The Student

It was part of her therapy.

Aiasdotter had suffered both psychological and physical torture at the hands of The Hyrm, and although she had been “healed” by Stiletto’s medical technicians, there was still the pain.

Aiasdotter had been given into the care of ‘Schripp, and his first act had been both training aid, and bonding technique. He had taken away her vision.

It was only temporary, a blockage of the functioning of the occipital cortex, and she knew that when she earned it, she would get her sight back.

The crack of the shinai against the men, the grill mask of her Kendo armour, made her head rattle, although in truth it was only a light tap with the bamboo sword.

“Feel,” ‘Schripp encouraged for the hundredth time.

Again, she waited. It wasn’t like being in the dark; there was no light, no vision. All her other senses had become incredibly acute. She could smell ‘Schripp’s sweat in the confines of the room and hear the slow beating of his heart, but the physical senses were not fast enough for what she was trying to do. She had to feel the attack.

Time and again ‘Schripp had told her, “You must feel the intent. Do not think.”

They had spent months disciplining her mind, that she might learn to lose her thoughts.

There was no noise, no movement, just her own action. The shinai in her hands moved with lightning speed, to be held vertical by her left ear to block the cut, and the crack of the clashing bamboo was deafening.

Her feeling of triumph was short lived as a fraction of a second later the right side of her men was lightly struck, and that patient voice spoke right beside her.

“And again.”

Copyright Jhedron Luckspar © 2014 2018
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The Assassination

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 had put Henrik under a great deal of stress and confusion.

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

Lord Stiletto had been 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, 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 in perverting Stiletto’s love of the arcane and ancient.

Stiletto came around the corner in third gear doing eighty-five miles per hour, and saw the traction engine stationary in his path. Taking his foot off the gas that powered the super turbocharged engine, he slammed it on the brake, and the Bugatti skidded sideways down the narrow Cotswold roadway. When he hit the caltrops, the tyres exploded on the sharp metal spikes, and as it left the ground, the beautiful old car began to roll, and accelerated towards the waiting engine.

Henrik had been having second thoughts about his murderous course. Several days before the date with Stiletto, he 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, at the moment of impact, the two friends were travelling through an alternate dimension. The classic sports car, almost a national treasure, exploded in a ball of fire as it slammed into the huge steel roller in front of the traction engine, which had been 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 Tram

Eight Earth weeks earlier…

The image was burnt onto Gregory’s retinas. The pink manic eyes of The Rabbit in the window of the Belgian tram.

Stiletto had taken a wrong turn, in more than one sense of the word. Now his old Bugatti was screaming in reverse between medieval buildings as the looming city tram pursuing them gained on the startled friends.

The day had begun much better. They had been in Ghent, to attend the Science Fiction Convention. Gregory, Stiletto and Lady Bane had arrived in good time and made their presence in the great hall. Comic artist legend, Ian Gibson, a well-respected Master of the genre, and well represented in Lord Stiletto’s fabled library, was unexpectedly at the adjacent table. Stiletto was delighted to meet this unsuspecting mentor, and was fortunate to spend time talking to him and learning from the old Master. Was this why he miscalculated the shenanigans of The Rabbit? Like an avalanche that starts with a single pebble, the origin of Karma is often lost in the mists of events.

Rubber tyres burned and howled as Stiletto accelerated the car in reverse, horn blaring to clear the Saturday evening crowds. Once over a small bridge he applied his handbrake, and the car squealed in a tight arc almost about its own axis and shot backwards in a straight line down a narrow side street.

Stuck on its tracks, the tram hammered past. “It was the Girl with the Red Hair,” commented Lady Bane. A part of Gregory’s mind had noticed her, driving the tram at the fleeing car, but most of his horizon had been filled with the piercing pink eyes of The Rabbit.

Gregory was reasonably sure that vampires didn’t exist, at least in the daytime, so he was quite surprised to meet a Steampunk one. Back at the convention, he and Sarah were manning the table whilst Stiletto was off wandering the halls. A beautiful lady in full role play, had been talking to Gregory and had his full attention. It was the teeth he found so fascinating, they looked completely genuine. She claimed she had paid thousands for the dental work.

Lady Bane had seen some sights in her life. Stiletto coming through the door in his shirt sleeves and waistcoat, but still wearing his bowler hat and goggles, threw the broken, bloody chair leg into the waste paper basket.

“Goddamn vampires,” he spoke calmly as he took his empty pipe from his pocket and nonchalantly put it between his teeth.

“What, not the one talking to Gregory?” she asked in amusement.

“The very same. The genuine article. He actually invited her in, to his room.” He chuckled, taking his pipe out to speak more clearly, “Besotted, quite besotted!”

Copyright Jhedron Luckspar © 2015 2018

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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. This special ingredient was used in the creation of a neural thread that allowed the user to explore the secret pathways 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, because tuned into every nuance of the minutiae of his planet, he was aware of everything.

The Hrym was a connoisseur, and just as the conductor of the Berlin Symphony Orchestra 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 linked 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 twenty-first Century Earth. It was as if The Hrym 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. Like the skin of a deep ocean octopus, his supermarket suit and shiny shoes changed from pale blue to a raging crimson 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, momentarily lost 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, yet his whole presence burning red like Lucifer on a bad day.

And then, that kindly face appeared from the corner and with a few waves of his hand, Sarah’s 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 Spectacles

The friends had gathered for a dinner at Gregory’s private dining room at the Savoy. Gregory mused that they could be forgiven for being mistaken for a private dining club rather than a close-knit band of cosmic adventurers.

Lord Stiletto had particularly enjoyed the quail although he had had some issues with eating them. But what was the difference between them and organic poultry, or estate shot pheasant? Just that quail are cute. Not a thought he would have been too happy sharing with the table. It was good that the seven were all together again. A magical number, although in truth and in secret they were nine. He was just settling down to some goats’ cheese when they were disturbed by a knock on the door, and the Maître d’, profusely apologising for the interruption, supervised the wheeling in of a large widescreen TV. He placed a remote control, and a small engraved wooden box in front of Gregory, bowed and left the room, silently closing the large double doors behind him.

“What the devil,” growled Eaglebeard.

“I thought there were no interruptions,” commented Magnus.

“Is it a surprise?” asked Lady Sarah.

“Sorry,’’ replied a disturbed Gregory, “I’m as much in the dark as you are.”

“Then you had better press Play,” said ‘Schripp, his empty sockets holding them all where his useless eyes had been removed, and skin transplanted from his buttocks had been grafted over to cover them.

Gregory picked up the remote control and meeting the eyes of his friends, carefully pressed Play.

Sat in a simple grey plastic chair, terror etched into the lines around her eyes, was the limp and haggard form of Aiasdotter.

Held loosely in her bruised, bleeding hands was a small wax sealed package.

“I think you had better open the box,” said Stiletto calmly.

“It might be a trap,” purred the Lady Susanna.

“I don’t think so,” replied Gregory, and releasing the catch of the beautifully crafted box, he took out a pair of round, golden ladies’ spectacles.

“What’s the engraving on the box,” asked Eaglebeard.

“Oh, only a Rabbit.”

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 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, organized, brilliant, she kept his cosmic empire ticking like clockwork. Working for such a totally evil being had caused her to make some psychological adjustments, and some nights she woke up screaming from the vacant banality of it all, but Aiasdotter knew she was a crucial element of the friend’s campaign against The Rabbit.

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 his instant annihilation of all the barmaids in every part of the city, along with 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 his city, he had played with the bastard retards like wasps in a jam-jar. He was incandescent when they escaped. Over and over, he replayed the vid of the tall one losing his eyes, but his satisfaction was spoiled by the calm and determined way the tall man then 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 to maintain her own sense of calm when she saw the events of the battle and escape played 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, it was heavily encrypted. Still, being such a trusted part of The Hrym’s network, she had very high clearance access, and accessing security updates, 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, so 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, was a hair’s breadth from her throat, and then the world exploded. His face was an agony of pierced flesh and his world was replaced with darkness.

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 disappeared, but the blackness remained.

“Come on Zatoichi,” Eaglebeard whispered, taking ‘Schripps sword from Stiletto, and then taking his friend’s arm they sprinted out of the bar.

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 that with the absence of his vision, his hearing and smell were super acute, and he silently thanked his old Master for the constant drills with and without a blindfold

A concussion rocked them 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 his 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, gliding his blade through the neck of the Tark mercenary. There was a thud as the mercenary’s head hit 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 over, and taking weapons from their fallen opponents, they sheathed their blades, and unleashed the heavy firepower. In all, fifty-nine 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 amazing new 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 busy 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 into a vice like structure that sat on the edge of his pine wood bars, and gave them a quick jolt with an electronic device that liquefied the contents. Then his customers drove a narrow titanium tube through the weakened cranium and sucked out the gelatinous 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 brand of cola or ginger beer, but which nationality. ‘Schripp sat unhappily on his rotating stool playing with his titanium straw.

They had gone through endless walkways of mind-numbing banality. Expecting a dark underground world of fire and nightmare traps, Constantine meets Raiders of the Lost Ark. It had instead been mile upon mile of vacant and numbing arcades, malls and precincts, all brightly neon lit with bland neutral shades.

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

Gregory grabbed the light but strong metallic straw from the counter, powered it down through the temporal lobe of the rigidly held smartly coiffed head, and sucked with a mighty slurp.

It was too much for ‘Schripp. As the beautiful but vacuous barmaid leaned forward to see if he required assistance, he pivoted in his seat, his 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 other customers exploded, covering the friends with a fine patina of neural phlegm.

With blank resignation the barmaid’s slightly pouty lips blew ‘Schripp a kiss and then her head too exploded. Bone fragments embedded in his face and his vision destroyed, the polite but exasperated warrior passed his blade to Stiletto, took a napkin from the bar and wiped the dura mater 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 friends, Stiletto, Gregory, Eaglebeard, and ‘Schripp, stood in the library window looking at the view of the nearby nebula, understanding a shared love of the universe.

Tomorrow they must leave and do battle with The Hrym.

The Hrym was a nice man, at least in appearance. Unless you looked deep into his eyes. There dwelt a coldness and vacancy so empty, that it 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.

But all these were 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 spent following 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 is a choice.

Life on The Hrym’s world was one of drudgery, hatred, and loss of hope, if hope in this grey and negative place had ever existed. To step onto this world was to be assailed by a 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.

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 a pH of 1. Lord Stiletto had provided special lightweight space suits to protect the friends from the planet’s toxic fog.

Coming over the ridge, they saw the city below them. Even though the design was meant to strike discord 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 anonymous suburb. Each house was perfectly represented. Yet the scale was massive. Each “house” was thousands of metres high and would have dwarfed the tallest of Earth’s sky scrapers.

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

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 the inspector, he didn’t have a ridiculous moustache.

Lord Stiletto put his cutlery together on his plate, tines down, 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. 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, 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 with a mischievous look.

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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