London Conversation

This conversation dates from February, and some how missed being posted. Things have moved on. Beano Grigio is being published on July 1st. The Lift is already available on my book page. I finished the sequel to the children’s book yesterday. Guess I have been busy.

My plot lines? Well, good question.

My plot hopefully runs through with some kind of logic. But it’s a bit like a Morecambe and Wise song, all the right notes, but not necessarily in the right order.

Because my characters are cosmic adventurers, assassins and warriors, bouncing backwards and forwards in space time, so do the series of events. I like to break up the action and come back to it. So there are multiple plot lines running, but also multiple times, not just now, the past, the future, but also different times in the life experience of each character. The way I look at it, a person’s life is a thread of moments. If I catch the train to London and spend the day at the British Museum and Ronnie Scott’s that’s the thread. Tomorrow I fly to Paris, drink coffee and play chess on the banks of the Seine, browse the shelves of the American Bookshop, and base jump inside Notre Dame. The thread continues. Next day I go back in time, still in Paris, and have dinner with Robespierre. Sunday, I travel by horse to Giverny, and look at the water lilies 130 years before Monet paints them. Four days of my thread. Each character is living their own thread, which crisscross, and intermingle throughout the plot lines.

Base jumping, no I’m only kidding. Never parachuted. An old friend once base jumped inside a cathedral. We pick up inspiration from all places.

I once heard the secret of life. The first two, of three, absorption, expulsion. Expulsion, in this case, creativity, but you need absorption in your life. Experience, travel, books, movies. Sometimes I will hear something in the morning on the radio, and by midnight it will nudge a thought, a sentence, an idea.

My stories are about adventures. People get shot, blown up, stabbed, but they also look at sunsets and enjoy dining together. At the moment in the world, there are events happening, and sometimes their ghost will haunt an idea.

Who knows how the creative process works?

What am I working on at the moment? Polishing off Beano Grigio, my third novel in the Friendship Series. The last few weeks I have been writing some side plots and character stories. I keep being asked for more detail, so I’m trying to listen.

I have a small group of friends who I send out my latest chapters to, when I have written them. It’s good to get feedback. Recently I wrote a stand alone short story, The Lift, which I posted out. Three friends were quite adamant. What happens next? It’s now ten chapters. I have set it aside now to concentrate on finishing Beano, but I guess that’s my next project.

I have the prologue written for Beano, and I know roughly where I’m going on the fourth book in the series. I wrote the first page months ago.

Also I am doing a children’s book with my friend, Faramond Frie. We did a private edition for children of friends and family for last Christmas. We only had time for the cover illustration then, but Fram is working on the artwork for an illustrated edition for publication.

How is it? Well I’m really pleased with it. We got some great feedback from parents, but most importantly from the kids.

It’s a fantasy about a princess, a horse and a dragon.

Why did I write it? Three weeks before Christmas I had dinner with friends. One friend was talking with me about reading to his ten year old daughter, and trying to find something she liked. I inquired about her likes, and was told horses. That was on the Friday night.

On the Sunday I wrote the book. It’s only 25 pages. Fram did the cover and I managed to deliver a hardback copy for my friend’s daughter in time for Christmas. There’s that thing again. Absorption, expulsion. If I hadn’t had the conversation, I wouldn’t have written a children’s book.

 

Copyright Jhedron Luckspar © 2018

The Assassination

Lady Bane shed a silent tear as she threw the blue rose into Stiletto’s gaping grave.

The unseasonal mist sent cold fingers around the gravestones in the Oxford cemetery, and glancing over at his companions ringing the graveside, Gregory pulled his overcoat collar up against the drizzling rain and walked away to the waiting cars.

Henrik, a nice young man at heart, had been told to up the ante. The order to assassinate Lord Stiletto had come directly from The Rabbit and Henrik was under a great deal of stress and confusion.

He wasn’t a killer, he knew that in his heart, and basically, he quite liked Gregory and Stiletto when he had met them in the now destroyed Sweden, and that vanished reality of his planet Earth. He realised that he now owed his life to The Rabbit, but deep inside he knew he wasn’t a murderer.

Lord Stiletto was out driving in the Oxfordshire countryside in his favourite Bugatti. It was an original car from 1939, one he had picked up from the Milan home of Ettore Bugatti himself, just as the second world war was kicking off. He had driven it down to Sicily where he had shipped it over to Malta using his contacts, and there stored it in a cave on the small adjacent island of Gozo.

Now he was racing along the road to Lechlade, wind buffeting his bowler, goggles firmly in place.

Henrik had gone for an indirect method of murder. His choice, spiked metal sheets, nailed into the tarmac surface of the Lechlade road. Almost immediately behind the caltrops he had parked a traction engine, recently stolen from the neighbouring village’s steam fair. He felt a nascent thrill knowing Stiletto’s love of the arcane and ancient.

Stiletto came around the corner in third, at eightyfive miles per hour, and saw the traction engine stationary in his path. Slamming his right foot on the brakes and taking his foot off the gas, powering fuel in to the super turbo charged engine, he skidded sideways down the narrow Cotswold roadway. When he hit the caltrops, the tyres exploded on the sharp metal spikes, and the beautiful old car began to roll, as it left the ground, and accelerated towards the waiting engine.

Henrik had been having second thoughts about his murderous course, several days before the date with Stiletto, and had taken the opportunity to send a message to Gregory. Stiletto took some persuading to sacrifice his beautiful sports car, but with Haydrift Eaglebeard as a passenger, and some nifty hand jive, the two friends were travelling through an alternate dimension as the classic sports car, almost a national treasure, exploded in a ball of fire as it slammed into the huge steel roller that fronted the traction engine, artfully placed in the Bugatti’s path.

 

Copyright Jhedron Luckspar © 2015 2018

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For a FREE eBook of Revenge Of The Hrym visit my Book Page
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The Pain

In the end it was all down to the slime. The slime extracted from the gall bladder of a very angry space cucumber. It was from this special ingredient that was made a neural pathway that allowed the user to explore the secrets of the universe.

Gregory had been metaphorically bashing his head against the walls of reason, trying to come up with a plan to rescue Aiasdotter, when all along what was required was the ability to slip under the surface.

Lady Sarah looked like she had gone several rounds with a Megafraken pit fighter, and that was before Stiletto’s technicians changed her face. It was she who had volunteered to use the slime to penetrate the dark planet of The Hrym.

Like a corrupted Japanese Daimyo listening to the screams of a boiling Dutch cabin boy, The Hrym was carried away by the music coming from Aiasdotter’s cell. He didn’t have to actually be present, as he was aware of everything. He brought a whole new meaning to the oft’ misunderstood concept of multi-tasking.

The Hrym was a connoisseur, and just as the conductor of the Berlin Symphonia could hear the minutest change in the tone of his lead violinist’s E string, so too, The Hrym felt the minutest of fluctuations in the terror and pain experienced by his erstwhile brilliant and efficient private secretary.

Connected to his neural network, The Hrym connected straight to the cell where Aiasdotter was being kept and tortured.

In the Hrym’s future world the dimensional reality of neural communication and entertainment had come a long way from the 3D cinema and TV back at the beginning of the 21st Century Earth. Now it was like he was in the cell, and had brought his presence with him.

Sat there in the chair was Aiasdotter, and yet The Hrym knew it was not her. His supermarket suit and shiny shoes changed to a red colour as the sensitivity of the neural net picked up the subtle shift that his physical presence would never reveal.

The colour change was a step too far. Haydrift Eaglebeard who had been stood silently in the corner lost momentary control. Using an ancient Tibetan meditation technique, he had been holding himself in a stasis of No Thing whilst the switch between Aiasdotter and Lady Sarah had taken place.

Seven and a half seconds were required and to Sarah strapped to the plastic chair, it seemed like an infinite moment of torment.

Suddenly The Hrym was standing before her, face almost catatonic in its banality, and yet his whole presence burning red like Lucifer on a bad day.

And then, that kindly face stepped from the corner and with a few waves of his hand, the pain was gone.

Copyright Jhedron Luckspar © 2014 2018

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For a FREE eBook of Revenge Of The Hrym visit my Book Page
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The Personal Assistant

The Rabbit wasn’t the only one who had been recruiting at the Steampunk Festival at Gavle, Sweden.

Aiasdotter was the best PA, The Hrym had ever had. Efficient, organised and brilliant, she kept his cosmic empire ticking like clockwork. Working for such a totally evil being had caused some psychological adjustments and some nights she woke up screaming from the vacant banality of it all, but Aiasdotter was a crucial element in the struggles of the friends in their campaign against The Rabbit.

Today all hell had broken loose. The Hrym was not happy. It was impossible to tell from his face, which showed no sign of personality or emotion, but the instant annihilation of all the barmaids in every part of the city, their friends and families was a sure indication that yesterday’s events had got under his skin.

Confident from the moment of their landing outside the city, he had played with the bastard retards like wasps in a jam-jar, and was incandescent when they escaped. Over and over, he replayed the vid of the tall one losing his eyes, but his satisfaction was taken away with the calm and determined way he carried on, as if he had his face destroyed on a daily basis. And, how was it possible for him to fight so well?

Aiasdotter placed the cup of tepid water on The Hrym’s desk, and returned to her duties. It was hard for her to maintain her own sense of calm when she saw the events of the battle and escape over and over again.

And then she saw it. Computers had long ago left the realm of hardware. The software was now tied into the neural processing power of the user’s brain, although in big business, or in the employ of cosmic psychopaths, they were heavily encrypted. Still, being such a trusted part of The Hrym’s network she had very high clearance access, and she had just learnt the whereabouts of the Package. Hard to imagine it was still intact.

She had no chance of getting a message to Gregory, she would have to act. Leaving her desk, she said something banal to The Hrym, and headed down to the storage facility.

The Hrym was disappointed. Aiasdotter was a fantastic asset, even if she was leaking information to the Retards.

Copyright Jhedron Luckspar © 2014 2018
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For a FREE eBook of Revenge Of The Hrym visit my Book Page
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The Dark

The only one untouched by the carnage was Haydrift Eaglebeard. He didn’t know if it was lightning reflexes or instinct that had moved his hand, but he found he was in a pink cavity where the exploding neural tissue and fragmented bone had stopped about an arm’s length away from him. He would have to work on that, a detached part of his mind thought, with a bit of expansion he could have protected the group, although ‘Schripp’s proximity to the barmaid meant he couldn’t be helped. Still, he passed his hand over the damaged face of his friend and the pain although not the blindness was taken away.

‘Schripp was focused on the eyes of the girl. His sword, razor sharp, a fractions gap from her throat, and then the world exploded. His face was an agony of pierced flesh and his vision was gone.

With the calmness of a warrior he turned to where he knew Stiletto would be, and handing him his blade, took a napkin from the bar, and wiped the pureed flesh from his face and useless eye sockets.

He felt the presence of Eaglebeard, and a callused hand was passed gently over his face. The pain had gone, only the blackness remained.

“Come on Zatoichi,” his friend whispered, and taking his arm they ran off at a sprint.

The alarms were still shrieking and ‘Schripp slid on the slimy floor but managed to keep up. After one hundred metres he felt the pressure to stop and the tsuka of his katana was slid into his hand. ‘Schripp pushed his awareness out, and found his hearing and smell were super acute with the absence of his vision, and he silently thanked his old Master for the constant drills with and without a blindfold.

A concussion rocked the space as Stiletto fired a gun of some sort and the friends raced off down the corridor, Haydrift keeping close, but only maintaining the barest of touches arm to arm. ‘Schripp could sense a space coming on the left, and the threat concealed there. Blade held lightly in the right hand, left arm brushing his friend’s, he moved across to that side of the passage, sword tip slightly raised as he became open to the void.

He felt the change of pressure in the confined space and with unerring accuracy slid his stance forward to meet the attack, bringing his blade through the neck of the Tark mercenary. There was a thud as the mercenary’s head bounced on the floor and rolled away.

He could hear the sounds of battle around him, and instinctively knew the feel and presence of his three friends. The time for concealment was long gone, and taking weapons from their fallen opponents, blades were sheathed, and heavier fire power was unleashed. In all, fiftynine seconds had passed since his world exploded, and apart from Eaglebeard’s joke, not one word had been uttered.

“NOW,” yelled Eaglebeard, and ‘Schripp felt a powerful heave as they all slipped through the portal Eaglebeard had opened with his replacement hand.

 

Copyright Jhedron Luckspar © 2014 2018

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For a FREE eBook of Revenge Of The Hrym visit my Book Page
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The Bar

The bar was based on The Hrym’s readings of modern Japanese literature. It was his own take on Monkey Brain Sushi. He abducted devotees of his favourite soap opera, locked their heads in to a vice like structure on the edge of his pine wood bars, gave them a quick jolt with an electronic device that liquified the contents, then his customers drove a narrow titanium tube through the weakened cranium and sucked out the liquified brains, like a glorified milk shake. This way, The Hrym joked to his dinner guests, they really did have brains like mush, instead of simply seeming like it.

The four friends sat at the bar wondering how they were going to get out of this one. The choice wasn’t so much which cola or ginger beer, but which nationality. ‘Schripp sat unhappily on his rotating stool playing with his titanium straw.

They had gone through miles of this. Expecting a dark underground world of fire and nightmare traps, Constantine meets Raiders of the Lost Ark, it had been mile upon mile of vacant and numbing arcades, malls and precincts, all brightly neon lit with bland pastel shades.

‘Schripp was a man on the edge and was clearly about to snap.

Gregory grabbed the light but strong metallic straw and powered it down in to the temporal lobe of the rigidly held head and sucked with a mighty slurping.

It was too much for ‘Schripp. As the beautiful but vacant barmaid lent forward to see if he required assistance, he pivoted in his seat, razor sharp blade whistled with the sound of its passing, and stopped one millimetre away from her beautiful although rather anorexic looking neck.

“No thank you.”

With that all hell broke loose. Alarms went off and with concussive retorts the heads of all the customers at their bars exploded, covering the friends with a fine patina of neural phlegm.

With an empty fatality the barmaid’s slightly pouty lips blew ‘Schripp a kiss and then her head too exploded. With bone fragments embedded in his face and his vision destroyed, the polite but exasperated warrior passed his blade to Stiletto and taking a napkin from the bar wiped the duramater from his agonised and newly blinded eyes.

Copyright Jhedron Luckspar © 2014 2018
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For a FREE eBook of Revenge Of The Hrym visit my Book Page
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The Spider

The four men stood in the room with the Master listening to the song and shed the tears of a love of the universe.

Tomorrow they must leave and take battle with The Hrym.

The Hrym was a nice man, at least in appearance. Unless you looked deep in to his eyes, and there dwelt a coldness and vacancy, that would freeze the blood of Death himself. For, The Hrym was thoroughly and completely evil.

What is good in the universe is love. A love of life, of existence itself. The love of a dewdrop on an Acacia leaf, the soar and tilt of an Eagle’s wing, the double sunset on the planet of Hoth Minor. The moments of life that make existence so special. The shared experiences and moments that go to create true friendship.

Meaningless concepts to The Hrym who was a vacuum of love, of life, of positivity. Many had tried to analyse why The Hrym was as he was. A broken home, a traumatic environment, the proximity of his home planet to a destructive burst of Gamma radiation, but truth be known, The Hrym was as he was because he was a complete and utter bastard. At least that’s what Stiletto reasoned as he went through his check list in preparation for the coming assault.

Haydrift Eaglebeard was more prosaic. A life of a philosophical and spiritual path, true of all the friends, had taught him to let go of the past and future events and only truly live in the present moment. What is, is, and only now in this second of existence does the experience of life truly take place. Good or evil was a choice.

Life on The Hrym’s world was one of drudgery, hatred and loss of hope, if hope on this grey and negative place had ever existed. To step on to this world was to be assailed by the draining waste of nothingness, and no more was this felt than in the direct presence of The Hrym.

Because of the sophisticated defences of The Hrym, the friends had to drop off forty kilometres outside the city and hike in. Gregory’s worst nightmare.

The atmosphere was a mixture of sulphurous and other toxic chemicals, and if one was to take a litmus test, one could confidently hold their strip of paper against the grade scale, and record PH1.

Coming over the ridge they saw the city below them. Even though it was designed to strike terror into the hearts of all thinking beings the friends burst out laughing. Ahead in the centre of the barren plain of smashed and jagged rock was a perfect replica of a cul-de-sac from an Australian soap opera. Each house perfectly represented. Yet the scale was massive. Each “house” was thousands of metres tall and would have dwarfed the tallest of Earth’s sky scrapers.

By reasons of proportion each house measured several kilometres square and who knew what treacherous warrens were awaiting them.

What is consciousness and what is its range?  The Hrym’s consciousness through the machinations of The Rabbit had gone through some violent evolutionary steps and now took in all of the planet. In a way one could say The Hrym was the planet. Every stone, every rock was a part of his being and so he was aware of the friends as soon as they materialised on his surface. Like a spider sitting at the centre of his web he waited for the flies to come to him.

 

Copyright Jhedron Luckspar © 2014 2018
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For a FREE eBook of Revenge Of The Hrym visit my Book Page
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The Hrym

Like Inspector Poirot, The Enabler was a small dark Belgian, but unlike Inspector Poirot he didn’t have a ridiculous moustache.

Lord Stiletto put his cutlery together and drained the last of the Château Lafite. Their host had truly presented them with a meal of a lifetime. A sudden explosion outside shook the building and a dozen glass chandeliers made the music of war. The cannon fire had punctuated the meal, occasionally drowning out the marvellous strains of the string quartet, but their host assured them that in fact they were quite safe.

“I believe you have been here before?” commented The Enabler, offering the two friends cigars. Lord Stiletto politely declined and took his empty pipe out of his pocket and gripped it firmly between his teeth. “I understand you are looking for a package?” continued the debonair Belgian.

‘Schripp had passed on the cigar but took a generous sip of their host’s splendid port.

“Yes, and yes,” replied Lord Stiletto. “I was able to render a certain assistance at Smolensk and we have mislaid a certain wax sealed package.”

“And what does this package contain?” The Enabler asked mischievously.

The two friends looked aghast but maintained a subtle silence.

“I understand The Rabbit has taken delivery of the package,” the Belgian continued dryly, “and it seems to me he has just been playing games with you.”

‘Schripp could feel his temper rising but with a breath in and out returned to his usual equanimity.

“We have had some difficulty retrieving the package,” Stiletto admitted, as the Maître d’ poured more port into his glass, “but we have every confidence in your services. You come very highly recommended.”

The Belgian’s next words filled the two adventurers with dread, and the normally unflappable Stiletto almost spilt his port.

“The package is in the hands of The Hrym.”

Copyright Jhedron Luckspar © 2014 2018
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For a FREE eBook of Revenge Of The Hrym visit my Book Page
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The Mistake

Duke Magnus and Lady Susanna’s passion lay at the university at Stockholm, where he, like Stiletto, had a special library. Unfortunately, their particular library, and home, had been destroyed in the parallel universe Earth that had been blown up by The Rabbit. In this universe there would be another Magnus and Susanna in Stockholm.

Being a scholar of ancient Earth languages and sharing Duke Magnus’s passion for books and libraries, Stiletto was going to take Magnus and Susanna, along with Lady Bane, to visit the library in Alexandria. However, top hats and silk dresses would definitely cause a bit of a stir, so Stiletto, an expert in ancient cultures, had made a pre-visit to Rome to purchase togas for the gentlemen, and gowns for the ladies. After all, he had a mentor who liked to buy his suits in Rome.

In future days everyone is fitted with inbuilt neural translators, so the myriad lifeforms of the universe can communicate, so it had been a simple affair for Stiletto to fashion the friends with the ability to speak Latin and Egyptian, although with a Roman accent, as they would be posing as tourists, which of course, they were.

It was true that the Girl with the red hair had also had her planet blown up, but she had shifted effortlessly back into the Sweden of this universe by eliminating her parallel self. In fact, being essentially a good person, although she had chosen to serve The Rabbit, she had arranged for her to have a new life on an Earth colony in the future.

Duke Magnus was sat on a marble bench in the great library in Alexandria reading a scroll of Plato’s Republic, in what was possibly Plato’s own hand. A great scholar of Greek philosophy, he knew the text inside out and this version contained several arguments and explanations of the theory of forms that had never made it to posterity. Sat on the bench beside him, his wife, Lady Susanna, kept on breaking out into howls of laughter as she absorbed one of the funnier plays of Aristophanes.

The Rabbit couldn’t give a fig for the achievements of Greek thought or any other kind of human achievement for that matter. All The Rabbit wanted, was results.

The Girl with the red hair, now fully recovered from being shot at the Fitzwilliam, was struggling to keep up with the events of the last few months. Recruited by The Rabbit, she had witnessed the destruction of the Earth only to return to a carbon copy of her previous existence. The Rabbit was an enigma, but serving him was fun, and it transpired she had a talent for mayhem on a cosmic scale.

Lady Bane had got bored in the Library, and she and Stiletto were exploring the adjacent streets. They passed easily as Romans for Egypt was part of the Empire and Alexandria was full of merchants and military, but for all his wisdom, Stiletto had forgotten about slaves. No noble Roman lady would be out and about without personal attendants easing the way.

Stiletto and Sarah had been marked, but marked as what? The beggar with the scarred face knew they were wrong but didn’t know why. Clearly, they were noble Romans, but unlike any he had ever seen.

Stiletto wasn’t worried. He had seen the beggar in the shadows, and the ragamuffin messenger who raced off, and had correctly assessed the situation. Trading his top hat for a toga had been fun, and its folds hid a treasury of concealed weaponry.

Turning to warn Sarah of the threat, he was astonished to see she was gone. Astonishment changed to incredulity as the arrow hit him from behind, through his right shoulder, and staggering, he fell to the cobbled floor.

The Girl with the red hair watched from the shadows. She had seen Lady Bane taken, and Stiletto shot, and watched as men in rags fought with the badly wounded adventurer. Deciding to act she looped her wire over the head of the first attacker, removing his head with a tug, and drove the point of her blade through the back of the neck of a second. It was all the relief Stiletto required, and he quickly dispatched the other two, blood seeping through his white toga where the arrow shaft stood proud. The adventurer had miscalculated, and where was Sarah?

Copyright by Jhedron Luckspar © 2014 2018
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For a FREE eBook of Revenge Of The Hrym visit my Book Page
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The Bank Job

Lord Stiletto was striding through the lobby of the Union City Bank in his shirt sleeves and one of his most garish waistcoats. Unusually, the pipe clenched between his teeth was emitting a rather yellow plume of smoke.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” an anxious young lady said to him, “you can’t smoke he…,” but before she could finish the sentence she was dropping where she was. Stiletto caught her, breaking her fall, and laid her carefully on the marble floor.

Others were not so lucky, and clerks and security guards alike were hitting the floor left, right, and centre.

Once the coast was clear, into the lobby came Haydrift Eaglebeard, although one could only identify him from his flowing beard and ponytail, as his face was covered, by what looked to Stiletto, a first world war gas mask.

The electronic security of the bank with its cameras, both overt and hidden, and the latest twenty first century technology, were no match for Stiletto’s future technicians, and had been disabled seconds before he came through the lobby door.

Still the safe complex had some good old-fashioned iron doors with top grade tumbler locks, although these would be no defence against his accomplice with his dimension breaching hand.

Sitting outside a bank in a vintage Bentley with the engine running might be a bit of a giveaway, so Gregory and Sarah were parked in the underground garage. With Stiletto’s nerve agent, this time a mild version, and his neutralisation of the security system, they weren’t expecting any problems with their escape. Somebody hadn’t taken into account the tenacity of The Rabbit.

The Rabbit was sitting in the shadows, whiskers twitching, watching the occupants of the old turbo charged Bentley. With a twitch of his ears he gave the signal for the counter offensive.

Lord Stiletto and Haydrift Eaglebeard knew exactly which vault contained the package, but when they slipped through reality into the vault, with a pop the window in the space time continuum closed behind them. The vault wasn’t empty though, it contained a grizzly bear.

Had, The Rabbit, borrowed the grizzly bear from London Zoo, it might have been a little easier to manage, but this one had been taken from the Alaskan wastes, and it was seriously hungry and pissed off. Its roar in the confined space was deafening. Its mistake, was standing up on hind legs to offer its challenge.

With lightning speed, though an almost casual air, Eaglebeard reached through its chest and crushed its pounding heart. Unfortunately, fourteen hundred pounds of dead bear toppled forward crushing and trapping him against the vault floor.

Sarah’s gun was the sort of gun that had been built in the future by Lord Stiletto’s technicians. Having access to the books in his library this gave a vast array of potential effects. One of their favourites was the Medusa ray which turned the living to stone, like her fabled glare. At the moment, it was creating explosions, which was useful because it had an approximation factor built in, and even if you missed the target all together, they could still be taken out by the environment, in this case the architecture and motor vehicles in the underground car park.

Haydrift Eaglebeard came from an ancient, and warrior-like race, and was made of strong stuff. Still he was pinned to the floor, and with concussion, and the benefit of several broken ribs, one of which was causing some internal bleeding. Left to his own devices he would not have been able to extricate himself from under the dead weight of the bear, even with his new and special hand which was trapped beneath him. Fortunately, his accomplice was Lord Stiletto.

Strong as Stiletto was, he couldn’t shift a fourteen hundred pound carcass, but he had one of those iridium blades, said to be able to cut the fabric of the universe, although not in the way of Eaglebeard’s hand, and he was able to joint the bear into moveable lumps. Fifteen minutes later a very broken and bloody Haydrift Eaglebeard sat on the floor, wondering with his friend, how the bloody hell they were going to get out of this one.

Being a serendipitous lot, where the thought of a friend found them walking around the corner, or at the least, calling on the phone, at that moment the door of the vault momentarily hummed then vanished, and outlined on its other side was Sarah, Lady Bane, holding a gun of some sort.

Back at the Savoy, spruced and cleaned up, with Eaglebeard’s ribs healing below the bandages, the four friends were joined for dinner in Gregory’s private dining room by Duke Magnus and Lady Susanna. Over dessert Magnus was amusingly recounting how the porters had discovered Henrik unconscious under his newspaper, and unable to awaken him, sent him off to Great Ormond Street Hospital in an ambulance, siren blaring and blue light flashing.

Copyright by Jhedron Luckspar © 2014 2018
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For a FREE eBook of Revenge Of The Hrym visit my Book Page
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