scampering along at their heels.

Tumbling back into the mortal realm, Swazzle, Pogmorton and Botchett ran up Hangman's Passage. As they reached the intersection with Gallows Close, Pogmorton skidded to a halt, motioning the others to do the same.

'What is it?' Swazzle whispered, flattening himself against the wall.

'Fairy,' Pogmorton pointed, 'In that tree in the churchyard.'

Swazzle whispered to Botchett to stay where he was with the travelling box while he and Pogmorton dealt with the problem. Seeing the grim determination on Swazzle's face, Botchett did not argue as the two Pixies blinked out of sight.

* * *

Twinkle was cold and stiff. She'd been hiding in the tree for hours, waiting for any sign of movement from within Goddess Rising. She knew the witch was in there, but there had been no indication she had gone anywhere near the book yet. It was up to Twinkle to stop her if she did, especially since the Pixies now had the walnut shell formerly entrusted to the keeping of that idiot Simeon. At least while the shell's contents were in his possession, no one would have suspected the awesome power it held.

Hunkering down against the trunk of the Beech tree, Twinkle pulled her cloak more tightly around her and tried to get comfortable. It was a lost cause. There was bound to be movement soon, she thought, then I can get out of here.

* * *

With a soft “pop,” Swazzle and Pogmorton blinked into existence next to one of the huge stone buttresses holding up the church wall. After checking their arrival had not been observed, Pogmorton gestured to Swazzle and they tiptoed quickly across to the base of the tree in which Twinkle was hiding.

'We need a diversion,' Pogmorton mouthed to Swazzle.

Swazzle winked and, working his throat as though he was retching, carefully spat something into his hand. Swazzle took a step back to check his aim, then lobbed the content of his hand gently up towards where Twinkle crouched.

At the top of its arc, and just behind Twinkle's head, Swazzle's larynx began to move. 'BOO!' it shouted, and the Pixies had to dive out of the way as Twinkle jumped, lost her footing and tumbled to the ground, fighting in vain to free her wings from the swaddling folds of her cloak before she hit the ground.

Twinkle landed at their feet with a thud, groaned and lay still. Swazzle deftly caught his voice box and stuffed it back into his mouth as Pogmorton bent over to see if Twinkle was badly injured, or worse.

'Out for the count,' he announced with satisfaction.

'Not dead then?' Swazzle squeaked, hands working to adjust his throat. He coughed then continued in his normal voice, 'It's Twinkle!'

'Aye, it is,' replied Pogmorton, 'And no, she's not dead, just unconscious. ' He clapped Swazzle on the back, 'Well done by the way, throwing your voice like that was perfect, just perfect.'

Swazzle bowed low, grinning. 'So, what do we do now?'

'Get Botchett and the Wyrm inside sharpish before she comes round.' With a soft pop they disappeared.

* * *

Master Jamieson's front door, referred to by the Pixies as the “tradesmen's entrance,” though not in Jamieson's presence, had barely closed behind Botchett when Twinkle moaned and slowly began to move, holding the back of her head as pain arced through her skull. She still wasn't sure exactly what had happened, but it smelled to her like a Pixie trick, and she strongly suspected which pixies were responsible.

Getting gingerly to her feet, Twinkle neatly folded her cloak and, after a few tentative flaps, took to the air in search of a better vantage point.

#FridayFlash: UCF Stories #15: Repercussions