They were born in France and lawfully registered there under one surname. Their births were also lawfully registered in the United Kingdom under another. Both registrations were valid. Both surnames have existed since birth. Nothing was changed later. There has been no deed poll, no invented identity, no attempt to manipulate the system. Just two countries applying two different naming systems to the same children.

For years, this caused no difficulty. My son held a British passport in his UK-registered name and a French passport in his French one. The arrangement had already been accepted in practice.

Now, HM Passport Office says the documents must align. The names must be the same.

But they cannot align, because each reflects a different lawful registration made at birth in its own jurisdiction. France records one surname. The UK records another. Neither is wrong. Neither is fraudulent. The mismatch is not evidence of deception. It is the result of two states recording the same child differently from the very beginning.

And yet the effect is extraordinary. My son cannot get the British passport he needs because his British and French documents do not match neatly enough for the current rules. But he also cannot simply use his French documents as though he were a foreign visitor, because he is British. So a British citizen from birth is left unable to travel to Britain at all.

That is not a minor inconvenience. He is due to travel to London next month on a school trip. He has family and friends in the UK. Britain is not some optional destination to him. It is part of his family, his inheritance, and potentially his future. He may wish to study there one day. His sister will face the same problem when her turn comes.

What makes this so infuriating is that there is no real dispute underneath it. No one doubts that my children are British. No one doubts who they are. No one is trying to rewrite history. The state itself recorded them as British citizens at birth. The problem is not nationality. The problem is bureaucracy.

There are supposedly exception routes for difficult cases. But it is hard not to notice the perversity of a system that can find ways to accommodate all sorts of later complications, while struggling to cope with British citizens who have changed nothing at all and whose only offence is to have been lawfully registered at birth in two different countries.

This is not about seeking special treatment. It is about asking the British state to recognise the reality it created and previously accepted: two lawful surnames, both held from birth, and a right to British citizenship that should mean more than being trapped in a paperwork loop.

If birth right means anything, it ought to survive contact with HM Passport Office.

My serialised Sci Fi, At the Tiamat Rift is advancing steadily on Royal Road. Chapter 9 drops tomorrow. If you’ve been meaning to catch up, now’s the moment.

👉 Read At “The Tiamat Rift” here

On another front, I’ve completed the first draft of my submission to the Based Book Sale anthology, themed around Relics. My synopsis was accepted, which gets me through the first gate. There are no guarantees beyond that, but the piece is now resting in the metaphorical drawer before I return to it for a final polish before submitting. We’ll see how the fates rule.

👉 Read about the Based Book Sale anthology here:

And of course, The Chronicles of Heraldria continues apace. Times of Revelation is now roughly halfway drafted, and the architecture is holding. Threads are converging. It’s shaping into the book it was always meant to be.

👉 Begin “The Chronicles of Heraldria” here

More soon.

I thought I knew exactly where I stood — until I didn’t…

If you don’t already know the shorthand:

Plotters plan.

Pantsers discover as they fly by the seat of their pants.

Or, to use a different metaphor: architects vs gardeners:

Architects design the building before laying a stone, while gardeners plant seeds and see what grows.

As with most traits, nobody is just one or the other. It’s a spectrum.

A writer will employ both approaches throughout their journey, and both lead eventually to the same destination, a completed story.

I’m a plotter. It’s built into my DNA.

The Chronicles of Heraldria is plotted to the extreme, designed the architect’s way, to the n’th degree.

It’s long-arc driven and structurally locked. Major events were decided years — in some cases decades — before they were written. Foreshadowing isn’t accidental. Payoffs are delayed on purpose. Changes ripple forward and backward in ways that make improvisation expensive.

Want to know what happens in the final scene of the last book? I could tell you, but I won’t (it’s not a JK Rowling bluff. If anyone wants to pay me one million dollars, I’ll forward it to you immediately after receipt of payment; the rest of you will have to wait).

Ask me what happened one thousand, two thousand years ago in Heraldria, I can tell you. There will eventually be an accompanying encyclopaedia for those who are interested (it’s already written).

Like I said, I’m a plotter.

Want appendices? Here you go.

Want maps? I have them.

Want family trees? I’d have to make them up, but they’ll fit the narrative.

I’m a plotter…

Most of the time.

Let’s say 75%

I’ve “pantsed” a few short stories, starting with a premise and letting it go from there. I’ve “pantsed” my way through whole chapters to link plotted waypoints in the narrative, and even full character arcs that annoyingly appeared to upset my careful plans (I’m looking at you, Forian).

What I’ve never done is “pantsed” a complete book.

Until now…

A fellow writer told me about Royal Road. For those who don’t know, Royal Road is a website where writers serialise their books (they publish chapters every so often, building to a novel that some then go on to publish).

He’d mentioned it before; he touted it as the new best thing for writers to air their wares, as it were. I’d looked into it and thought, “It’s pantsing. A chapter per week or more, and even I don’t know the end!? That’s not for me.”

(To be clear, Royal Road doesn’t force you to write this way — that was simply my assumption at the time.)

He told me that they were running a competition (I have a competitive streak, I’m not ashamed to admit).

The prompt was:

Dragons in Space!

Who doesn’t like dragons? Who does like anything, “In spaaace…”?

I decided to give it a go.

At first, it was anxiety-inducing. Writing without a fixed endpoint felt like stepping off solid ground. No master outline. No safety net. Just the next chapter, and the obligation to make it work.

The strange thing is that the mental process wasn’t as different as I’d expected. The same questions still surfaced: what does this scene do, what changes, what breaks, what carries forward? The difference wasn’t in the thinking, but in the timing. Decisions that would normally be made months or years in advance were being made in real time, under momentum rather than architecture.

There was more uncertainty, more risk — but also more immediacy. Discoveries happened on the page, not in notes. Some things surprised me precisely because they hadn’t been designed to.

And somewhere along the way, the anxiety eased.

I didn’t become a pantser. I didn’t abandon structure (I now have a whole other universe developing in my head). But I came to appreciate the craft of it — the discipline required to let a story grow without strangling it, and the trust it demands in both character and consequence.

Writing it feels fast, energetic, and occasionally reckless. The light only reaches as far as the next bend in the path, but that forward motion is intoxicating.

And there is no way back. What’s happened has happened. It’s already published, it’s out there in the wild, in the reader’s head.

I didn’t discover that one method was superior.

I discovered that both are honest, and both extract their price — just at different times.

Plotting front-loads the pain.

Pantsing defers it.

In both cases, you still have to earn the ending.

So the real question isn’t “Are you a plotter or a pantser?”

It’s this:

Do you stick to the path — knowing exactly where it leads, and ignore what else you might see along the way?

Or do you step off it, accepting that the spiders might get you?

If you’d like to compare the two approaches in practice:

The Chronicles of Heraldria — my epic military fantasy series — is on Amazon, unfolding according to plan.

Meanwhile, At the Tiamat Rift is unfolding live on Royal Road. A new chapter drops around the same time as this post. Give it a read and join me in guessing what happens next — because at this point, I’m discovering it too.

Comments are open here and on Royal Road, if you’re inclined.

The longer version is that I’m in a dilemma.

Some of you may be thinking, “But Marcus—Lumi—Ms. Jones—whatever the hell your name is, doesn’t received wisdom strongly advise against genre spread? Against multiple pen-names, diluting your ‘brand’, confusing readers, angering the algorithms?”

Of course it does.

And it’s sound advice for most. Debut authors (I followed it myself, many years ago), for authors chasing algorithmic growth, or those whose income depends on “rapid audience consolidation” or whatever they’re calling it these days.

That’s not my position.

I’m working on several things at once because I enjoy exploring ideas through different lenses, not because I’m unfocused. Think of it as different rooms in the same house. Which door you open first is up to you.

If you enjoy one room, you might enjoy another. If not, there’s plenty to explore inside each.

In the playroom, the Substack room, once you blow off the dust, you’ll find the author trying to ‘engage’ with his audience, because that’s what modern authors are supposed to do. In the corner, a scrapbook: snippets of half-confessions about how and why he writes, all wrapped in a veneer of cynicism to give him plausible deniability. Scattered around are notebooks filled with poetry, horror stories, mysteries, and whimsical tales about gnomes.

In the library, shelves stacked with books, some he’s read, some he’s written, others he’s yet to write. On a lower, dustier shelf sit completed but unpublished works: a contemporary detective novel, the start of a techno-thriller series, others forgotten, abandoned, or lost to an unfortunate hard-drive failure.

Nearby, his first Mythocide novel, Shock and Awe, symbolising a much younger author’s hopes and disillusionments, languishing on Amazon a decade after the plaudits it received ceased to have any meaning — perhaps to be put back on display after a revision.

Near the centre of the room, a carefully collated section of published works, each bearing his name in print: The Bizarchives, Toadstool Magazine, Thinking about Rome, Passage Prize. Evidence that his work had found readers before — enough to justify the confidence to continue, never enough to justify rest.

And in pride of place, The Chronicles of Heraldria. His half-finished magnum opus at the heart of a revival. Flawed. Incomplete. Unheralded. But continuing to its inevitable conclusion.

So, if you’re curious to step into a different room, At the Tiamat Rift is currently unfolding on Royal Road, and if you’re feeling really engaged, a follow or a review helps more than you might think.

Read Part Two Here

Previously…

Snudbugast and his companions set out for the North Pole after Santa’s envoys mysteriously vanished, only to find the workshop silent and the surrounding snows twisted by eldritch forces. Their descent into the mountains revealed corrupted toys, hollow-eyed elves, and Santa himself imprisoned in a flawless block of ice. Guided by the ghostly envoy Gnarly Jakob, Snudbugast faced the Three Yule Spirits — Past, Present, and Future — resisting despair, consumerist madness, and the bleak reign of Yulethulhu. With Krampus reluctantly joining their cause, the gnomes resolved to break the curse and save Christmas. Now, the story continues…

As the lingering echoes of the visions faded, Gnarly Jakob reappeared, dragging an overflowing mail sack behind him. Snudbugast was relieved when he recognised two other gnomes who had been on the original expedition to deliver the children’s Christmas letters following behind, similarly burdened.

“These letters,” Snudbugast said, his eyes sparkling with an idea, “they’re filled with the hopes and dreams of children everywhere. Each one is infused with the magic of belief and goodwill. If we can harness that power, we might just stand a chance against Yulethulhu’s influence!”

Snudbugast opened the first letter, read it, cast it aside and opened a second. “PlayStations! Is that all they want?” He hurried to open more, finally settling on one.

“Dear Santa,” Snudbugast read aloud, “‘All I want for Christmas is for my family to be together and happy. I don’t need any toys or games, just the warmth and love of those I hold dear. I hope you can bring some extra joy to our home this year. Love, Timmy.’”

Snudbugast’s heart swelled with emotion as he clutched the letter tightly. “This, my friends, is the true essence of the holidays. It’s not about the gifts or the decorations, but the love and togetherness that we share. Find more like this and don’t think about building any contraptions,” he ordered.

Maddoc and Paiddac nodded in agreement and together sifted through the pile of letters, carefully selecting those that echoed Timmy’s sentiment—heartfelt wishes for family, friendship, and the simple joys of the season.

“I’ve got one!” Paiddac exclaimed, waving a letter triumphantly. “‘Dear Santa, I don’t need any presents this year. I just want my best friend to get better so we can play together again. Please help him feel better soon. Your friend, Sarah.’”

Maddoc held up another letter. “Listen to this: ‘Dear Santa, can you please make sure that everyone has a warm place to sleep and enough food to eat this Christmas? I’ll even share my toys if it helps. Thank you, Tommy.’”

As they read each letter aloud, a soft glow began to emanate from the pages, growing brighter with each word of kindness and compassion. The air in the cavern seemed to warm, the chill of Yulethulhu’s presence slowly receding.

Tinker appeared dragging a Christmas tree behind him. “It’s artificial but it looks the part.” He started decorating it with tinsel, using the letters as ornaments. The others joined in

Soon, the tree was adorned with a dazzling array of letters, each one shimmering with the pure magic of holiday cheer. The soft glow that had emanated from the pages now pulsed in a mesmerising display of light, casting a warm, comforting aura throughout the cavern.

Snudbugast stepped back, marvelling at their handiwork. The tree stood tall and proud, a beacon of hope amidst the darkness that had threatened to engulf them. It was a testament to the unbreakable spirit of the holidays. Even Krampus, standing at the edge of the group, couldn’t help but feel a flicker of warmth in his chest.

They heard a muffled, “Ho!” The sound, though faint, reverberated through the cavern, causing Snudbugast and his companions to turn towards the frozen figure of Santa Claus. A second “Ho!” slightly louder this time, echoed from the icy prison, followed by another, “Ho!”

Snudbugast’s eyes widened with realisation. “It’s working!” he cried.

Tinker had rigged up a Bluetooth speaker to his phone and the jingling sounds of Mike Oldfield’s In Dulci Jubilo filled the cave; the gnomes danced a jig, kicking their feet in the air and linking arms as they spun around. The once listless elves were shaken from their stupor and joined in the dance.

They watched in awe as the ice encasing Santa began to crack, thin fissures spreading across its surface like an intricate web. With each “Ho!” the cracks deepened and widened, until finally, in a burst of glittering ice crystals, the jolly old man himself emerged, his cheeks rosy and his eyes twinkling with merriment.

“Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas, my friends!” Santa boomed, his voice filling the cavern with warmth and joy. He stretched out his arms wide, revelling in his newfound freedom, knocking Rudolf’s frozen figure sideways to shatter on the ground, freeing the bemused red-nosed reindeer.

Snudbugast and the others cheered, rushing forward to embrace their beloved holiday icon. Even Krampus, caught up in the moment, found himself swept into the group hug, his usual gruffness momentarily forgotten.

Santa’s gaze fell upon the glowing tree adorned with the letters, and his smile grew even broader. “I see you’ve discovered the true magic of Christmas,” he said softly. “It was always there, just waiting to be unlocked by those who believed.”

As if on cue, the cavern began to rumble, and a deep, guttural roar filled the air. Yulethulhu, sensing the resurgence of holiday spirit, was mounting a final, desperate attack. Tendrils of darkness snaked towards them as the monstrosity tried to snuff out the light once more.

But Snudbugast wasn’t afraid anymore. He stood tall amidst his friends, no longer just a ragtag group of adventurers but a unified force against despair. They joined hands around Santa as he reached out towards their makeshift tree of hope.

The Christmas letters glowed brighter in response, pulsing with an ancient rhythm—like jingle bells or reindeer hooves on icy rooftops—that grew louder every second until it filled every crack and crevice with pure holiday magic.

The ground trembled beneath their feet as Yulethulhu’s tentacles burst through the cavern floor, writhing and grasping at anything within reach. The ancient entity’s form began to materialise, a towering mass of darkness that seemed to absorb all light and hope. Its eyes, like swirling vortexes of cosmic horror, fixed upon Santa and his companions.

The cavern shook with Yulethulhu’s roar as the eldritch horror burst through the cavern wall, its writhing tentacles glistening with an otherworldly sheen. Yulethulhu towered over them all, a mass of undulating flesh that defied comprehension. Its many eyes, like frozen lakes in a winter wasteland, fixed upon Santa with malevolent intent.

Santa stepped forward, eyes blazing, his jolly demeanour replaced by one of fierce resolve. “Ho! Ho! Ho!” he bellowed, but this time it wasn’t a laugh—it was a battle cry. He began to grow. His red suit stretched and expanded, buttons popping off like artillery shells as he swelled to an enormous size. Soon, he stood as tall as the cavern itself, his white beard flowing like a snowy waterfall, his eyes twinkling like distant stars.

“Now then,” Santa’s voice boomed, shaking loose stalactites from the ceiling, “Let’s check the naughty list, shall we?”

Santa cracked his knuckles, each pop sounding like a thunderclap. “Yulethulhu,” he growled. “Looks like you’re top of the list!” He grabbed the Christmas tree, wielding it like a warrior’s staff. He swung it in a wide arc, catching several of Yulethulhu’s tentacles and sending them flying across the cavern.

Yulethulhu retaliated, its appendages whipping through the air like icy lashes. They struck Santa, leaving frosty welts across his jolly face, but the old man didn’t flinch.

The cavern ceiling cracked and gave way as Santa’s form swelled to match Yulethulhu’s titanic size. Snudbugast and his companions watched in awe from below, ducking and weaving to avoid the debris raining down from the titanic struggle. Once the tremors had subsided, they raced back to the surface to watch the clash.

Paiddac let out a whoop of excitement as Santa landed a spectacular right hook, sending Yulethulhu staggering backwards into a glacier.

The ancient horror reeled, its tentacles flailing wildly. It summoned forth nightmarish visions of endless winter nights and forgotten holidays, but Santa countered. “Let’s see how you like a taste of your own medicine!” Santa roared, sending forth projections of his own - images of families gathered around warm hearths, children’s laughter, and the simple joy of giving. The eldritch horror screeched, its form wavering under the assault.

Snudbugast and his friends huddled together, shielding their eyes from the onslaught. But Santa stood firm, his belief in the true spirit of Christmas an impenetrable barrier against Yulethulhu’s psychic attack.

“You think you can humbug my holidays?” Santa bellowed. “Christmas isn’t about fear or despair. It’s about hope, joy, and togetherness!”

With each word, Santa grew brighter, his form radiating a warm, golden light that pushed back the darkness.

With a sudden burst of speed that belied its massive size, the eldritch horror lunged at Santa, wrapping newly formed limbs around him in a terrifying grapple. Santa grunted in surprise as Yulethulhu’s icy grip tightened around him, the creature’s otherworldly strength momentarily overwhelming even his holiday-fueled might. The air crackled with an unholy energy as Yulethulhu began to lift Santa off his feet, the ground beneath them cracking and splintering under the immense pressure.

Snudbugast and his companions watched in horror as Santa’s radiant glow began to flicker and dim. Yulethulhu’s countless eyes gleamed with malevolent triumph as it slowly began to squeeze the life out of the embodiment of Christmas cheer. Icicles began to form on Santa’s beard, his vibrant red suit began to fade, the colour leaching away like blood in snow and frost crept across his form as Yulethulhu’s unyielding icy influence seeped into him. Its amorphous form pulsated with stolen joy, growing ever larger as it fed upon Santa’s essence.

“No!” Snudbugast cried out, his voice lost in the cacophony of the titanic struggle. For a heart-stopping moment, it seemed as though all hope was lost. He watched helplessly as Santa struggled against Yulethulhu’s grasp. Yulethulhu lifted Santa high into the air, preparing to slam him down onto the frozen ground with earth-shattering force. The sky above darkened, as a bitter wind howled across the landscape, carrying with it the laments of forgotten holidays and abandoned traditions never to be renewed.

A faint jingling sound echoed across the frozen landscape. At first, Snudbugast thought it was just the ringing in his ears from the cosmic battle, but the sound grew louder, accompanied by the rhythmic pounding of hooves on packed snow. Suddenly, from beyond the horizon, a dazzling streak of light appeared, cutting through the gloom like a comet. As it drew nearer, Snudbugast’s eyes widened in amazement. There, soaring through the air on a magnificent sleigh pulled by a team of resplendent reindeer, was Mrs. Claus herself.

Her flowing red dress, trimmed with pristine white fur, billowed behind her as she expertly guided the sleigh. Her silver hair, usually styled in a neat bun, now streamed behind her like a banner of hope. The reindeer, their antlers adorned with twinkling fairy lights, snorted great plumes of steam as they charged through the frigid air.

“Ho ho hold on, dearest!” Mrs. Claus called out, her voice carrying over the din of battle. “Did you think I’d let you have all the fun?”

An endless cascade of tungsten tinsel trailed behind the flying sleigh like festive chemtrails, swooping and spiralling around the massive monstrosity. The creature attempted to swat at the sleigh with all of its tentacles and monstrous appendages, but Dasher, Dancer, Prancer and Vixen and Comet, Cupid and Donner and Blitzen were too nimble, expertly wrapping the tinsel tighter and tighter around Yulethulhu’s writhing form. The tightening garlands restricted its movements and caused it to howl in frustration before releasing Santa from its grip. As Santa fell heavily to the ground, it shook with the impact. He lay motionless.

Struggling against the constricting decorations, Yulethulhu stumbled and plummeted to the ground, causing tremors to ripple through the earth.

As the dust settled, an eerie silence fell over the battlefield. Both combatants lay motionless, their titanic forms sprawled across the frozen landscape. Snudbugast and his companions held their breath, waiting for any sign of movement.

Suddenly, a tremor rippled through the ground. Santa’s massive hand twitched, then clenched into a fist. With a groan that echoed across the valley, he began to push himself up. Simultaneously, Yulethulhu’s tentacles writhed and thrashed, struggling against the tinsel that bound it.

The ground trembled as both titanic figures struggled to rise, their massive forms heaving with effort. Santa, his red suit torn and frosted, grasped at the jagged face of a nearby mountain, using its craggy outcroppings like rungs on a ladder. His fingers dug deep furrows into the rock as he pulled himself upright, sending avalanches of snow and stone cascading down the mountainside.

Yulethulhu, still entangled in Mrs. Claus’s tinsel trap, thrashed wildly, its tentacles lashing out in all directions. It latched onto another peak, the mountain groaning under its grip as it hauled its amorphous bulk skyward. The tinsel strained and snapped, glittering fragments raining down like metallic snow.

The two adversaries faced each other once more, steam rising from Santa’s beard as his jolly features hardened with determination. Yulethulhu’s countless eyes gleamed with malevolent intent, its form rippling and shifting like a storm-tossed sea.

They lunged at each other, their collision sending shock waves across the frozen landscape. Santa’s mighty fists pummelled Yulethulhu’s writhing mass, each blow accompanied by a thunderous “Ho!” that echoed across the valleys. Yulethulhu retaliated, its tentacles whipping and slashing, leaving icy gashes across Santa’s jolly frame.

The battle raged on, neither side willing to yield. They grappled and tumbled across the mountaintops, their struggle reshaping the very geography of the North Pole. Glaciers cracked and splintered beneath their feet, while auroras danced wildly in the sky above, as if nature itself was reacting to the clash of holiday cheer and eldritch horror.

Snudbugast and his companions watched from below, their hearts in their throats as the fate of Christmas itself hung in the balance. Mrs. Claus circled overhead in her sleigh, ready to swoop in at a moment’s notice.

Suddenly, Santa found an opening. With a mighty roar that shook the foundations of the earth, he seized Yulethulhu’s squirming form. His muscles strained, veins popping on his forehead as he hoisted the cosmic horror high above his head.

“You. Are. On. The. Naughty. List!” Santa bellowed, his voice booming across the tundra.

With a herculean effort, Santa leapt into the air, defying gravity as he soared higher and higher. At the apex of his jump, he twisted, bringing Yulethulhu down in a spectacular piledriver. The eldritch horror’s head plunged into the frozen earth with such force that the impact created a massive crater, sending shockwaves rippling across the landscape.

A deafening crack echoed across the tundra as the ice shelf split open, revealing an endless, inky black void below. Yulethulhu’s broken, lifeless body fell.

Snudbugast and his team cheered as the eldritch being disappeared beneath the earth. The battle was won, and the spirit of Christmas had prevailed once more.

If you enjoyed this little Christmas detour into the Mythoverse, liking, subscribing and commenting helps keep the lights on in the grotto.

Previously…

Snudbugast and his gnome companions set out to investigate why the North Pole has gone silent. After securing Tinker’s unstable Whirligig Sleigh, they reach Santa’s workshop—but find it deserted. Rodolf and Blitzen reveal that strange tunnels were dug beneath the mountains, and Santa vanished investigating them. Guided only by rumour and dread, the gnomes descend into the mountains of Christmas. Now, the story continues…

Bracing himself, Snudbugast stepped forward and slid open the door of the underground warehouse. He gasped at the sight that unfurled before him.

A chaotic sprawl of half-finished shelving units was strewn about like casualties of some great war. Conveyor belts sputtered and groaned like grumpy old trolls disturbed from their slumber, and whirling robotic arms flailed wildly in every direction.

As they tiptoed through the clutter, stepping over a sea of plastic storage boxes and electronic circuit boards, the cavern seemed to swallow them whole. The deeper they ventured, the more the air thickened with an eerie energy, as whispers of madness curled around the stalactites above. The place became a labyrinth, as if the corridors themselves were guiding them deeper and deeper inside the mountain.

“This place is a never-ending maze,” Snudbugast observed. “There is no way to go but forward.”

“Santa hired an architect from Sweden. He used to work for IKEA,” Rudolf said.

“Well, that explains the layout. But what about the arcane sigils carved into the very living rock of the mountainside?”

“Did you hear that?” whispered Maddoc, his voice barely cresting above the din of the conveyor belts. It sounded as though the very walls were speaking — a language of lunacy, ancient and chilling.

As they pressed on, the whispers grew louder, morphing into a discordant chorus of forgotten carols. The words echoed through the caverns, their meaning lost to time. Paiddac, his eyes wide with a mixture of wonder and unease, pointed to the shadows that danced along the walls. “Look! There, in the darkness — do you see them? Great, grotesque penguins!”

“But penguins are from the South Pole,” Tinker exclaimed. “What are they doing here?”

“They are shambling, six-feet-tall, eyeless, albino penguins,” Snudbugast replied. “They can go wherever they like.”

Thankfully, they waddled by placidly and posed no immediate threat.

The darkness seemed to grow thicker with each step, an uninvited guest that clung to their every move. Nutcrackers with too many teeth grinned menacingly from the shadows, their jaws snapping at the gnomes’ hats as they passed. The air grew colder, and a sense of dread settled over the group like a heavy blanket.

Suddenly, the downward path opened up into a vast chamber. The cavern felt like the belly of some great beast, groaning with the dissatisfaction of unfinished cheer.

“By Cuvella’s stones,” Snudbugast murmured, “what place is this?”

“Watch your step, team,” Tinker cautioned as a jack-in-the-box sprung unexpectedly beside him, its jester cap askew.

At last, they rounded a bend where the madness of the toys subsided, giving way to an expansive vista. They stood at the threshold of the Elder Workshop, a cavernous space forgotten by time itself, yet remembered in the whispers of the North Pole’s most arcane legends.

“By my beard,” Snudbugast whispered, his eyes wide as they took in the sight before them. The chamber stretched out like an ancient cathedral dedicated to the silent nights of eons past. Massive stone pillars soared upward, their surfaces etched with runes that spoke of the deep magic of ancient winters.

In the heart of the chamber, Santa Claus was ensnared within a crystal-clear prison of ice. A block so perfectly formed that it seemed sculpted by the hands of winter itself. Dark tendrils of magic, like ink dropped into clear water, swirled around him, pulsing with a rhythm that matched the anxious throbbing of their hearts.

Santa was frozen in mid-motion, reaching for a half-filled brandy glass atop a fireplace carved into the cavern wall. A bunch of carrots lay next to it.

“Looks like someone’s been naughty,” Paiddac quipped, but no one laughed.

“Cursed brandy as bait. The oldest trick in the book. I can’t believe he fell for it.” Snudbugast shook his head.

Rudolf trotted up to the fireplace, sniffing curiously. “Oh look, someone left out a nice juicy carrot,” he said before reaching out to take a bite.

“Noooo!” everybody cried in unison, but it was too late. Rudolf froze the instant his lips touched the cursed vegetable.

“Nobody touch anything until we know what’s going on,” Snudbugast said.

Around them, elves meandered as if lost in a blizzard of confusion. Their bright outfits dulled by the lack of cheer, they moved aimlessly, their expressions hollow. The gleam that once sparkled in their eyes from the joy of toy-making had been replaced by a glazed look, victims to the very wonders they had wrought. They were like toys themselves, unwound and left to wander without purpose.

A short figure shambled out of the shadows, groaning. A long chain wound about him like a tail; and it was made (for Snudbugast observed it closely) of rings of coloured paper, bows, tinsel, and gift vouchers wrought in plastic.

“I know him; it’s Gnarly Jakob! One of the missing envoys.” It was his face, his portly form, but he was almost transparent, and looking through his red waistcoat, Snudbugast could see the two buttons on his coat behind.

“How now!” Snudbugast said, as jovial as ever. “What happened to you?”

“Much!” It was Gnarly Jakob’s voice, no doubt about it.

“What is going on?” Maddoc gasped.

“Hear me!” the apparition cried. “My time is nearly gone, but you have yet a chance and hope of escaping. Three spirits haunt Santa’s soul. You must overcome each of them in turn to free the spirit of Christmas.

The apparition walked backward from him and disappeared into the shadows, moaning.

Snudbugast’s breath plumed before him, little clouds of life in the frozen tableau. A hush fell over the chamber.

“Humbug?” Paiddac asked, offering Snudbugast a boiled sweet.

Snudbugast had scarcely taken another step when a frosty tumult erupted around them, snowflakes dancing in a sudden whirlwind that seemed to spring from nowhere.

The snowflakes swirled into being, dancing a ghostly ballet in the dim light of the underground chamber. As they gathered and spun, their crystalline forms blurred into figures draped in wintry splendour, and Snudbugast felt the air grow chill with more than just the cold. The Yule Spirits had arrived.

“Stand tall, my friends,” Snudbugast whispered to his team, but they too were frozen like ice. He was on his own.

A ghostly figure appeared before Snudbugast, its robes billowing like icy rivers. The spectral hand beckoned him closer, and he felt drawn towards it by an inexplicable force.

“Behold!” the spirit’s voice resonated, like the sound of ice-covered branches clinking in the winter wind.

The walls of the cave seemed to shift and vanish, revealing a never-ending landscape of winter. Snudbugast stood alone, shivering in the cold wilderness. In the distance, he saw a lone figure struggling against the blizzard. As he focused his vision on it, he realised it was a primitive gnome dressed in furs. She pulled her arms around her belly, and Snudbugast saw that she was pregnant and fighting for her life. The howls of dire wolves filled the air. Two lives held in the balance.

“Witness the gnomo erectus of yore, who roamed these lands long before your grottoes echoed with song. See how they suffered in winter.” Around them, the chamber’s walls shimmered with ethereal light, revealing shadowy scenes of ancient gnomes adrift in blizzards, struggling to find food and shelter while being hunted by predators. And looming over everything was a gargantuan black shadow, prowling the horizons, indifferent to their plight.

“Yulethulhu was ever there, the Dreamer in the Deep Snow, the Elder-Giver, granting the gift of oblivion to those who welcomed it.”

Snudbugast was overcome with despair as he watched the struggles of his ancestors. They seemed doomed. How did they overcome such trials? But they had survived, Snudbugast realised, otherwise he wouldn’t be here.

He let himself escape into thoughts of warm and cosy grottos filled with gnome-folk celebrating the holiday season. The firelight illuminated their faces as they broke off dense chunks of fruitcake that could have been carved from the very mountains themselves. Laughter filled the room as they playfully wore mismatched socks, a tradition known as “oddsocking” that was said to ward off malevolent spirits in the frosty weather. Snudbugast chuckled softly, he wiggled his toes inside his boots, each adorned with a different pattern, silently honouring this quirky tradition. Suddenly, the spirit paused and seemed uncertain. “But wait, there’s more,” it continued, but a scene of more gnome-folk gathered around a fire, enjoying fruitcake and laughter together filled the cavern.

The spirit wavered in the face of Snudbugast’s defiance.

“Enough!” Snudbugast exclaimed, his voice echoing through the cavern with surprising force. “I see what you are trying to do, Spirit of Winter Past. But you cannot break me with these visions of hardship and despair. For every trial our ancestors faced, they persevered with hope and unity. It is through those trials that we learned to find joy in the simplest things — a warm fire, a shared meal, and the company of loved ones. That is the true magic of the holidays, and it cannot be extinguished by even the coldest of nights.”

The spirit’s form flickered, its icy façade cracking under the weight of Snudbugast’s words. “You may have a point, little one,” it conceded grudgingly. “But the present holds its own challenges. Are you prepared to face them?”

With a wave of its spectral hand, the spirit summoned forth the visage of the Spirit of Winter Present as it departed.

This apparition was a towering figure, adorned in gaudy tinsel and blinking lights that cast a garish glow across the chamber. In its shadow, Snudbugast saw visions of frenzied shoppers battling for trinkets, their faces contorted with greed and stress.

“Behold, the here and now!” the spirit intoned, “where the true meaning of the holidays has been lost amidst a sea of consumerism and chaos.”

Snudbugast’s heart sank as he witnessed the scenes of discord. The air buzzed with the static of stress, and the smell of hot plastic and artificial pine assaulted his senses. He found himself amidst a frenzied throng of holiday shoppers, their faces twisted not with cheer but with a desperate urgency. They grappled over half-price smart kettles and tinsel-wrapped gadgets, their eyes glazed with the spell of consumerism.

“Observe, Snudbugast Glimmeroot,” the Spirit intoned, “the joy of yesteryear supplanted by the rush to spend.”

“By my beard,” Snudbugast muttered. “Where is the spirit of Yule?”

“Replaced by bargain hunting and the relentless ticking of the clock,” the Spirit said, his smile wry beneath the weight of his words. Snudbugast blinked, trying to make sense of the chaos.

In the midst of the pandemonium, an elf, clad in a dishevelled costume that had seen better days, popped and locked in a valiant attempt at breakdancing. His cap askew, he spun on his head, legs flailing—a lone performer trying to inject some semblance of magic into the bleak tableau. A harassed shopper stopped to watch, a smile breaking out on their face. He tossed the performer a coin and went back to his gift hunting.

“Bravo!” Snudbugast cheered, clapping his hands as the elf’s awkward gyrations brought a fleeting smile to his face. “There’s still a spark of whimsy here!”

“Alas, a mere flicker in the gale of greed,” sighed the Spirit, and with another wave, the scene melted away like a snowman in a springtime sun.

“But still, the kids will be unwrapping their presents in the morning; granny will be asleep after too much turkey. It’s a lot of stress, but it’s worth it in the end.

Bah! Humbug!” the spirit intoned, and disappeared.

A cold darkness enveloped them. Snudbugast stood shivering as a fearsome creature standing over seven feet tall, with a towering, lanky frame, loomed towards him out of the shadows. It was covered in matted black-brown fur that seemed to absorb the light. Its muscular, sinewy arms ended with clawed hands topped with sharp, jagged talons, perfect for grabbing unwary children. Horns curled from its head like a wild goat’s, framing a demonic visage with glowing, malevolent, sickly yellow eyes. Its mouth was filled with sharp, fang-like teeth that peeked out from a twisted, devilish grin, from which a lolling tongue flicked out with a snake-like hiss. He carried a bundle of birch branches, wielded like a whip, and there was a basket slung over his back, filled with the wails of children.

“Krampus? Is that you?” Snudbugast asked. “How have you been? I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“Hi, Snudbugast. Can it wait until I’ve done my thing? I’m supposed to show you a vision of the future. Leaden skies, oppressive clouds hanging low, all that, you know?”

“Don’t let me stop you,” Snudbugast said, beginning to enjoy the visions.

“Behold the reign of Yulethulhu,” Krampus intoned, his voice a haunting echo across the icy wasteland. “Christmas joy is but a myth, buried under a frozen tide of indifference.”

The cavern shimmered again, presenting a bleak and desolate future devoid of holiday cheer. The once vibrant and bustling villages were now abandoned, their colourful lights and decorations replaced by a dull, lifeless pallor.

Snudbugast’s heart sank as he witnessed the grim scene. “Is this truly what awaits us?” he whispered.

Krampus nodded solemnly. “If Yulethulhu’s ascendancy continues to spread unchecked, this is the fate that will befall the world. His influence will spread like a frost, freezing hearts and minds alike. The very concept of Christmas will be forgotten, replaced by an endless winter of apathy and despair. A future devoid of warmth, laughter, and the true spirit of Christmas.”

“That can’t be much fun for you, can it?” Snudbugast interjected.

“This isn’t about fun, it’s about inevitability,” Krampus growled.

“But aren’t you supposed to be a contrast to Santa? Punishing the naughty kids? I mean, you’re not going to get much time off when everybody is on the naughty list, are you?”

Krampus paused, his malevolent grin faltering for a moment. “Well, I suppose you have a point there, Snudbugast. If everyone’s on the naughty list, I’ll be working overtime. And let’s face it, even I need a break now and then.”

Snudbugast nodded sagely. “And there’s only so much room in your sack. It takes the thrill out of the chase, doesn’t it?”

The demon’s eyes narrowed as he considered the gnome’s words. “I do enjoy a good chase... and the look on a naughty child’s face when I catch them. But in a world where everyone’s naughty, well, it just doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

“Exactly! And if you think about it, who is going to fear you when there’s an Elder god stalking the world? You’ll be comic relief compared to Yulethulhu.

“You see? Even you, Krampus, have a stake in preserving the magic of the holidays. Without the contrast of the nice and the naughty, your role loses its meaning. And what’s a holiday without a little mischief, anyway?” Snudbugast grinned.

Krampus scratched his chin thoughtfully, his claws rasping against his fur. “You know, Snudbugast, you’re not as daft as you look. I suppose a world where everyone’s too scared to even think about being naughty takes all the fun out of my job. And let’s be honest, I do enjoy a bit of holiday mischief myself.”

“Then perhaps it’s time for you to join us in our quest to save Christmas! With your help, we can ensure that there will always be a balance between the nice and the naughty.”

The grotesque demon hesitated for a moment, his gaze flickering between the gnome and the bleak vision of the future. “Alright, Snudbugast. I’m in. But don’t think this means I’m going soft! I’ll still be keeping an eye out for naughty children.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Snudbugast chuckled, clapping the demon on the back, careful to avoid the jagged talons. “Welcome aboard, Krampus. Now, let’s go save Christmas!”

As the vision faded and the cavern walls solidified once more, Snudbugast turned to face his companions, a renewed sense of determination burning in his eyes.

“Now let’s get Santa free from this confounded curse and get Christmas back on track!”

To be concluded…

Read Part Three Here

If you enjoyed this little Christmas detour into the Mythoverse, liking, subscribing and commenting helps keep the lights on in the grotto.

He knocked on the door framed by luminous lichen and was greeted by Gowert, Noddnam’s faithful assistant, wide-eyed with worry. Gowert ushered him in, furtively looking around before closing the door behind him. Inside the chamber, Zunftmeister Noddnam paced like a clockwork figurine wound too tightly.

“Ah, Snudbugast!” Noddnam exclaimed, adjusting his spectacles that had slid down to the tip of his nose. “I need your help.”

“Of course, chief,” Snudbugast replied with a grin. “What conundrum has tangled your beard this fine day?”

“Conundrum indeed!” Noddnam wrung his hands as he paced. “Our envoys to the North Pole have not returned. They were supposed to deliver the children’s Christmas letters and come straight back. It’s been two days since they should have returned and we haven’t heard anything from them.”

“Perhaps they decided to stay and help Santa,” Snudbugast suggested. “It’s always a busy time of year, and communication is always tricky up there.”

“Indeed,” Noddnam agreed. “The internet has been down for a week across the entire Arctic Circle. They’re blaming it on exceptional activity of the Aurora Borealis. Worse still, Santa hasn’t registered his flight plan with NORAD yet. We only have one week until Christmas, and I fear something terrible may have happened.”

Snudbugast stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Hmm, that does sound concerning. And the letters from the children, they carry more than just wish lists, don’t they?”

Noddnam nodded gravely. “Yes, they carry the belief and goodwill of our little ones. That magic helps sustain Christmas itself. Without it...” He trailed off, shaking his head.

“I’ll go check it out,” Snudbugast offered. “The jolly fellow still owes me a new drone from last year.”

“That’s settled then,” Noddnam said. “Gather a team and then go and see Tinker, he has been working on something for just such an occasion.”

“Tinker? His inventions are the talk of the tunnels,” Snudbugast remarked. “I’ll go and see him right away.”

“Don’t dawdle,” Noddnam said. “Time is running out.”

With a salute, Snudbugast spun on his heel and darted off, leaving Noddnam alone, pacing in thought.

He texted his companions Maddoc and Paiddac and told them to meet him at the workshop for an adventure.

He entered the cavernous workshop where the prototypes were made and was greeted by Bilbar Gemmluden, the elderly overseer.

“Is Tinker around?” he asked. “The Zunftmeister has a job for him. We need to get to the North Pole post-haste.”

“Post-haste, he says,” Bilbar grumbled, stroking his silver-threaded beard. “In my day, we’d have tunnelled to the Pole by shovel and sheer will!”

“Shovels won’t do for this trek,” Snudbugast replied. “We’re on a deadline.”

“He’s over there,” Bilbar harrumphed, and pointed to a wide, circular podium at the far end of the cavern where a large, amorphous shape covered by a tarpaulin stood. “Remind him I’m still waiting for him to change my phone battery.”

“Tinker!” Snudbugast called as he approached the shape. A small mound rose up under the tarpaulin and a young gnome, wearing an overstuffed toolbelt and a bowler hat topped with a bright LED lamp, popped from underneath. Smears of grease streaked his face, and his wide eyes sparked with excitement.

“Snudbugast, my friend.” Tinker exclaimed, wiping his hands on a rag that only seemed to redistribute the grime. “What brings you to my lair?”

“A mission from the Zunftmeister,” Snudbugast replied. “We need to get to the North Pole faster than a sugar-rushed elf. Our envoys are missing, and Christmas is in jeopardy.”

Tinker’s eyes widened. “Missing envoys? Jeopardized Christmas? This calls for my latest and greatest creation.”

With a flourish, he yanked the tarpaulin off the shape, revealing a fantastical contraption of twisting brass tubes, polished wood, whirring gears, spinning dials, gauges, and indescribable widgets. It shuddered to life in a cacophony of clunking and whirling while flared exhaust pipes at the stern began puffing out steam. It resembled a sleigh, but imagined by someone who had read too much steampunk with too many cogs and gears. Red and white striped rotor blades stood at each corner atop candy-cane-striped masts that spiralled hypnotically like barber’s poles.

“Behold, the Whirligig Sleigh Air 9000!” Tinker announced proudly. “Powered by unleaded pixie dust No. 14, it’ll get us to the North Pole in a jiffy. Well, a jiffy and a half, give or take a few jiffies.”

Snudbugast circled the invention, equal parts impressed and apprehensive. “Is it...safe?”

Tinker waved a dismissive hand. “Safe as houses! Well, mostly. It does have a tendency to spin like a top if you use too much fuel. And the ‘Ho-Ho-Hover’ mode is still a bit experimental...”

Snudbugast raised an eyebrow. “Experimental?”

“Nothing to worry about,” Tinker waved dismissively. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. Probably.”

“I suppose we don’t have much choice,” Snudbugast sighed. “We need to get to Santa’s workshop pronto.”

“Wait for us!” Paiddac and Maddoc sprinted towards the waiting vehicle and hopped aboard.

With a billow of peppermint-scented steam and the soft jingle of bells, the Whirligig Sleigh rose from the heart of Cuvella grotto to the, “Oohs!” and, “Ahs!” of the watching gnomes. Tinker stood proudly at the helm, his hands steady on the polished wooden wheel that shone under the twinkling cavern lights. Snudbugast and the others stood by his side, their eyes wide with a mix of trepidation and excitement as they passed through the holographic waterfall that concealed the secret entrance to the grotto in the mountainside, and ascended toward the open sky.

“Steady as she goes!” Snudbugast called out over the whir of gears and the pish of pistons. The sleigh responded obediently, climbing higher and higher, leaving behind the bustle of the underground village. “Next stop, the North Pole!”

“Look alive, team!” Snudbugast warned, pointing a gloved finger skyward. A V-formation of snow geese honked in protest, wings flapping in a flurry as the Whirligig Sleigh zipped close enough to ruffle their downy feathers.

“Feathers and frost!” Tinker exclaimed, executing an expert barrel roll that had the geese squawking indignantly. “Seems we’ve given our feathered friends quite the in-flight fright!”

“Let’s try to avoid any more avian altercations,” Maddoc muttered, brushing a feather from his hair.

As they cleared the clouds, the icy tundra spread out below them, a white canvas painted with veins of blue ice and shadows cast by the low-hanging sun.

“We’re here,” Snudbugast exclaimed, his breath visible in the crisp air as the vibrant blue-green haze of the Aurora Borealis unfurled in magical ribbons of green and violet like a curtain of ethereal fire. But, as they crossed the mystical threshold, the Whirligig Sleigh suddenly sputtered and coughed, its gears grinding to a halt as all the gauges and dials plummeted to zero.

“Tinker!” Snudbugast yelled over the howling wind. “What’s happening?”

“I don’t know!” Tinker shouted back, frantically pulling levers and turning dials. “Something’s interfering with the pixie dust! It’s like the magic just...vanished!”

“What does this do?” Paiddac asked, eyeing a large red button labelled, ‘Ho-Ho-Hover’. Before Tinker could stop him, Paiddac slapped the button and everything went even more haywire. The rotors started spinning in all directions and the sleigh rolled and yawed like a buckaroo reindeer.

Snudbugast grabbed onto a handrail while Maddoc and Paiddac clung to each other for dear life. Snudbugast pulled a pouch from his pocket, labelled ‘Pixie Dust No. 7: Defying Gravity with Style since 1445’. “I hope this will be enough,” he thought as he sprinkled the levitating powder over the plummeting sleigh.

“It’s working!” Maddoc cheered, as their descent slowed.

“Don’t celebrate just yet,” Snudbugast cautioned, gripping the handrail tighter. “We still need to land this contraption.”

Tinker wrestled with the controls. “Hold on, everyone!” he yelled over the whine of straining gears. “This might get a bit bumpy!”

With a sudden lurch, and a “Whoop!” from Tinker, the sleigh levelled out mere inches from the ground, skimming over the snow-covered tundra like a stone skipping across a frozen pond. With a teeth-rattling thud and a spray of powdery snow, the sleigh skidded to a halt in front of the workshop gates. The gnomes sat in stunned silence for a moment, their hearts pounding in their ears.

“Ha! I knew it would work!” Tinker exclaimed, his eyes sparkling with pride. “Just needed a little extra oomph from the No. 7!”

Snudbugast, his beard frosted from their flight, peered out at the Grand Candy Cane Gates of Santa’s workshop. He expected the merry hustle of elves and the chime of silver bells. Instead, silence hung as thick as the frost on the gates. “Something’s wrong,” he mused, surveying the silent landscape. “It’s almost Christmas. This place should be a hive of activity.”

“Indeed,” Tinker agreed, his usual mirth tempered by the solemn atmosphere. “It’s quiet enough to hear a snowflake land,” he muttered. “Where are the elves? The festive cheer? Mariah Carey on the P.A.?”

“Perhaps they’re taking a nap?” Maddoc suggested, his own voice sounding unnaturally loud in the hush.

Snudbugast shook his head, knowing that nothing natural could keep the workshop so silent during this season.

They approached the gates, which usually swung open with an inviting aroma of freshly baked gingerbread. Instead, they loomed, the stripes of red and white standing like sentinels to a deserted redoubt. A stillness settled over them, as if the cold itself were listening. Not a single bell jingled; an absence more alarming than any noise.

Cautiously, they crossed the threshold into Santa’s workshop, their footsteps echoing in the eerie stillness. The usual symphony of hammering, sawing, and the merry chatter of elves was replaced by a deafening silence that settled like a heavy blanket over the once-bustling factory.

“By the bristles of my beard,” Snudbugast whispered, his eyes wide as he took in the scene. Workbenches stood abandoned, tools scattered haphazardly as if dropped in a hurry. Half-painted toy soldiers lay in neat rows, their cheery faces frozen in perpetual smiles that now seemed more unnerving than jolly.

“It’s like they all just...vanished,” Tinker mused, poking a discarded teddy bear with the toe of his boot. The bear flopped over, its glassy eyes staring accusingly at the intruders.

A sudden clatter made them all jump, hands instinctively reaching for whatever makeshift weapons they could find.

“Who’s there?” Snudbugast called out boldly, but his voice echoed weakly in the vast emptiness.

There were sounds of a scuffle behind a stack of gift boxes followed by a muffled, “Hush! They’ll hear us.”

A burst of red light illuminated the area, quickly followed by a sharp whisper of “You idiot, you’ve given us away!”

Snudbugast cautiously approached the source of the commotion, brandishing a candy cane like a sword. “Come out, we’ve got you surrounded!” he shouted.

In a flurry, a four-legged figure emerged from the shadows, with a red nose flickering like a faulty light bulb. A second reindeer appeared and pushed him out of the way with his snout and stood menacingly, brandishing its holly-festooned antlers.

“Whoa there, Blitzen!” Rudolf said. “They’re just gnomes.”

“Snudbugast Glimmeroot at your service.” Snudbugast introduced himself with a bow. “We met briefly last year, near Zurich? When the landing lights were out?” he ventured.

Rudolf pondered for a moment. “Hmm… Oh yes, I remember,” he said. “That was quite an adventure. Someone should write a book about it.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Snudbugast replied. “But enough about that, what happened here?”

Rudolf’s nose flickered anxiously as he glanced around the deserted workshop. “It’s a long story,” he began. “Santa had this grand idea to expand the workshop, you see. With the world’s population growing, he figured we needed more space to keep up with the demand. Plus, he wanted to automate everything. He had big ideas for robots and artificial intelligence to run the place. It’s all phones and tablets these days. Most of these traditional toys just end up in shop window displays. He felt it was time to move on.”

Blitzen snorted, pawing at the ground. “I told him it was a bad idea. Messing with the natural order of things never ends well.”

Rudolf shot him a look before continuing. “They started digging these massive tunnels beneath the mountains to the West. At first, everything seemed fine. The elves were excited about the extra space, and production was at an all-time high.”

“But then...” Snudbugast prompted.

“Then the strange things started happening,” Rudolf said, his eyes wide. “Elves would go down into the tunnels and not come back. Those who did return spoke of strange noises, eerie whispers in the dark. Some even claimed to have seen... things.”

“Things?” Tinker squeaked, his knuckles white as he gripped his tool belt.

“The sounds,” Blitzen whispered, his eyes wide. “Eerie, echoing noises started coming from deep within the tunnels. Noises that didn’t sound like anything of this world. Shadows that moved on their own,” he added gravely. “Shapes that shouldn’t exist.”

“Santa dismissed it at first,” Rudolf continued. “He thought the elves were just getting spooked by the dark. But then he went down there himself and...” He trailed off,

“Santa went down to investigate,” Blitzen picked up the tale. “He told us to wait, that he’d be back in a jingle. But that was days ago, and we haven’t seen him or the elves since.”

Snudbugast felt a chill run down his spine that had nothing to do with the frigid North Pole air. He exchanged worried glances with his companions, their expressions mirroring his own concern.

“We must go into those tunnels,” he declared, his voice steady despite the trepidation gnawing at his gut. “Santa and the elves need our help.”

Rudolf nodded solemnly, his nose casting an ominous red glow across the deserted workshop. “We’ve been too afraid to venture down ourselves. The few elves who made it back...they weren’t the same. It’s like something had drained the joy right out of them.”

“Alright, team, it looks like we’ve got a rescue mission on our hands,” Snudbugast announced.

“Take care gnome,” Blitzen warned ominously. “Some things are best left undisturbed.”

And so, with a collective breath, they ventured forth, following Rudolf towards the new workshop in the nearby mountains. The landscape grew quieter with each step, as if the very air were holding its breath. Even the snow seemed to lie strangely here, untouched yet somehow disturbed.

Strange, unfinished snow sculptures dotted the snowy landscape, bizarre beings that seemed to have emerged from a dream. Their twisted forms created a sense of discomfort and unease, with mismatched limbs and features that defied conventional shape and form. Their far too numerous eyes appeared to be mere decorative features of coal, devoid of any discernible function which drew the adventurers’ gazes into a black abyss, while their crooked carrot noses sat at impossible angles. Stick arms reached out in unnatural directions, lacking any substantial structure or purpose yet seeming to beckon to unseen forces from beyond.

As they fled the frozen horrors, they could not help but wonder: what dark, ancient power had brought these winter wonders to life, and what secrets lay frozen within their congealed, prismatic hearts?

Finally, they arrived in front of the large sliding glass doors that marked the beginning of their descent into the mountains of Christmas, the cold glow hinting at stranger things yet to come.

To be continued…

Read Part Two Here

If there are any young children reading, you might want to skip this next part. [SPOILERS! Santa doesn’t deliver all of the Christmas presents on his own (I mean it’s not possible if you think about it, is it?). So, what he does is organise drop-shipments to strategic places across the world and then he subcontracts home deliveries to various groups of fey creatures. The Gnomes of Zurich, of which Snudbugast is a leading member, have proudly run the central European franchise for several centuries].

OK kids, you can start reading again…

Snudbugast had been sent on a last-minute trip to resolve a labour dispute with a group of Polish red caps in Nysa. Thankfully, the matter had been resolved quickly and to everybody’s satisfaction so no one had gone on the naughty list this year.

The stork he had chartered for the return flight, Argyle, as he called himself, had to deviate from the ley line to avoid a small snow storm which had slowed them down a bit but they had soon got back on course and he would still be home in time to oversee the Christmas delivery.

Argyle’s wings spread out wide and his legs swung forward as he came in for a perfect landing in the snow next to a small pond.

“You don’t like flying, do you?” the stork said to Snudbugast as he hurriedly climbed off its back and onto the bank.

“What gives you that idea?” Snudbugast said, taking off his boots and kicking through the snow to the grass below and scrunching it between his toes, so glad to be back in contact with his own element.

“Probably when you threw up over Salzburg.”

Snudbugast sat down on a rock with a great sigh of relief and prepared a pipe full of smoke weed as he acclimatised back to the rhythms of the earth.

“It was my first time riding a stork,” Snudbugast said, sparking the tobacco in his pipe with his custom Zippo lighter engraved with the grotto’s crest (Or, a toadstool rampant gules, semé of roundels argent) and their motto “Sons of the Soil”.

“It was my first time carrying a gnome,” Argyle replied with a chuckle.

He shared a laugh with Argyle, through puffs on his pipe but stopped abruptly as he looked around. He quickly realised that something was very wrong: the Christmas illuminations in the trees that would guide Santa’s sleigh tonight were not switched on, and the landing clearing was in darkness. Even more worrying, he saw a pair of black Humvees parked in the trees in front of the cabin in the woods that concealed the main entrance to his grotto far below. Thick gouges ploughed through the snow and the soil leading up to their parking places in ugly scars of desecration marking their trespass.

What in the name of bioluminescence are big folk doing here? he wondered. Snudbugast was particularly worried as he had asked for a very special present this year — a fancy new drone to replace his ageing model which was burning through batteries. He’d been looking forward to getting it for weeks and he’d hate for anything to interfere with this year’s Christmas delivery.

“Hey!” A squirrel hissed at Snudbugast from up above him on a snow laden tree branch.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

A bunch of woodland critters came creeping sheepishly out of the undergrowth.

“We were hoping that you could tell us,” a badger said. “We were having our Christmas gathering, waiting for Santa, when these black beasts came screeching through the forest. Some big folk came leaping out of them and ran into your set, sorry your cabin. We heard some loud bangs and then the illuminations went out. We’ve been hiding since then.”

“How many of the big folk were there?” Snudbugast asked, growing anxious at the news.

The badger lifted a paw in front of it and looked at it intently, tongue sticking out through its teeth, nodding.

“Dunno, I’ve just remembered that I can’t count,” it finally announced.

“There were ten and two-hoo,” an owl hooted agitatedly.

“And they were seriously tooled up,” a white rabbit added, looking around nervously.

Snudbugast checked the NORAD Santa Tracker on his phone. Santa was currently above Hungary. He had less than an hour to get the landing lights back on or Santa might crash or, worse still, skip the delivery altogether. That would result in millions of disappointed kids in the morning and it could also put their franchise at risk. It was a major source of income for the gnomes along with their wine business since their crypto mining had taken a hit in the recent crash. He knew that he had to get the lights back on but the controls were in the machine room, way down in the grotto.

“You guys deal with these vehicles while I go and see what’s happening down there,” Snudbugast said. “Let down the tyres or siphon their fuel tanks. We don’t want them getting away.”

He knew that he couldn’t risk using the main entrance. There might be guards and the lift would be sure to draw their attention. The lift cabin opened into the central chamber, and he’d be visible all the way down.

Thankfully, he knew that the chimney would be left unlocked tonight. Santa always insisted on entering the grotto that way, though Lumi knows why, he thought, shrugging to himself.

He crunched barefooted through the snow up to the small door nestled between two thick roots in the trunk of an old oak tree. It wasn’t really a chimney since the gnomes didn’t use fossil fuels any more, but it provided access to the main grotto and several levels on the way down as part of their extensive ventilation system.

“You’re early,” the tree said, waking from its winter slumber and half-opening a knotty eye. “Oh, it’s only you, I thought it was Santa.” Then it closed its eye and went back to sleep.

Snudbugast opened the door and climbed down the service ladder all the way to the bottom. Feeling the hard metal on his feet reminded him he’d left his boots up by the pond. It was too late to go back for them now.

Arriving at the bottom, he helped himself to the glass of brandy left on a small table at the foot of the ladder and took a bite of the carrot. He needed something to steady his nerves. He found an aeration duct overlooking the central island on the grotto’s lowest level and peeked through it. The island housed the gnomes’ communal buildings in hollowed out stalagmites, including the machine room where the controls for the lights were located.

On the island, he could see several of the big folk dressed in black tactical gear and armed with machine guns standing sentry. His friends were seated on the ground. He recognised Gorwort and Paiddic and many of his colleagues, but their chief, Zunftmeister Stool was nowhere to be seen. There was no way he could get to the island without being spotted, he realised with disappointment.

On the mainland where he was, there were several doorways leading to a labyrinth of tunnels and caves, mostly for storage and, in the higher levels, the gnomes’ private dwellings. The well-stocked armoury was on the far side, again under watch.

He walked along the service corridor until he reached a ladder leading up to the ventilation shaft which, by his estimation, would lead above the central chamber on the island.

The horizontal shaft was large enough for him to fit comfortably and the aluminium was strong enough to support his weight. He crawled along until he was above the junction with the central chamber.

He peered over the edge and looked down. Below him, he could see a bearded man in a suit interrogating the Zunftmeister. A couple of other men dressed in tactical gear and holding guns were also in the chamber.

“I’ll ask you one more time, then we start killing the hostages. Open the portal!” He heard the suited man say.

“And I’ll tell you again. I don’t know how to, so you will be murdering innocent gnomes for no reason,” Zunftmeister Stool replied sternly.

“Mythic Inc. are paying a lot of money for this operation. I will not allow it to fail. You can’t expect me to believe that a community of mythics living next door to a portal never use it to go Beyond the Veil. Stop spinning fairy tales!”

“We are not from Beyond the Veil,” the Zunftmeister insisted. “We are spirits of the earth, this earth. We have no dealings with the seelie nor the unseelie. This is our home right here.”

“Not any more. You’re about to learn a lesson in real power.” The man pulled a pistol out of his shoulder holster. He had a manic look in his eyes.

“‘When Alexander saw the breadth of his domain, he wept, for there were no more worlds to conquer.’ As you can see, I am not weeping. Mythic Inc. has a whole new world to conquer Beyond the Veil and we will be doing it from here!”

“I met Alexander in Babylon,” Zunftmeister said. “You are no Alexander.”

“The portal, please,” he said, fingering his pistol.

“It’s useless to you. The seelie will have their own safeguards on the other side.” Snudbugast wondered what the men wanted with the portal. The Zunftmeister wasn’t lying, the gnomes had no use for  it. Besides, there was no secret to passing over: you just had to know where it was and walk through. Certain psychoactive substances (such as Hirschpisswein, available from good wine sellers everywhere) or the light at certain times of the year could help you to spot it.

“We will deal with them in their own time. I am going to count to three…

“One. Two. Three!” He pointed the pistol at the ceiling and fired. The shot roused a colony of roosting bats, which streamed from their perches and flew into the shaft, swarming Snudbugast.

“Holy tintinnabulation, bats, man! Watch where you’re going!” he cried out in shock as he wrapped his arms around his head to protect himself, banging his knees and elbows against the metal of the shaft in the process, causing it to boom. His shouts and his struggles echoed through the shaft, down the stalagmite chimney and into the chamber below.

“Sorry mate, didn’t see you there,” one of the bats said before flying off to rejoin the swarm.

The suited man pointed his pistol at the Zunftmeister and peered up at the ceiling. Snudbugast pulled back from the opening. “Squirting stinkhorns!” he whispered.

“Tony, check that out,” he heard the suited man say. He peeked over the edge and saw one of the armed men click his heels together and hurry out of the chamber.

Snudbugast scrambled back down the vent and into the main access tunnel but he was too late. A bright light shone from below, illuminating Snudbugast like a centre-stage spotlight.

“Party’s over, shorty. Come down, I promise I won’t hurt you…”

The light lowered and Snudbugast saw that it was attached to the barrel of a Steyr AUG bullpup rifle. Military mods, he noted, these guys meant business.

The barrel followed his descent until he was about level with the man’s head. Then, a great whooshing noise came from above as the host of bats flew down the shaft and swarmed the man.

He fired his gun, spraying bursts of bullets in all directions, but the mass of bats constrained his arms downwards and he was forced to drop the gun to try and beat them off.

While the guard was distracted, Snudbugast reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pouch labelled: Grade A Pixie Dust No. 5. He poured some into his palm, closed his fist then leapt at the struggling man, landing on his shoulders with practised ease. He held his hand over the man’s nose and mouth, forcing him to breathe in the pixie dust. The man fell instantly into a deep sleep and slumped against the wall of the shaft.

“What’s a bat got to do to get some sleep around here?” one of the colony squeaked grumpily.

“There’s no way the other guards didn’t hear that,” Snudbugast said. “I need to get overground and find some help.”

He picked up the gun. At least I have a machine gun now, he thought, but no shoes.

He started to unlace the man’s boots but then he heard fast running footsteps approaching from the main cavern. He deftly pulled off the slumbering man’s helmet and night-vision visor and put them on. Then he swung back up to sit on to his shoulders, hastily covering the man’s head and his own legs with his coat. The door opened and two more armed guards barged into the corridor.

“He went that way,” Snudbugast said in his best big folk voice, pointing down the corridor and covering his beard with his other hand. The guards looked at each other then at him. Their gun torches both focused on his bare feet peeking out from under the hem of his coat. He wriggled his toes involuntarily in response. It appeared that his disguise wasn’t working and neither was his glamour that would normally cause the big folk to casually overlook his kind.

Snudbugast rolled off the man’s shoulders and across the floor, sprang and sprinted down the corridor, keeping low and zig-zagging as the gunmen sprayed bullets wildly in his wake.

He threw himself at a door, which thankfully wasn’t locked, and he tumbled into a large storage cave.

Snudbugast squeezed himself into a corner of the cavern, out of sight of the doorway. He briefly sparked his Zippo and peered around. The room was full of barrels and storage boxes. He read some of the labels: “Nettles”, “Thistles”, “Brambles”, and one incongruously marked, “Novelty Flash Bombs”. A large, green wheelie-bin with, “Glass For Recycling,” stencilled on it stood at the far end of the room, blocking the emergency exit, he noted with a “tut!”. So much for Health and Safety.

The door slammed open and the two gunmen came through. They scanned the room with their torches. Snudbugast held his breath.

They opened fire, spraying bullets everywhere. The barrels and boxes exploded, spraying their contents across the floor. The wheelie-bin collapsed in a hail of bullets, showering shards of broken glass everywhere.

A cardboard tube capped on both ends with metal plugs rolled past him. Snudbugast picked up the flash bomb, lit the fuse, and flung it into the middle of the room.

He squeezed his eyes shut and heard the boom followed by the screams of the two gunmen as they were blinded by the exploding flash powder, enhanced by their night vision. The room went quiet, apart from the gunmen’s sobs.

Snudbugast sprang from his hiding place, ready to run for the exit but his bare feet landed upon a carpet of excruciating pain. The floor was blanketed with broken glass, nettles and thorns.

He took a deep breath and gingerly tip-toed his way towards the door, “oohing” and “aahing” at each painful prick and at each agonizing cut, his eyes watering more and more with every excruciating step.

He finally managed to drag himself through the doorway and slumped down, weeping, unable to even glance at his ravaged feet.

After a brief rest, he crawled across the corridor and found a pool filled by centuries of condensation dripping down the walls and gratefully dipped his feet in it.

“What are you doing?” an angry crab reproached him. “I’ve just cleaned up!”

“I’m sorry but it’s an emergency.”

The crab looked at his feet, and its black eyes bulged wide. “You’re not kidding. Let me help.” It began meticulously pulling out the spines and the pieces of glass embedded in Snudbugast’s soles with its claws, much to his relief.

He got the crab to help him tear strips of material off his coat, which he used to bandage his feet.

“I’d better get back up there,” he said. “I can’t do anything down here.” It wouldn’t be easy, he realised. The main lift was guarded and they were patrolling the service corridor leading to the tunnel he had come in through.

Think, Goddamit! Think!

He made his way up through the back rooms to the tinkering shop. He opened the door with his pass card and surveyed the familiar chamber. On one of the messy desks in the corner, covered in post-it notes and empty cups and bottles, he saw his old drone in a pile of other discarded electronics, waiting to be broken down into parts and recycled.

“Well, old friend. Have you got one last flight in you?”

Snudbugast walked back down the tunnel to the balcony overlooking the main chamber. He was on the fourth level, about one-third of the way up to the top. He considered climbing up more levels but the sound of footsteps echoing around the complex suggested that they were getting closer and they could be on him at any moment.

He looped his braces over the drone’s landing rails, leaving his hands free for the remote control, and switched it on. The drone’s four blades whirred to life and he moved it upwards until his toes were barely touching the stone; then he pushed it forward.

Snudbugast’s stomach sank as the drone dipped under his full weight once he had cleared the balcony. The lake gaped below him like an open maw. He forced the controls upward as the blades strained to lift him. Their noise attracted the gunmen below and shots exploded in the air around him as he inched his way upwards. A bullet hit one of the blades and it spun still, smoking. The remaining three blades barely had enough force to hold him aloft.

“Holy plummeting death!” he cursed as he hung in the air, swept by torches like search lamps and surrounded by ack-ack.

“Helllllp!” he cried.

Unlooked for, bats came flying out of the darkness holding a rope in their claws. Snudbugast dropped the remote and grasped the rope. He pulled it tight and fastened it around his waist with a bowline just as the drone’s remaining engines gave out, and he hung suspended in mid-air for a fraction of a second before momentum sent him swinging towards the far wall where the main lift shaft was located.

“Whoah!” he cried out involuntarily as gravity took over and he was pitched towards the wall of solid rock.   

He stuck his legs out in front of him and braced for the impact that would probably shatter his knees — maybe his shins too. By some miracle, his trajectory took him straight into the open lift shaft, the rope caught on something above him and it slowed his momentum to a slight bump as he hit the far wall. His damaged feet took the brunt of the impact and he winced in pain, hanging from the rope in the lift shaft. Thankfully, he was out of sight of the gunmen below and the shaft blocked their line of sight. The shooting stopped.

He slowly pulled himself up the rope towards the surface, each inch an exhausting effort. He wished for some No. 7 pixie dust to help him levitate a little, but their supplies would all be on the surface, ready to get Santa back airborne after his delivery.

The lift cabin whirred to life below him. He grabbed the raising cable and let it pull him to the surface, leaping with one final effort to clear the winding mechanism at the top.

He smashed a chair from the cabin’s mock décor and jammed a chair leg into the wheel of the winding mechanism, bringing it to a sudden stop. It wouldn’t last long, he realised but it would buy him some time.

Snudbugast raced back to the landing strip, crunching a trail of bloody foot prints in the snow behind him but grateful for the cooling relief it brought. He expected to be pursued at any moment.

“How’s it going?” he breathlessly asked a badger who was surveying the Humvees.

“Beaver is taking care of the tyres, but that’s some thick rubber they’ve got, so it’s taking some time. Woodpecker tried putting a hole in their fuel tanks, but it’s armour-plated so he didn’t get anywhere. We’re trying to think of something…”

“You’d better get a move on,” Snudbugast said. “Trouble is coming.”

Snudbugast wandered down the clearing towards the fateful portal. As he stood there pondering the situation, a curious magpie flew over and perched on his shoulder.

“What happened to your feet?” it asked.

“It’s a long story,” Snudbugast replied. An idea came to him.

“Hey, magpie. Have you ever been Beyond the Veil?”

“I’m a messenger magpie, I go BTV from time to time.”

“BTV? What’s that?”

“Beyond the Veil. That’s what we pros call it. C’mon, man.”

“I suppose it’s obvious now you point it out. Anyway, I need you to go over there and tell anyone you can find what’s going on here, and to prepare for a possible breach of the portal. Can you do that?”

“You can count on me,” the magpie said and it took to wing, flying towards the clearing where the currently invisible portal was located.

The periphery of the gateway glimmered visibly as the magpie passed over, a shining arc in the darkness of the forest.

Suddenly, the forest was bathed in blinding lights as two more Humvees hidden in the trees roared their engines to life and sped off after the magpie and through the portal.

Frolicking frogs! They have reinforcements and I’ve just shown them where the portal is!

As the second Humvee passed through, an elegant equine form came leaping out of the portal towards him. It landed with all the practised poise of a show jumper on the snow, barely leaving any hoof prints.

“That was close,” it snorted, shaking its flowing, silver mane gracefully. “That idiot came out of nowhere and drove straight at me! I was lucky to jump out of the way in time. I gave his paintwork a nasty scratch for good measure.”

“Well, I’d better get back,” it said, clearly agitated, glowing  in the moonlight. “They’ll be needing all the help they can get with those invaders.”

“Before you go, can you help us out? I’ll give you an apple,” Snudbugast said.

The unicorn considered the request. “I’d prefer a sugar lump or some Turkish delight, but don’t worry about it. What’s the problem?”

“I’ll have to show you. Follow me, it’s not far.”

Snudbugast led the unicorn back down the clearing to where the other Humvees were parked in front of the cabin. “These are part of the same gang. If we don’t take care of them here you’ll have even more problems BTV.”

“What’s BTV?” the unicorn asked.

“Beyond the Veil. Where you’ve just come from!”

“Oh, I’ve never heard it called that before. I suppose it makes sense now that you say it. Anyway, how can I help?”

“Can you put a hole in their fuel tanks with your horn? They’re armour plated. Nothing we can do works,” Snudbugast said.

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” the unicorn answered.

The glowing horn went through the hulls like a lightsabre through hot butter but a lot less messy. It barely had to use any force. Snudbugast wrinkled his nose at the stench of the petrol that started pouring out of the Humvees onto the forest floor.

“We’d better get that cleaned up,” he said. “That’s a serious fire risk.”

He thanked the unicorn, and it galloped off back up the cleared landing strip and disappeared through the portal in a shimmering shower of rainbows.

Show off, Snudbugast thought.

There was a commotion in the cabin, and several armed men came rushing out, the man in the suit followed on inside their protective circle. Snudbugast and the woodland creatures shrank back into the shadows of the undergrowth, out of sight.

“GPS coordinates confirmed,” one of them shouted as the men entered the Humvees and started their engines. The vehicles sped off in the direction of the portal.

Snudbugast looked up to the sky. He could make out the red light of Rudolf’s nose and the navigation lights on the sleigh as it banked into its landing approach, chemtrails of Christmas cheer spreading in its wake.

The lights were still out. They were coming in blind!

“We’re gonna need a miracle,” Snudbugast said.

“It’s Christmas, it’s the time for miracles,” a crow replied.

“Good point,” Snudbugast said.

The Humvee’s tail lights sped off into the gloom towards the shimmering portal, leaving a pungent trail of diesel behind it.

“Yippee ki-yay, mythophobes!” Snudbugast said as he lit his lighter and let it fall to the ground. The pool of diesel flamed from where the Humvee had been, and it sprang up the trail behind it like a streak of lightning. It swiftly caught up to the fleeing vehicle, and the second Humvee’s fuel tank exploded just as it was halfway through the portal. The portal shut, leaving the flaming rear half of the car sliced off by a perfectly straight cut.

Above him, he saw Santa’s sleigh adjusting its trajectory to follow the trail of flame which now lit up the landing strip. Snudbugast prepared his pipe in celebration.

As he watched the reindeer’s landing approach, he was surrounded by his newly freed colleagues coming out of the cabin to join him.

“Let’s get to work,” Zunftmeister Stool said.

The tree lights illuminated, bathing the scene in a myriad of sparkling rainbow colours, replacing the rapidly dwindling trail of flame, and “Let it Snow,” began blaring out of the Bluetooth speakers hanging in the trees as the power came back on.

“Ho! Ho! Ho! This is flight S.L.A. zero-zero-one, requesting permission to land.” came crackling over the PA system.

Zunftmeister Stool picked up a microphone and called out, “Flight S.L.A. zero zero one, you are cleared to land, runway two-three. Over.”

“Roger that, runway two-three. Fifty. Forty. Fir tree!” Santa counted down the altitude. “Twenty. Ten. Touchdown!”

The train of reindeer landed gracefully, traipsing across the forest floor as the sleigh came to rest on the snow behind them. Everybody in the forest cheered.

The gnomes got to work, refuelling the reindeer and unloading the presents on a hastily assembled conveyor belt.

Once they had finished unloading the sleigh, one of the helper elves came over to Snudbugast carrying a huge teddy bear about twice his height.

“Here you go,” he said, handing the bear to Snudbugast. “I think you’ve earned this tonight.”

“There seems to be some kind of mix-up,” Snudbugast replied, his voice heavy with disappointment. “I’d asked for a drone.”

Gnome Alone was first published in Toadstool magazine. Reproduced with permission.

He was intrigued to see an announcement for the Bocca di Inna resort on the North Italian Mediterranean coast. He fondly remembered a holiday there with his parents many, many years ago. Apparently, his mother’s family had originally come from the region. The resort was located within a natural sea cave. The tapestry of chambers carved into the walls all had sublime views of the crystalline blue water that filled the hollow. He remembered swimming with his brother, laughing as they battled with handfuls of dank seaweed while their parents watched from the waterside bar drinking Seastar Spritz and the local, Frothy Foamfizz ale.

He remembered the Cecaelia, the octopodal deep folk who ran the place, as cold but welcoming. Although he and his brother had turned their noses up at the local seafood dishes and had insisted on pizzas or pasta for almost every meal, he felt that his matured palette would appreciate it now. Even the dank smell of fish that had infused the damp atmosphere of the decaying village built close to the complex brought back pleasant memories.

Fuelled by his wistful reminiscences and brimming with anticipation, he booked an all-inclusive week’s stay, starting from tomorrow. It only cost him five gold pieces which he paid with his FeyPal account then eagerly went to pack his cherished Trunki™ (the Gruffalo one).

Most of his colleagues were off on a Club 80-130 holiday in a grotto in the Spanish mountains just inland of Alicante. They’d be up all night drinking mushroom tea and Morris dancing until the dawn. At his age, just the thought of it made Snudbugast feel exhausted. Unfortunately, that meant there was no one to work the pedals in the car so he would have to take the train.

The journey passed quickly, rolling over the stunning Alpine scenery down to the Ligurian Riviera in a few hours. He changed trains at Genoa to finish his journey along the coast to La Spezia which was as far as public transport could take him. The marshy region around the peninsula made reaching the resort a challenge but it also helped keep the big folk away.

Dragging his trunki™ behind him, he went to the tourist information bureau where a slim, Asiatic-looking woman greeted him. Her name badge announced her as Rene.

“Are you lost, bambino? Are you looking for your parents?” she asked sympathetically, then she spluttered, “Mi scusi signore,” when she saw Sundbugast’s bearded, wrinkled face looking up at her from the far side of the desk. Her speech showed her to be no local.

“Don’t worry about it. I get it all the time,” he replied. “I’d just like to book a taxi to Bocca di Inna, per favore.”

“That would be expensive. Why don’t you just call the shuttle service? There’s a courtesy phone outside, by the taxi rank,” she suggested without hesitation. “It’s a brand new minibus with complementary drinks and snacks for people staying at the hotel.”

This was a queer development. The resort was supposed to be a sanctuary for the fey folk, beyond the ken of mortals. He asked the agent to tell him more about it. She was very deliberate, and spoke with the air of a sales pitch.

“Bocca di Inna? Well, from what I’ve heard, it’s a lovely town, down at the mouth of the Inna river. Used to be just an abandoned fishing village—quite a dump before the war — but it’s much improved in the last few decades or so. There’s a road now and even talk of extending the branch line from here to there in a few years time.

“They used to have no fast food outlets at all, now there’s a wide range of exotic cuisine and a thriving hotel, The Otaku Oasis.”

“A hotel? The place has changed a lot since I was last here but I suppose that was almost a century ago… I mean, it’s been a while.”

“It was built by the famous anime director, Ichikō Pak. Must have cost him a fortune, I doubt he’ll be seeing any return on his investment anytime soon. It’s quite popular in the summer, especially for the convention, but few people visit in the off-season, although he’s always out and about, greeting the guests.”

“Never heard of him. Sounds like a queer old duck,” Snudbugast said. He was disappointed with this news. He had planned to check in to his room and spend a lazy Sunday afternoon lounging by the lagoon. Now, it sounded like the place would be over run with tourists: big folk tourists at that. Sadly, it seemed his recollections were of a place long ago and worlds apart.

“There are whispers of him selling out to Disney but I can’t see that happening,” Rene said, leaning in conspiratorially. “That would be like a deal with the devil. Imagine queues of screaming kids lining up to have their picture taken with princesses with their small faces painted like cats or clowns.”

Snudbugast’s eyes widened at the terrible thought, envisioning the chaos of screaming kids destroying the serenity of the grotto.

“And let me tell you,” her voice dropped low, “The things they say about that cruise ship, “The Siren of the Reef”, that anchors offshore, are already bad enough. They say it holds a legion of party goers who travel the world, drinking and worse. The other ships make big detours just to avoid it. It comes here regularly, especially for the convention, you know the convention.”

He thanked Rene for her unasked for information, ruining his holiday even further, and he went outside. It started raining. He picked up the phone to the shuttle but he was disappointed when a recorded message explained that there was a reduced Sunday service and the next one wouldn’t be leaving until ten o’clock that night. That left him with several hours to kill so, exasperated, he headed into town hoping to find some semblance of fun on his holiday.

As he strolled through the streets, he noticed several eye-catching posters announcing the Bocca di Inna annual anime convention, KrakenCon: The tidal tentacle spectacle. Thankfully, it was still a few weeks away and he’d be safely back home before it started. His holiday was already ruined as it was and having to spend it surrounded by an army of weeabos would have made it unbearable.

He found a bar and went in. Inexplicably, The bar staff were wearing purple hats with a pair of encircled tentacles on top like hollow, round mouse ears or antennae with suckers that looked like bottle caps. The word, “KrakenCon” was stitched in vibrant green thread on the front. They also wore necklaces of a tentacle in the shape of a question mark.

A cartoon was playing on a large screen behind the bar but mercifully, the volume was turned down and the subtitles were in Japanese. What had he walked into?

He surveyed the beer pumps, looking for something unfamiliar to taste but he was disappointed. He ordered a pint of Peroni and gulped down its familiar blandness.

Snudbugast wandered the streets, despondent by the disappointing start to his get-away. He passed a bookshop which caught his eye, it’s window full of statues and bobble-headed figurines of strange characters he did not recognise, and other bizarre objects which glistened under the neon lights of the window display. The more he looked, the more it fascinated him. The patterns all hinted of remote secrets and unimaginable abysses in time and space wasted on pointless hobbies, and the monotonously aquatic nature of the reliefs became almost sinister. It seemed that the esoteric touch of KrakenCon was everywhere.

Shortly before ten that evening, Snudbugast stood with his small valise in front of the station. He found the shuttle waiting for him, engine running in a very ecologically unfriendly manner. At first, Snudbugast took the driver for one of the big folk; his features were symmetrical, with well-defined ears, clear blue eyes and his skin was unblemished, his clothing was smart and well fitting. Snudbugast was relieved when he spotted the tentacles that composed the lower half of his body, although they were strangely still, pulsating in synchronisation with the humming engine rather than squirming.

Snudbugast boarded the shuttle, and settled into a seat behind the driver. He was the only passenger so far and it was almost time to leave. At precisely ten o’clock, the driver closed the doors and drove off smoothly. Curiously, no one else had boarded despite it being the only run today.

Navigating the treacherous twists and turns of the rocky coastline, the vast expanse of the open Mediterranean on their left, the driver skilfully manoeuvred the vehicle, engrossed in the challenging task at hand, although his tentacles barely seemed to move as he made slick gear changes. Snudbugast, respecting the driver’s focus, refrained from distracting him. The smell of the sea took on auspicious implications. Gazing at the silent driver’s neck, he noticed something peculiar about his gills. They seemed oddly dry and unnaturally smooth, except at the edges where there was a familiar ragged scaliness which looked like a peeling latex prosthetic that had been hastily applied. Snudbugast couldn’t help but feel a hint of unease, but he chose to keep his thoughts to himself.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a cloak of darkness over the surroundings, they finally reached a car park on the outskirts of town. “This is as far as I go, do you need any help with your luggage?”

“Thanks,” he said. “It’ll be fine. C’mon boy,” he said, pulling on the strap as if he expected it to follow him on its own volition.

Stepping out of the vehicle, Snudbugast found himself in an unrecognisable place. The abandoned fishing village which hid the underground complex had been transformed. Overlooking the village from a rocky mound, stood a huge glass and concrete hotel complex. Gravity defying balconies jutted from the central structure, looming over the steep, winding track that linked it to the village. In place of the desolate ruins and abandoned shacks, familiar fast food chains and bars filled the wide, airy streets. The construction was newest close to the waterfront, the small harbour had spotless aluminium gangways leading down to the immaculate floating dock sections were several jet-skis were held, chained together for the night. Beyond, an old stone breakwater on which sat a few silhouetted figures, showed signs of recent repair.

Far out at sea, he glimpsed a brightly lit cruise ship. He knew this must be the ominous “The Siren’s Reef”. As he looked, a subtle, curious sense of beckoning seemed added to the slight antipathy.

A sigh of disappointment escaped Snudbugast’s lips as he set off down the newly tarmacked street which had replaced the muddy track he remembered from his childhood, dragging his case behind him.

From the distant shadowy forms, the people seemed to consist mostly of fey folk; demi-humans and anthropomorphic animals wandered up and down the dimly lit streets, mingling with a few tentacled Cecaeliae who were still out and about at this late hour. The sight reassured him a little, although almost every one had certain peculiarities or moved in an almost human way, and many sported the awful KrakenCon hats, what he had come to call the “Bocca di Inna look”.

Ignoring the lure of the lively bars, he made his way towards the entrance of the grotto on the edge of the town. The new buildings thinned out and none lined this side of the road. The smell of the sea and fish returned but the sight of a KrakenCon poster stuck on the cliff face sparked his disgust. The sound of waterfalls became more and more distinct, and presently he saw the fairly deep gorge of the Inna river ahead. If he remembered correctly, the grotto’s entrance was concealed behind the waterfall so he did not need to use his GPS.

Compared to the overground streets, the place was deserted apart from a couple of Cecaeliae cleaning up. It was as dark and damp as he remembered, water dripping off the walls into shimmering pools, luminescent algae glowing dimly in patches on the walls. Tasty looking mushrooms sprouted from cracks in the walls. It might not turn out as bad as he had feared after all. He gently blew the conch shell he found sitting on the reception desk and waited for the receptionist to answer his summons.

The receptionist arrived quickly, slithering languidly over to the desk.

“Good evening, Mister…?”

“Snudbugast, just Snudbugast. I have a reservation.”

The concierge feigned searching for his name but Snudbugast could see that the booking parchment was empty apart from his own details.

“Ah, there it is,” he remarked, crossing his name out with the stroke of a quill held in one of his tentacles. “Party of one?”

“Yes, just me.” Snudbugast confirmed.

“It’s a bit quiet at the moment so we’ve put you in the ambassador’s suite. It’s located on the ground floor and has private access to the lagoon. No extra charge.” The receptionist handed him a keycard with another tentacle. “Enjoy your stay.”

“Thank you,” Snudbugast said. “And thanks for the upgrade.”

“Say nothing of it, we aim to please. Do you need help with your luggage?”

“Thanks, it’ll be fine. C’mon boy.”

“I am Trilton, let me know if you require anything.”

He followed the carved, spiralling staircase down to the lowest level. There was only one door and it opened with a swipe of the keycard.

Snudbugast stepped into the vastness of the cave, his gaze immediately drawn to the grandeur of the high ceiling above, boasting several beautiful stalactites. A circular moon pool was carved into the ground next to one of the walls. Presumably it was joined to the lagoon via an underwater access tunnel.

The tantalising sight of a dozen succulent oysters nestled on a bed of crushed ice standing on a table in the centre of the room reminded Snudbugast that he hadn’t eaten since first breakfast, and that had been rushed as he didn’t want to miss his train.

He opened his case, reached through the shimmering portable portal within and grabbed a bottle of Hirschpisswein from his well-stocked cupboard back home, to accompany his late night indulgence. “Good boy,” he said, closing the case, allowing himself a brief moment of contentment as he fell asleep to the soothing sounds of the sea and forgot about today.

#

He woke the next morning with a renewed optimism and barely a trace of a hangover. The inviting moon pool beckoned and he dived feet first into the invigorating chill of the sea.

He swam into the lagoon. Sunlight blazed through the semicircular entrance that connected it to the sea and shimmered on the dark blue waters. A young Cecaelia was tending to the bladderwrack which adorned the underground shore line.

“Good morning,” he greeted the young Cecaelia. “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

“I’m glad somebody is enjoying it.”

He didn’t seem exceptionally eager to talk, but Snudbugast continued. He wanted a local’s view of the town. He soon gathered that he did not like the changes. His family ran the hotel and they insisted that he help out otherwise he would have left like most of his younger colleagues.

“It smells too clean and these newcomers, are too outgoing, too friendly and too human. It’s such a relief to talk to an outsider,” he explained. “Most of the locals have accepted them because of the money they bring. It’s enough to make you squirt your ink.

“There’s no use trying to talk to them, they speak gibberish, and rarely in Italian. The only one who would talk is a very old Cecaelia who lives on the north rim of the town and spends his time walking about or lounging around “The Fire Station”, a bar on the dockfront. This hoary character, Zadok, he’s 296 years old and somewhat touched in the head, besides being the town drunkard. He’s a strange, furtive creature who constantly looks over his shoulder as if afraid of something. When sober he won’t talk at all with strangers. However, he’s unable to resist any offer of his favourite poison; and once drunk he will furnish the most astonishing stories.”

***

As Snudbugast walked through the streets, he couldn’t help but notice the presence of so many vanity pups being walked by their owners, carried in handbags or pushed in strollers in the cool morning air. Perhaps they were familiars? Of all things, there was a cat café with its window full of lounging felines. The lively atmosphere almost brought a smile to his face. The picturesque mansions, with their beautifully adorned windows, showcased the success of the town. It was as if the entire community embraced transparency and friendliness. As he strolled along, he felt welcomed and embraced by the friendly gazes of the townsfolk, their eyes twinkling with warmth and hospitality.

It was then he saw the immaculate, “The Fire Station” on his right, and noticed the red faced, broken-tentacled, watery eyed old Cecaelia in nondescript rags who sat on a bench on the talking with a pair of smartly dressed tentacled bar staff. This, of course, must be Zadok, the half-crazed, liquorish nonagenarian whose tales of old Bocca di Inna and its shadow were so hideous and incredible.

#

Snudbugast took a bottle of HirschpissSchnaps out of his coat pocket and offered a glass to Zadok who downed it in one, much to Snudbugast’s consternation.

“That’s where it all began,” Zadok said, once the coughing fit had subsided, pointing to “The Siren’s Reef”, anchored off shore. They’ll be coming ashore in their organised excursion, in an orderly manner.” They each took another sip of HirschpissSchnaps.

“But the convention isn’t for another few weeks,” Snudbugast croaked, wiping tears from his eyes. “I’ve seen the posters.”

“The convention starts when they arrive and goes on until they depart. It has been getting longer and longer with each passing year,” Zadok wheezed, his voice heavy with heartburn.

“Ol’ Ichikō Pak done it—him that found out more’n was good for him. He came here scouting for a location for a live action version of one of them thar manga tales. Everybody was in a bad way in them days. Trade falling off, losing business. They welcomed them. His location scout, Masato Eriyuki was a weird one, sporting bracelets and armlets and head rigs made out of plastic tentacles. The film never got made but they returned each year, bringing more and more tourists, and more and more improvements to the town. The old elder, Obed had opposed them at first, but the old wards that had kept us safe from the prying eyes of humans were broken. Then they offered him a starring role in the movie, even flew him out to Okinawa a few times, he came back with boxes of exclusive bobble-head figurines and mecha robot kits.

“He learned that there’s things on this earth as most folks never heard about—and wouldn’t believe if they did hear: hentai!

“These folk had a liking for tentacles, if you get my drift. Seems they hankered after mixing with our folks, and having a convention like some kind of holy ceremony.”

The old Cecaelia’s whisper grew fainter, and Snudbugast found himself shuddering at the terrible and sincere portentousness of his intonation, even though he knew his tale could be nothing but drunken phantasy.

“The young folk can’t resist the lure of the normies,” Zadok continued, once he had caught his breath after another sip had burned its way down his throat. “It starts with paragliding or hotdogging after a Mojito or two, until one day, eventually, they ride off on a jet ski to join the cruise ship and are never seen again…”

Driven by a mixture of curiosity and a sense of duty to the ailing aquatic folk, Snudbugast vowed to unravel the mysteries of the convention before it was too late, before the allure of the normies claimed yet another victim to its insidious grasp.

As he traversed the town, Snudbugast discovered signs of the convention’s influence everywhere. Posters and banners adorned the streets, enticing tourists with promises of exotic experiences and the chance to mingle with the enigmatic Cecaeliae. This had taken on an unwholesome meaning after Zadok’s tales.

The main auditorium was advertising a movie starting now. Snudbugast mingled between the legs of the movie goers and sneaked in.

Dear reader, you will be spared the details of what poor Snudbugast witnessed in that darkened room out of deference to your sensibilities and from common decency. The imagination of innocence should not be troubled by knowledge of the unspeakable confluence of Hentai and furries lest one never sleeps again from the dread of unknown horrors that exist in the shadows of this world. Needless to say, it was an abomination beyond comprehension. With a mind reeling from the unspeakable sights and a heart pounding with terror, he fled.

***

Down in the harbour, the launches from “The Siren’s Reef” had began disembarking their passengers and the lobby teemed with a bustling horde of newly arrived convention goers, representing all manner of beasts and humans. Many of the female Cecaeliae wore large dresses with crinolines modestly covering their tentacles, which they were normally proud to display in public. Snudbugast struggled to escape the throng, his mind reeling from what he had just seen on screen.

As he made his way through the crowd, he witnessed a sea of KrakenCon hats, while others sported tiaras fashioned from twisted tentacles.

They converged into a unified mass, and following the fanfare of a mariachi band, replied to thrice by thunderous chants of “Olé!”, the ominous beat of “La Conga” began.

The celebrants began merging into one, hands on the shoulders or the hips of the person in front of them and the procession began to move, snaking it’s way through the lobby, dragging in all the folk it passed, accompanied by the discordant noise of trumpets, marching synchronised to three shuffle steps on the beat, followed by a kick slightly ahead of the fourth beat.

A large bipedal dog with a lolling tongue which he assumed to be some kind of were-creature extricated itself from the line. Snudbugast watched in open-mouthed astonishment as it unscrewed his head and pulled it off, revealing a sweating, normal, human head beneath. Nearby, one of the Cecaeliae raised her skirt in an improvised Can Can dance, revealing a clockwork mechanism the moved otherwise lifeless rubber tentacles in a mockery of motion.

Horror seized Snudbugast’s heart as he realised that these apparitions were not mystical beings of fae origin, but humans masquerading as such. And not just any humans, but humans of the worst, most autistic kind: cosplayers! The illusion shattered, and the fabric of his perception unravelled in a cascade of maddening revelation. The fur was but a charade, concealing the true nature of these normstrosities boldly frolicking in plain sight.

The shimmering pelts revealed themselves as nothing more than cheap synthetic fibres, and their jewel-like eyes were but glassy marbles devoid of any true sparkle. The uncanny valley yawned wide, and the boundaries between the natural and the artificial blurred into a nightmarish amalgamation.

The true horror lay not in their physical appearance, but in the perverse depths of their deception. What kind of twisted minds would willingly forsake their humanity to parade as creatures of myth and legend? Snudbugast’s grasp on reality wavered, teetering on the precipice of madness, as he grappled with the nightmarish revelation.

The conga line approached and hands reached out, pulling the bystanders into the line with a magnetic irresistibility. If he did not act soon, Snudbugast would be next.

In that harrowing moment, lost in this labyrinth of deceit, Snudbugast’s sanity hung by a fragile thread. The terror of the unknown mingled with the desecration of the familiar, plunging him into a chasm of existential horror. The half bottle of HirschpissSchnaps he had drunk with Zadok certainly didn’t help either. He was but a solitary soul adrift in a sea of humans, euphoric in a carnival of their own making.

He had to escape the ghastly parade, and there was only one way down—the steep, winding road that snaked down the cliff. With adrenaline pumping through his veins, Snudbugast gripped the straps of his Trunki case tightly and kicked off with both feet, propelling it forward. The wheels spun rapidly, carrying him down the incline with increasing speed. The wind roared in his ears as he leaned into the turns, manoeuvring around sharp bends and narrowly avoiding collisions with startled convention-goers making their way up to the hotel.

With each twist and turn, he fought to keep his case upright, using the momentum to his advantage, until he dug in his heels to slow the progress as he reached the waterfront.

The small port looked like D-Day in miniature. Zodiac inflatables sliced through the water, rushing towards the coastline, disembarking platoons of black-clad military men armed with machine guns. Snudbugast hid as they rushed past, driving the tourists up the hill to the hotel with military precision and the threat of violence.

“Snudbugast? What the hell are you doing here?” one of the soldiers asked out of nowhere, taking the gnome by surprise. The stranger lifted his protective goggles and Snudbugast recognised Mal Jaeger, the freelancer who had helped his grotto in a previous encounter with a mischievous witch.

“Mal? I could ask you the same but right now I’m more concerned with finding a way out of this. Any suggestions?”

“Come with me.”

They made their way to the grotto’s entrance secreted beneath the waterfall which so far seemed to have avoided detection by the troops.

Trilton was at reception. “Tea sir?” he proposed.

“Thank you, that would be lovely.”

Snudbugast sipped his tea. “Why are you fighting alongside Mythic Inc.? I thought that they were your sworn enemy,” he asked.

Mal smiled wryly, “They are, I’m here undercover. I heard rumours of an unprecedented operation they were planning, something on a scale they’ve never attempted before. They were recruiting every gun for hire in Western Europe so I joined up under a false name. I needed to see what they were up to.”

“So,” Snudbugast asked. “What are they up to?”

“I wish I knew. I’m a simple grunt, they don’t tell us anything except where to meet and what time to go. I’m guessing where in Liguria but it’s just that, a guess. We’ve been told to round up the tourists and confine them to the hotel while a second team secures the cruise ship, beyond that, I know nothing yet.”

“I might be able to help,” Snudbugast said and he explained what he had discovered about the convention goers and their depraved predilections.

Mal took it all in. “That would make sense, Mythic Inc. want to have a monopoly on all human-mythic interactions. They don’t appreciate anyone else muscling in on their business. They want me dead just because I set up my own company.

“If the Pak fellow has let it be known that he knows about the Cecaeliae, they won’t like that, especially if he’s making a profit.”

“The convention does seem to be gaining in popularity, and I fear that there maybe quite a market for his… speciality films.” Snudbugast grimaced under dark recollections.

“So, what do we do?”

“We need to get the Cecaeliae out of here.”

Mal nodded. “Agreed. But how do we manage that without alerting Mythic Inc. to what we’re up to? We need a diversion, something that will draw their attention away while we smuggle the Cecaeliae to safety.”

“The problem is, they’ll be mixed in with the tourists. The grunts won’t be able to recognise them, they have been specifically recruited for their lack of imagination. They’ll bring in someone from higher up once the situation has been stabilised and triage them.”

“Well, we need to get them out before that happens,” Snudbugast said.

Snudbugast saw the young Cecaelia, Surge who had been cleaning the lagoon this morning. “How would you fancy a little adventure?” he asked.

“Dad?” He looked pleadingly at Trilton.

Once they had explained the situation to him, Trilton agreed to the plan and the three of them headed back to the hotel. Mal pretended to hold the boy at gunpoint while Snudbugast hid between his legs, scurrying along, trying to avoid being tripped by the tentacles.

“Found this one trying to escape,” Mal said to the guard stationed outside the hotel entrance.

“Put him with the others,” the guard grunted.

They went inside and Snudbugast sneaked out from beneath Surge and scurried between the legs of the crowd in the direction of the stage. Mal went through the crowd with the boy and identified the real Cecaeliae among them, gathered them together and led them towards the exit.

A blast of feedback screeched through the PA as Snudbugast wheeled his Trunki on stage and picked up the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I hope that you have enjoyed this afternoon’s entertainment so far.”

Disgruntled cries and murmurs of disapproval erupted from some, but Snudbugast pressed on, “This live-action escape game is brought to you by Mythic Inc., this years sponsors of KrakenCon. I think that you can all agree that no expense has been spared on the realism.”

A ripple of excitement coursed through the crowd, and some small applause as some of them believed what he was saying. The guards looked at each other in confusion, not sure of what to make of the unfolding events. He saw Mal making his way to the exit with half a dozen Cecaeliae in tow.

“One of the guards has the code to the next part of the mystery, a prize to the first person to find it,” Snudbugast announced before quitting the stage and running for the exit as fast as his little legs could carry him.

The crowd hesitated for a second before they swarmed over the bewildered guards, each demanding to be told the non-existent code.

Mal took this moment to lead his charges but the guards at the door were alert and levelled their guns.

“Do you feel scared? Surge asked his companions.

“Yes, of course we do.”

“Well, you know what to do when your scared!”

In unison, the Cecaeliae expelled streams of black ink, spraying the guards in the face and blinding them. Seizing the opportunity, Mal swiftly disarmed them. With their path to freedom clear, they ran, wriggled and slithered down the hill, leaving the chaos of the convention behind them.

“So, what happens now?” Mal asked, once they were back in the relative safety of the grotto.

“They can’t stay here, that’s for sure. They’ll find this place soon enough then we’re back to square one.”

“There’s an old abandoned coastal village not far from here,” Trilton ventured. “It’s tucked away in a secluded cove, far from prying eyes just as this place used to be. It’s been deserted for years. I’d considered moving there and starting from scratch when all this nonsense first started. I never seemed to get around to it.”

Mal returned to the docks and brought one of the Zodiacs around to the lagoon where the others joined him with a few of their belongings and they sailed off into the sunset.

Clear Skies Over Bocca di Inna was first published in Toadstool magazine. Reproduced with permission.

“Welcome to Cuvella grotto,” he said. “I’m Snudbugast.” He proffered his hand.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Dartunglin, call me Dart,” the beardling replied, shaking his hand. “What can I do for you?”

“HR asked me to show you around before you start work tomorrow.” Over the young gnome’s shoulder, he could see a homely gnomette with her sleeves rolled up, busy unpacking boxes.

“Or I can come back later if you’re busy.”

“It’s fine. Actually, I could do with a break. It feels like we’ve been unpacking for days. I sometimes wonder if we’ll ever see the end of it.” He laughed uncomfortably.

“Who is it daddy?” A dark-haired, dark-eyed girl appeared suddenly at the door. Despite looking only five or six years old, she was already taller than her father. She hugged a threadbare, stuffed rabbit toy in front of her. It’s sagging head had just a couple of whiskers remaining and one button eye hanging from a thread. In place of the other eye was string and nothing.

“It’s a colleague from work, Shunbee dearest. He’s come to show me around the grotto.”

“I’ve seen it. It’s nice and shiny,” she said, then she ran off giggling. Snudbugast couldn’t see where she went.

Snudbugast was showing Dart the emergency exits and explaining the evacuation procedures when he suddenly blurted out, “She’s adopted!”

“Who? What?”

“My daughter, Shunbee. She’s adopted. I know you were wondering why she’s different.”

“Oh, I hadn’t noticed,” Snudbugast lied. He had noticed but it hadn’t bothered him. While the gnomes mostly kept themselves to themselves, Snudbugast was somewhat adventurous for his kind and he’d met and got along with all sorts of folk, even the big folk.

“It’s why we moved here,” he continued. “The other younglings kept making fun of her. I jumped at the chance when I saw the job offer in Toadstool Magazine. She was so happy when I was accepted.”

“The grotto is very welcoming. She’ll be fine here,” Snudbugast said.

His colleagues Gorwort and Paiddic came rushing over. “Zunftmeister Stool needs to see you at once,” they said in unison.

“I’m sorry,” he said to his companion. “I’m going to have to cut the visit short.”

“This is Dart,” Snudbugast said. “He and his family have just moved into the grotto. I was giving him the tour.”

Gorwort sniggered. He looked at Paiddic who was trying hard to suppress a grin.

“What’s wrong with you two?” Snudbugast asked, bemused by their behaviour.

“You know, dart, snails.” The pair burst out laughing.

“Oh, grow up. These two reprobates will finish your visit,” he told Dart. “If they can pull themselves together.”

Snudbugast was ushered into the “Zunftmeister’s office. A tall, slim elf, dressed in a green velvet frock coat with wide, lace collar and cuffs sat across the table from Stool. He towered over the Zunftmeister even though they were both seated.

“Ah, good man. This is Othorion, from the sylvan court.”

“Lord Othorion,” the elf insisted, rising from his seat and bowing.

Snudbugast fought back the urge to return the bow. Despite his lordly appearance and his obvious good looks, there was something that made Snudbugast think he didn’t deserve it. He nodded curtly and grunted, “Hello,” instead.

“Yes, well,” Stool continued, “You see, we have something of a problem…”

“The May Queen’s crown has been stolen,” Othorion interjected, his impatience was evident on his angular visage as much as in his brusque tone. How rude to interrupt the Zunftmeister while he’s speaking, Snudbugast thought.

“Yes, err, that.” Zunftmeister Stool sat back heavily in his chair. He signalled to an aide who placed three glasses on the table and proffered a bottle of Hirschpisswein. Stool pointed to a glass. “Err, an aperitif? No?”

“It’s a bit too early for me,” Snudbugast said, placing his hand over his glass. Othorion nodded.

“When you’re on the doomsday clock, it’s always after five,” the Zunftmeister said. He downed his glass in one gulp and signalled for it to be refilled.

“I don’t need to remind you how serious this is,” Zunftmeister Stool said.

“Indeed, without the crown, the May Queen cannot assume dominion over the land, spring will not come. The world will be thrown into perpetual winter. The nine worthies will not ride…”

“Thank you Snudbugast, that’s quite enough. I think we’ve established the stakes. Right, now that that’s taken care of, what are we going to do about it?”

“I supposed you’ve tried the Find My… app?” Snudbugast suggested.

“It was the first thing we thought of. Whoever stole the crown was way ahead of us. They detached the tag and left it in the vault.”

“Cunning. I suppose I should go and inspect the scene. They might have overlooked some clues.”

“I will accompany you,” Othorion said.

#

The portus guards outside the vault snapped to attention and presented arms when Snudbugast and Othorion arrived. Their FN P90 bullpups were almost as tall as they were.

“At ease,” Snudbugast said. They lowered their weapons. “When was the last time the vault was opened?”

“This morning, when the elf came with the Zunftmeister to get the crown,” one of the guards replied.

“The elf Lord,” Othorion sneered.

“And before that?”

“There’s the nightly lock-down of the crypto keys into cold storage, twenty-three hundred hours on the dot but that was overseen by portus Aramas himself. He would have noticed if there was anything missing.”

“And the vault was guarded in between?”

“Always. Orthus and myself have been on duty since midnight.”

“So, whoever stole the crown didn’t come through these doors. What other entrances are there?”

“None. It’s solid rock in all directions.”

“No ventilation shafts?”

“Crypto keys don’t need to breathe.”

“What about magical means?”

The guard laughed.

“You don’t believe in magic?” Snudbugast asked, surprised by his reaction.

“Of course I do. It’s just that the vault’s walls are lined with powdered unicorn horn, ethically sourced, of course. Even triple-X pixie dust is annulled by it. Only another unicorn could get past it and I think someone would have noticed one of them wandering around the grotto.”

“Hello boss!” Snudbugast turned to see Gorwort and Paiddic approaching with Dart, the new arrival in tow. “What is occurring?”

He explained the situation to them. They might be able to provide some insights, he thought.

“What if it’s still in there but invisible? Gorwort suggested. “Someone went in, sprinkled some pixie dust No.9 on it and is planning to come back later and claim their prize?”

“So, someone broke into an impregnable vault, hid the crown inside and is going to break back into the impregnable vault again to get it. Do you know how stupid that sounds?” Snudbugast said.

Gorwort thought about it for a moment. “Oh yeah, there’s ethically sourced unicorn horn in the walls. The pixie dust wouldn’t work. Oh well, back to the drawing board.”

Snudbugast raised his palm to his face and sighed.

“What about the house witch?” Paiddic suggested. “She has unseelie powers. I’ve heard that they are immune to the nulling effects of unicorn horn.”

“But the door is solid steel. The iron in it would take care of that,” Snudbugast replied. “Besides, Agnatha has been on her best behaviour since her last episode. I can’t believe she would do anything to harm the grotto’s reputation. It’s her home now.”

Snudbugast was out of ideas.

“What about you?” he asked Othorion. “What do you think happened?”

“It’s simple, a bunch of incompetent gnomes were left in charge of a priceless heirloom and they have managed to loose it, ruining many lives in the process.”

“Fairy nuff, but any idea on the specifics?” Gorwort asked.

“We need to take a look around inside. Can you open the vault?” Snudbugast asked the guards.

“Sure, the time locks are off unless there’s an emergency but I’ll need the authentication codes from Zunftmeister Stool and portus Aramas to do that.”

“OK, I’ll text them.”

#

The vault door opened with a “hiss” and slid to the side.

Snudbugast walked inside. He surveyed the ranks of security boxes down the left wall. All were secure.

“What’s that?” Othorion asked, pointing to the left wall lined with wooden barrels stacked on top of each other.

“HirschpissSchnaps, it’s a new line we’re branching into. Distilled Hirschpisswein. It’s a bit lively at the moment but maturing it in oak and ash barrels for a few decades really mellows the taste.

At the far end of the vault was arrayed a collection of unusual objects; shining swords, gilded cauldrons, bejewelled necklaces. Snudbugast’s attention was drawn to the pile of gold ingots stacked up into a pyramid almost twice his height in the corner of the room.

Othorion was unimpressed. He was busy looking at his phone. “Hey! I can’t get a signal,” he shouted, breaking Snudbugast’s reverie.

“I’m not surprised, we’re several hundred feet underground,” he said after a few moments. “Use the WiFi.”

“What’s the password?”

“It’s an easy one to remember. It’s the name of the fourth ruler of the grotto in the second age, third of his name.”

“You mean, Atwhl-Zy-Huf 24 ZERIII”

“Yeah, that’s him. No spaces.”

Snudbugast’s attention was drawn back to the gold as Othorion went through the messages that were pinging his phone.

“Oh dear,” Othorion said, looking up.

“Is there a problem?”

“The queen has grown impatient. She has ordered her guards to come here and search the grotto.”

“You must be relieved.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well, you’ve spent the morning trying to lord it over us all. Now you’re going to get back-up and you’ll be able to do whatever you want.

Othorion looked at him with an air of disappointment.

“You misunderstand me…”

His reply was cut off as warning sirens shrieked, accompanied by flashing lights. “Intruder Alert! Intruder Alert!” blared out through the loudspeakers.

The vault door hissed shut, locking them inside. The emergency lighting cast the room in a cold LED glow.

Othorion ran to the door but it was too late. The bolts locked into place with a resounding clunk. He banged his fists against the door shouting, “Let me out!”

“It’s no good. That’s one meter thick carbon steel, nobody can hear you. Anyway, they know we’re in here. They’ll open it as soon as they can.”

“And how long will that be? Some off us have better things to do than sitting on our backside admiring a pile of gold.”

Snudbugast blanched.

“What is it?”

“The portus guard mentioned time-locks in an emergency. I think this might be an emergency.”

“So how long does that mean?”

“I don’t know, ten minutes, an hour,” Snudbugast shrugged.

“You mean that I’m going to be stuck in here with you for an hour! What an inauspicious day this has turned out to be.”

“It’s worse than that. There’s no ventilation in here. I don’t know how long our air will last.”

“I never thought I’d die by the side of a dwarf.”

“How about a gnome? And I’ll have you know that I am quite tall for our kind.”

“That’s like being quite intelligent for a rock.”

Snudbugast bit back his anger. He knew that shouting at the arrogant elf would only be wasting his air. It wasn’t worth it. He walked over to the shelves of treasure and picked out two glorious, gilded chalices.

He took them over to the barrels of HirschpissSchnaps. “Nineteen sixty-six. Sounds like a good year,” he said as he filled the cups from the tap at the bottom of the barrel.

“Here, this will help you relax.” He passed one of the cups to Othorion and took a sip from his own. It burned his throat and almost made him cough but he persisted and swallowed, pushing the uncomfortable burning sensation into his belly.

“How is it?” Othorion asked.

“It’s the best you’re going to get for a while. Cheers!” And he drank another mouthful through a grimace.

Othorion too, took a sip.

“I need to tell you something,” Othorion said, once he’d finished coughing.

“You don’t like gnomes, I know.”

“It’s not that. I have no feelings either way for you little folk.”

“Let me toast your munificent indifference,” Snudbugast said, raising his cup to his lips. The HirschpissSchnaps was beginning to have an effect on him, or maybe it was the asphyxiation. Either way, his head was starting to spin.

“I took on the task to impress my inamorata, the Lady Nalaea. She is newly appointed handmaiden to the queen and she was so looking forward to the ceremony. I volunteered to fetch the crown, even if it meant frequenting gnomes. She will be so disappointed if we don’t find the crown in time.”

“I salute your magnanimity.” Snudbugast swigged another mouthful.

“She will never know the sacrifice I made.”

“Listen, my lungs are substantially smaller than yours so, if I should outlast you, I shall tell her.”

They sat in silence on either side of the room for how long, Snudbugast did not know. Snudbugast slid to the ground, leaning against the pyramid of gold.

His hand met what felt like a tiny disc of plastic lying on the floor. “What’s this?” he wondered aloud. He looked at it in his palm but his eyes would not focus. He put the disk in his pocket almost without thinking.

“Do you like riddles?” he asked Othorion, hoping to do something to pass whatever time remained to them.

“Can’t stand them,” the elf replied in a whisper.

A scintillating circle began forming in the middle of the vault, growing larger and larger. No doubt the effects of the HirschpissSchnaps he concluded. It shimmered around its circumference like pearlescent strands fluttering in an imaginary breeze.

Snudbugast smiled as a figure stepped through. I thought Valkyries would be taller, he reflected, but this is hardly a warriors death. He held out his arms to welcome whatever spirit had come to claim him. That crown she’s wearing looks familiar, he thought.

“Have you seen it?” a young girl’s voice said. “Silly rabbit cannot see good.”

Snudbugast heard the rush of air refilling the room through the mystical portal. He breathed deeply, downed his drink and pulled himself to his feet.

The girl was walking back towards the portal. He knew that it would disappear with her passing. Othorion lay unconscious on the floor next to him.

With all of the strength he could muster, he pulled the elf towards the circle. The girl stepped back through and, as he had feared, it began to contract.

Snudbugast’s mouth was clammy. “Give us more time!” he pleaded but all that came out was: “Time!”

He collapsed before the space where the portal had been, too tired to cry.

The portal reopened.

“Oh, do you want to play?” Shunbee asked.

Snudbugast sprang clean through the portal, dragging a groggy Othorion behind him.

#

They materialised a short way down the lake shore from the vault, behind the backs of a group of gnomes and elves who crowded around the door. He recognised Gorwort despite his face shield, furiously cutting at the vault door’s hinges with an oxy-acetylene torch, while Paiddic, Dart and others watched on anxiously.

“Daddy!” Shunbee cried and she ran towards her father.

Four elves wearing plumed, wide-brimmed hats and green tabards emblazoned with a white tree, turned to face them. When they saw the crown on Shunbee’s head, they drew their swords and pointed them at the girl.

Snudbugast was exhausted, drunk and he had no weapon but he would not let any harm come to the girl. He forced himself to his feet and staggered towards the swordsmen.

“Can’t you see she’s just a child. She didn’t know what she was doing,” he tried to shout but it came out as a croak.

The other elves reacted, holding the gnomes at sword point.

Gorwort put down the torch and pushed up his face shield. “What’s going on?” he asked. His face lit up when he saw Snudbugast then it fell when he saw the elf blade pointed at his throat.

Dart tried to run to Shunbee but his arms were grabbed by two of the elves. His legs kicked uselessly in the air and a gloved hand was slapped over his mouth to muffle his cries.

Othorion rose to his feet and slowly drew his sword.

Oh no, Snudbugast thought, he’s going to stab her in the back.

“I am Lord Othorion of the sylvan court. This girl is under my protection! Lay down your weapons or face my wrath.” The swordsmen hesitated. The elf lord staggered forward and had to support himself on his sword like a walking stick. Snudbugast rushed to his side and helped Othorion steady himself. He defied the swordsmen with a fierce glare.

“Lord Othorion may be suffering, but his sword arm is still strong. And he’s not the only one who will defend this girl. I stand with him.”

One of the swordsmen snickered.

The swordsmen looked at each other, then lowered their weapons. “Very well,” one of them said. “She will not be harmed but we must take her with us. She is a criminal and must stand trial for her crimes. She is guilty of theft and treason,” the leader of the swordsmen said.

Othorion and Snudbugast stood protectively in front of the girl. “She is but a child with powers beyond her ken. She meant no malice in taking the crown. She will return it,” Othorion said, his voice low and dangerous.

He reached out to the girl but she pulled away, hugging her rabbit toy closer to her chest. Dark tendrils of shadows began forming around her slight frame. Her eyes were large pits of black in black.

What have I got in my pockets? Snudbugast wondered, rummaging around for something he could use as a weapon, but all he found was the plastic disk he had picked off the vault’s floor. He held it out and he saw that it was a button, the twin to the toy rabbit’s single eye.

Shunbee turned to face him with surprising speed, reaching out with a claw like grasp. “It’s mine and I want it,” she hissed. The transformation from little girl to shadow demon was frightening to behold.

“And the crown belongs to the queen,” Snudbugast said, facing up to what ever she had become despite his fear, “and she want’s it back too. Shall we swap?”

Shunbee held the rabbit to her ear, nodding as if it was speaking to her.”

“Rabbit says yes,” she said calmly as her ominous aura withdrew somewhat. She took off the crown and handed it to Othorion. Snudbugast gave her the button in return.

“Release the gnomes,” Othorion commanded. Dart came running over to embrace his daughter.

“You’ll be able to tell Lady Nalaea that you rescued the queen’s crown single handed,” Snudbugast said to Othorion.

“With a little help from a little friend,” he replied.

The crowds dispersed. Shunbee’s appearance had returned to normal, a little gnome child just a bit too tall for her age.

“I know I said she was adopted,” Dart said to Snudbugast, “but that’s not quite true. Actually, she’s a changeling child. We knew right away but what choice did we have? She was a baby. I’m sure the unseelie court are taking equally good care of our real child. A tear came to his eye as he hugged his daughter.

Snudbugast knew that they would have to discuss Shunbee’s true nature with the grotto’s council, but for now, everything had returned to normal, whatever that meant.

Spring Clean for the May Queen was first published in Toadstool magazine. Reproduced with permission.

They want to meet me in Zurich and they are prepared to pay for the trip, all expenses. How could I say no?

I book a direct flight with Swiss Air, business class of course. I make sure to turn up early to get through security and make the most of the lounge. While I help myself to complimentary breakfast beers, I text my client on the number he’d sent me. We arrange to meet up in three hours in a pub in the old town.

I pass the short rail journey from the airport to the Hauptbahnhof central rail station familiarising myself with the city. It looks lovely. Pricey but I have a little set aside even since my crypto tanked. I haven’t had a place to call home since they blew up my apartment in Prague.

I find the meeting place and I take a seat at a table with a clear view of the entrance and wait. I’m halfway through my first beer (a bottle of La Vouivre with a green label bearing a picture of a wyvern, the brewery doesn’t give them names, apparently) when a very tall man in a long trench coat and a wide brimmed hat enters the pub. He must be seven feet tall and he has to lean forward precariously, bending stiffly at the waist, to pass the door lintel. He’s not very steady on his feet. He’s either drunk or not used to walking judging by the awkward gait. A long nose pokes out of a grey beard and wobbles in the shadow of his hat.

On a whim, I call my client and I hear a notification buzz coming from the tall man’s coat. He pats down his pockets with unusually short arms for such a lanky frame and pulls out his phone.

“Hello, Gnome speaking,” he says.

I hang up and wave to the stranger. He sees me, totters over to my table and sits down awkwardly.

I’m suspicious. “You’re not two dwarfs in a trench coat, are you?” I ask to be sure.

“We’re not dwarfs, we’re gnomes,” comes a voice from the belly of the coat. “And there are three of us,” comes a second voice. Two hands appear and open the coat and a second, long-nosed, bearded face peeks out. The stranger slaps himself in the stomach and the coat closes with an, “Ow!”

I’m not phased by three gnomes in a trench coat, I just like to know who I’m dealing with.

“So, what can I help you with?” I ask, after I’ve let them buy me a beer. I can’t believe that they’re fooling anybody in that get-up but the barman serves them without question. The Swiss are very discreet.

“We have a pest problem,” the top gnome says.

“A pantheon is muscling in on our business,” the muffled abdominal voice adds.

A pantheon is a mythical creature a bit like a deer but purple. I know of them but I’ve never heard of them causing any trouble before. They are usually quite benign.

“So what is it doing, exactly?” I ask.

“It’s taking the piss,” the top head says.

“Can you be more specific?”

“I think we’ve made it quite clear. It’s stealing the urine from our herds and keeping it for itself,” the voice from the stomach says.

“And why is that a problem?” I am really confused.

“Isn’t it obvious? We have a herd of deer that we feed on amanita muscaria fungus. We collect their urine and use it to make wine.”

“Of course you do.” I need another drink. I excuse myself and head to the bar and order another beer and a bourbon chaser. Then a second one after I down the first at the bar.

#

They explain that they have a vineyard in the hills overlooking the town to the west in the wooded heights of the Albis mountains. Over the centuries, they’ve perfected a subtly hallucinogenic cuvée which they sell on the local market. Apparently it’s quite a hit amongst the local bankers due to it’s scarcity and it’s high price.

“Do they know what they’re drinking?”

“It’s right there on the label.”

“We call it Hirschpisswein, deer piss wine.”

I must say that I’m intrigued. I agree to help them and we shake on it, twice, no three times, once with one of the hands on top and again from hands poking out of the middle of the coat.

As we leave, my triple-decker client goes to the bar and orders a bottle of Hirschpisswein. The price is exorbitant and they place a pile of pebbles on the counter which the barman seems happy to take as payment. A pair of hands reach out from the coat and the bottle disappears into the torso.

I follow them through the busy streets back towards the central station. I carry my hat. We’d look even more ridiculous if both of us were in hats and trench coats, like a pair of Western gun slingers. “Where are we going?” I ask.

“We are taking you to our offices.”

We take the Uetlibergbahn line to the top of the Uetliberg mountain.

As we sit in the train, I hear the popping of a cork and the lower part of my travelling companion hands me the bottle of Hirschpisswein. I sniff the bottle but it smells like normal wine, Räuschling, if I’m not mistaken and I take a swig. Drinking from the bottle in public draws looks of disapproval from the other passengers. More so than the coat-clad circus show sitting next to me did, I note.

As we leave the station, I feel a surge of energy as the psychoactive alkaloids in the wine start having an effect. My peripheral vision becomes blurred and I note the pleasant trails that follow the movements of everything around me. My stomach feels a bit queasy but not enough to make me want to vomit, yet.

As we reach the top of the stairs leading from the station to the summit, we’re met by another shambling trench coat tower in the shadow of a viewing platform. Three pairs of hands shake each other up and down the coats. Is no one else seeing this?

I take a minute to enjoy the panoramic view of the city and the lake, enhanced by vibrant colours and a dream-like quality brought on by the wine. Even the vertigo induced by the altitude feels serene.

I see my companions disappearing into the woods on the far side of the mountain and I follow them.

Inside the thick forest, I soon spot the tell-tale shimmering of a portal leading, Beyond the Veil, that mystical parallel dimension where the mythics dwell; when they’re not crossing over into our world and causing trouble. My job is to clean up such trouble.

“Where are you going?” one of the gnomes calls out.

“I thought we’d be going through the portal,” I say.

“Don’t be daft,” he replies, “it’s this way.” Three hands point to a small cabin in the woods.

Inside the cabin, the gnomes unbutton their trench coats and let them fall to the ground, revealing, to no surprise at all, two sets of three gnomes sitting on each others’ shoulders. They dismount with a lot of moaning and rubbing of their joints then they all make their way to the far side of the cabin. I follow.

One of them pulls at a lever hidden in the panelling of the back wall then a large, square section of the cabin’s floor whooshes downward. Now I do feel like throwing up.

#

We descend through a shaft carved into the rock of the mountain before slowing and coming to a stop.

The shaft opens into a large, high vaulted cavern lit by the light of hundreds of LEDs. They sparkle, trailing ethereal wakes in my drug-enhanced vision. One of the gnomes nudges me, ”Come on, we haven’t got all day!”

There is a large underground lake in the centre of the grotto and the ceiling is hung with multi-hued stalactites (or are they stalagmites?). I say, “Wow!”

There’s a boat waiting for us on the side of the lake and my companions climb on board. I take a seat at the back of the boat. A giant frog’s head pops up behind me and says, “Morning. Hold on tight!” and it proceeds to push the boat forward, sculling with its giant frog’s legs.

We’re heading towards a central island covered in conical dwellings. We bump gently against the shore and the gnomes clamber out one by one. One of them throws something to the frog which it catches in its mouth and swallows with a contented gulp. The gullet is large enough to swallow one of the gnomes whole.

I’m ushered into the central building which is carved out of a huge stalagmite (or is it a stalactite?).

Inside is a large, stone table around which are seated about twenty other gnomes. My companions each take a seat around the table so I sit too, without waiting to be invited.

Once the greetings and small talk subside, the gnome at the far end of the table bangs a gavel on the stone.

“Welcome to this extraordinary meeting of the council of the gnomes of Zurich, Zunftmeister Noddnam Stool presiding. That’s me.” he announces. The room falls silent.

“We are here to find a solution to the pantheon problem. Mr Jaeger, here is a specialist in such matters.”

“Call me Mal.” I wave to the assembly. “From what I gather, this pantheon has stolen your supply of deer urine.” I have to suppress a drug induced giggle at the ridiculousness of it all. “And you want me to get it back.”

Fairy servants fly around the table serving drinks in stone beakers. I smell the familiar aroma of the piss wine and politely decline. “Can I get a glass of water, please?”

Plates of wriggling grubs are placed on the table. The gnomes grab them in handfuls and stuff them in their mouths. I gag at the sight and the awful crunching sounds that follow. I will not eat the bugs!

“The pantheon has put our herds under a glamour and she has taken them away into the mountains. All our attempts at bribery and diplomacy have failed. We need a final solution.”

I’m shocked to hear it put in such terms but then again, they don’t sound quite as menacing coming from a three-foot tall, bulbous nosed gnome wearing an oversized, pointed, red slouch cap.

“There is the question of payment,” I say.

“Of course, Gorwert give our guest his payment. Half upfront; half on completion. I believe that’s the tradition.” One of the gnomes passes over a heavy pouch and I look inside. In contrast to the dream-like quality of everything else I see, the banality of this bag of stones shines through like a turd in a teacup.

“These are just stones,” I say.

“They are not just stones, they are changeling stones. They can appear as whatever the receiver desires. They are more valuable than gold.” I remember the gnomes paying for the wine with a pile of pebbles. Whatever effect the stones were supposed to have, it obviously didn’t work on me. “Call me old fashioned but I prefer to be paid in real gold.”

They pass me another pouch. This one is filled with gold coins. I take one out and bite it. I’ve know idea why but it seems appropriate. I take a quick peek inside the pouch, trying to catch the contents changing, just in case they are still trying to trick me. It remains gold.

“Is there anything else you require before beginning your quest?”

“I could do with a weapon or three.”

“Of course, Snudbugast will show you to the armoury.”

“I call this meeting closed,” he says, banging his gavel once. The gnomes get to their feet and disperse. One of them comes over to me. He might be one of the ones that I met in town but I can’t be sure. They all look the same to me. “Please, follow me,” he says.

We return to the mainland via a frog-propelled boat. Snudbugast takes a set of heavy keys out of his pocket and unlocks a metal door in the side of the cave which opens into a large cavern. When he switches the lights on, I’m amazed by the sight. I don’t know what I was expecting to find in a gnome arsenal, short bows perhaps, daggers, maybe a hatchet or two but not this. The walls of the cavern are lined with modern ordinance. Rows of assault rifles, heavy machine guns, pistols, even rocket launchers. I’m impressed.

“We like to be prepared,” Snudbugast says. “Help yourself.”

Amongst the modern designs are a few museum pieces from the second world war but they all look to be in tip-top condition. I pick up a Schmeisser MP 40 submachine gun. It is a beauty but a bit outdated.

I finally decide on a Sturmgewehr 90 assault rifle, it seems appropriate as well as environmentally conscious to use a locally made product. I find a bayonet and an underslung grenade launcher that fit nicely.

I add the obligatory sniper rifle (a Sako TRG-42 in this case) and a pair of SIG Sauer P220 semi-automatic pistols.

I notice that there is a row of short bows and swords at the back of the room.

“Are you going to be able to carry all of that?” Snudbugast asks. “It’s quite a hike to the mountains.”

He’s right, I’m acting like a kid in a toffee shop.

I have to choose between the Sturmgewehr and the Sako. It’s like asking a mother which child she wants to give up. I decide on the versatility of the Sturmgewehr.

Looking around, there is no webbing in my size but I manage to patch together a couple of shoulder slung MOLLE packs for the ammo from the gnome-sized equipment which fastens quite comfortably across my chest with a belt.

Another gnome appears in the doorway dragging a heavy backpack behind him. “Supplies for the journey,” he says, kicking the bag.

“Have you got a horse and cart or something I could borrow?”

“We’ve got Land Rovers if you think that will help.”

“In that case I’ll take the Sako too,” I grin with delight.

“Let’s go and take this piss back!”

#

We take the elevator back to the surface, me Snudbugast and two other gnomes who introduced themselves as Paiddac and Maddoc. They could be twins but then again, they all look the same to me.

They play a few quick games of rock-paper-scissors then assemble into their acrobatic formation sitting on each others’ shoulders. Paiddac lost so he is on the bottom. I strap the ammo pouches around him. Maddoc, in the middle, holds out his arms so I can hang a gun over each shoulder then Snudbugast, on top, covers them all in a long trench coat and puts on his hat.

We walk back to the top of the mountain to where a few cars are parked outside of a hotel. Snudbugast clicks on a key fob and a Range Rover’s lights flash as the doors click open.

“I’ll drive if you don’t mind,” I say, snatching the keys from Snudbugast’s hand. The effects of the wine have worn off and the thought of that trifecta of trouble driving leaves me cold. One of them on the peddles, a second on the steering wheel while the third shouts out directions. No thank you, not with me on board.

They don’t argue and they tumble into the back seat separately, leaving the coat on the floor covering my guns and ammo. The windows are tinted so thankfully nobody notices.

It’s a pleasant drive via Lucerne in the direction of the mountains that form the frontier with Italy. In about two hours, we are halfway through the Grimsel Pass and have headed off-road and away from civilisation. The gnomes have their herd tagged with GPS trackers so we know where we’re heading.

Eventually, the snow is too much so I stop the car. “Thanks for the lift,” I say as I get my stuff and prepare for a hike up the mountain side.

“We’re coming with you,” Snudbugast says.

“It’s nice of you to offer but have you ever been on a hunt before? It could be dangerous.”

“Danger is my middle name,” he says. I doubt it. “I once fought off a cat with just a catapult made from my braces. The other two gnomes look impressed. I don’t.

“I won a goldfish at the fair, once,” Paiddac says. “Does that count?”

“We’re heading into a hostile environment to face a potentially deadly opponent. I won’t blame you for sitting this out. Maddoc seem to reconsider but Snudbugast says, “Bring it on!”

The car’s boot is full of equipment, snow shoes, ski poles, winter clothing including a very long anorak. I’m thinking it’s less of a bad idea to have them tagging along. I suppose that we could be mistaken for a father taking his kids out for a walk in the snow but we’re not going to be seeing many people out here.

Snudbugast walks ahead looking at his phone. “There here,” he announces as he approaches the eaves of a forest. “Twelve meters.”

“Nine meters.    Eight.”

“Can’t be. That’s just inside the forest.”

“It’s readin’ right.    Look!”

“Six meters.    Five.    What the fu--”

He looks at me as it dawns on us at the same time. He angles his phone upwards and I shine a torch into the branches.

A squirrel wearing on oversized GPS tracking collar sees us and scurries off, the blip follows it. “I’ve found another one Snudbugast says,” pointing into the forest. I have a bad feeling but we have no other leads.

As I suspected, the next blip leads us to a hare which runs off at our approach.

“So much for modern technology,” I say. “Time to go old school.”

I drop to my knees and look for tracks. A herd of deer are going to leave traces.

I find a well used trail. There are too many tracks on top of each other to discern anything specific but I follow it into the forest. It leads to a large clearing and I can hear a stream running nearby, it should cover our steps from anyone listening.

A large red deer stag stands in the clearing, sniffing the air. Luckily, the wind is blowing towards us so hopefully he won’t pick up our scent. It goes back to grazing. “Pass me the Sako. I’ve got a perfect shot,” I whisper.

“We’re not here to kill them. We’re here to rescue them!” Snudbugast says. The buck hears him and runs off deeper into the forest.

“Good point,” I agree. “I get carried away sometimes.”

The stag is easy to follow, its hooves leaves deep tracks in the fresh snow. We catch up to it about twenty minutes later, this time surrounded by it’s harem of about twenty hinds.

“That looks like most of them, what’s your plan?” Snudbugast asks.

“To be honest, I don’t have one yet.”

My attention is drawn to the pantheon that is the cause of this trouble. It stands out from the herd with is purple coat mottled with yellow, star shaped patches. The fact that it’s walking upright on it’s hind legs also helps it catch the eye.

I privilege the direct approach, unslinging the Sturmgewehr and advancing. I keep it pointed at the ground and maintain trigger discipline - the menace should be clear but there is no immediate danger.

The herd scatters and surrounds the pantheon. I can’t tell if they are protecting it or looking to it for protection.

“Malik? Malik Jaegar?” the pantheon says as it walks out of the protective circle of the deer. “Don’t you recognise me?”

The voice sounds familiar but I can’t place it. I’ve certainly never met a pantheon before.

“It’s Kitsune - we met Beyond the Veil, at the seelie court.”

I remember Kitsune clearly, we even fought a friendly duel, but she was an anthropomorphic fox at the time.

“Kitsune? Weren’t you an anthropomorphic fox?”

“I still am but I’ve been cursed to look like this. I need this herd to break the curse.”

It all sounds a bit contrived but you get used to non sequiturs in my line of business.

The gnomes come over and start petting the deer, it’s a happy reunion. I sit with Kitsune and let her explain.

She was over in our world working on some acquisitions for the lord and lady in one of the local banks. She ran into a witch who has an ongoing feud with the seelie. One thing had lead to another and the witch cursed her and transformed her into a pantheon.

“To break the curse, she said that I have to deliver this herd to her. They poop gold or something.”

“Poop gold? That’s just ridiculous! Actually, they piss wine,” I correct her. “Anyway, where is this witch? You have fulfilled your part of the bargain.”

“I don’t know. I was supposed to meet her here yesterday. She didn’t show.” Kitsune shrugs.

A raven watching us from the upper branches flies down.

“My mistress apologises for the delay,” he says. “She has been incarcerated by the police for public indecency.”

I don’t want to ask. Unfortunately, I don’t have to.

“She lifted her skirts and touched herself to curse a rather rude person. The police saw her doing it and they arrested her. They have judged her insane by mortal standards and they are are moving her to a secure hospital soon. She offers to remove the curse if you will contrive to free her.”

It’s not getting any better is it? Are we really going to have to rescue a witch from prison to get her to end a curse so we can get the pissing deer back? So it seems.

“You’re not going to be able to come,” I tell Kitsune. “You’ll stick out in town like a normie at a furry convention. Can you take the herd back to where you found them while we go and take care of the witch?”

“I suppose I can,” she says. “I can communicate with them on a basic level. They seem to think that I am their queen or something so they will do what I ask.”

“OK, lets get back to the car and back to Zurich,” I say. The gnomes agree.

#

It takes a while to find the car. It is almost covered in fresh snow. Thankfully, the gnomes have shovels in the boot so we dig it out and we’re back on the road after a short delay.

The raven is perched on the head rest of the passenger seat while the gnomes are back in the back seat. “Sorrow,” the raven croaks as it streaks the back of the passenger seat with fresh guano.

“That’s leather!” Snudbugast complains. “It’ll take ages to get clean.”

We pass the rest of the journey in an uncomfortable silence.

“So, how do we play this?” I ask as we enter the outskirts of the city.

“I was thinking that we just walk in, claim we are her relatives, or her lawyer and ask to see her.”

“Seems a bit too straightforward.” To be honest, I was thinking more in terms of zip lines, smoke bombs and moonlight raids but Snudbugast’s plan does have the benefit of simplicity. We should maybe try that first.

The raven guides us to the police station. It’s one of a group of official looking baroque buildings situated on the West bank of the Limmat river, Amtshaus I according to the bronze plaque outside.

“What’s she called? I ask the raven as it flies off to perch on the roof.”

“Agnatha Malaise,” it squawks.

I check the gnomes’ disguise then press the intercom. The doors open into a magnificent sight. The whole lobby is roofed by a series of vaulted cupolas all painted in bright reds and rich ochres in stylised flowers. Similarly brightly painted murals of people adorn the walls. I was not expecting this in a police station. Unfortunately, we don’t have time to admire the scenery. We are on a mission.

The desk sergeant asks for ID. This was unexpected. I search through my wallet for something suitable. I’ve got a Swiss resident’s card in a false name. I show him that. The gnomes hand him three IDs - I intercept them and choose one at random and pass it to him. It seems like it checks out.

“We’re here to see one of your inmates. She’s my mother,” I say. “And I’m her lawyer,” Snudbugast adds.

“She claimed she didn’t have any relatives or a lawyer, and she didn’t want one,” the policeman says.

“You must have noticed that she’s not quite right,” I say, tapping my head. “You know?”

“Our doctor agrees. She’s to be transferred to Burghölzli.”

“She just needs her pills,” I insist. “Can we at least give them to her?”

“The duty doctor has already prescribed what she needs. If you take a seat I will try and arrange a visit but I cannot promise anything. She is in solitary confinement and highly sedated.”

The duty officer beckons us over after a few minutes. “I’m afraid that the transfer to the hospital has already been arranged. They are taking her now.”

As he finishes speaking, two men in uniform walk across the foyer holding a bedraggled woman between them. She is not handcuffed but she is half asleep and stumbles forward with her head lolling ground-ward.

“Agnatha! Mother!” I say. I notice that under the grime, she looks about my age so I’m not sure I can pull that one off. I try to get them to stop but the duty officer puts his hand on my shoulder. “Sir, if you do not behave I will be forced to arrest you.” I bite my lip and watch them go.

“Screw this!” Snudbugast says. “I’m calling the boys in…” and he storms out of the building.

I join Snudbugast outside where he is talking furiously into his phone in gnome (or it could be Swiss-German). I can hear the two lower gnomes talking too. What are they up to?

The men have arrived at a van parked on the riverside and they are    helping the witch into the back. The gnomes run past them, down to the river. As the van pulls off, three swans ridden by gnomes come flapping out of the river and give chase. The raven follows on behind.

I go back to the car and pick up their trail by following the flock flying above the road. The van is driving south down the busy lakeside road.

There’s a problem up ahead. Even the normally reserved Swiss drivers are beeping their horns. The traffic has come to a complete stop so I pull over and continue on foot. The swans have landed in the lake nearby and the gnomes come running to catch me up.

The source of the traffic hold up is pretty obvious. A gorilla is riding a rhinoceros down the road followed by a couple of Bactrian camels and a gaggle of penguins. I spot the raven sitting on top of the van. The policemen have abandoned it and are frantically talking on their radios. A helicopter buzzes overhead.

As we help Agnatha out of the van and onto the back of a camel, I say to Snudbugast, “I guess this is your doing.”

“The boys went to the zoo and liberated some of the inmates to provide a little distraction.”

“A little distraction? I don’t know how you’re going to get away with this,” I say with a shrug.

“Don’t worry,” he winks. “This is gnome mans’ land!”

The Swiss Incident was first published in Toadstool magazine. Reproduced with permission.

The next chapter of The Chronicles of Heraldria is almost here.

Times of War – Part II (Book IV) arrives 1st October. The eBook is available to pre-order now on Amazon.

I’ve spent the past months deep in battlefields, bastions, and the clash of faith and steel. This book marks the culmination of one arc and the beginning of another. If you’ve followed the journey since Sacred Times, you’ll know just how far Marius and his companions have come. If you’re new, this is the perfect moment to step in before Times of Revelation begins.

The paperback will be available from 1st October

Thank you, as always, for reading and walking this long road with me. Heraldria endures because of you.

-MSJ-

👉 Pre-order the eBook on Amazon today

The Time of Revelation Approaches
The Chronicles of Heraldria continue
Book V · Times of Revelation · Part I
Coming Winter 2025

The Based Book Sale is now on

Sacred Times Part I free and Sacred Times Part II just 99¢/99p for one week only

Book IV, Times of War Part II coming soon

And who can blame them?

The shadows of unfinished epics loom large. George R. R. Martin still hasn’t delivered The Winds of Winter. Patrick Rothfuss fans have been waiting over a decade for The Doors of Stone. These aren’t just gaps on a bookshelf — they’re cultural scars. Readers feel burned, and many now refuse to set foot in another sprawling saga until they know it actually finishes.

It’s not just epic fantasy books, either. Netflix and streaming culture have taught us to binge. Why watch one episode and wait a week, when you can wait a few months and gorge on the whole season in a weekend? The same logic applies to books. If the story isn’t done, why not wait until it is — then devour the lot at once?

For writers like me, this creates a paradox. I’ve spent many years building The Chronicles of Heraldria, a planned eight-book cycle — originally a tetralogy before publishers convinced me to split the volumes. That decision may have made sense for word count and production, but it also made the series seem twice as incomplete.

From my side of the desk, the reality is this: the books are coming out. The series is plotted all the way to its conclusion. The final paragraph of the final book is already drafted. This isn’t going to sprawl out of control like some other epics I could mention (yes, I’m looking at you, George).

This year alone I’ll have released four books (including a reissue of Sacred Times Part I and freeing the long-awaited Sacred Times Part II from publication limbo). The story is moving forward, the end is in sight, and the structure is firm. Times of War Part II marks the halfway point of the saga.

[Gratuitous shilling]

But the mountain is high, and when you’re in the middle of a climb, people don’t see the progress — only the distance left to go. To the cautious reader, it may look like a gamble. To me, it’s the steady work of telling a story whose ending I already know.

There’s another irony: epic fantasy thrives on length. It needs the room to breathe, to let characters evolve, to set up the payoffs that come hundreds of pages later. A one-volume sprint can be fun, but it doesn’t scratch the same itch. Readers want a long story. They just don’t want to stranded halfway through.

But let’s be honest — words don’t grow on trees. Writing takes time. Every chapter is thousands of words, every book a forest of them. You don’t just knock out half a million words in your lunch break. I’ve planted the seeds, but it takes years of work — drafts, rewrites, pruning — the whole painful, glorious process. It also needs the rain of book sales (and the fertiliser of social media interaction, these days) for the fruits to blossom.

So, why start reading now? Because there are rewards to investing early. You get to be part of the first wave: seeing the world as it grows, arguing theories, sharing the ride in real time. Reach out to me on social media with your theories, your ideas, and I’ll give you a cryptic, non-committal reply. I might even nick your idea and weave it into the story, or immortalise you as a character and kill you off in some gruesome manner, you never know

You don’t have to wait for the “boxed-set” crowd to swoop in later. And for me, those early readers are the ones who keep the fire burning.

I understand the reluctance. I even share it as a reader myself. But as a writer, I can promise this: The Chronicles of Heraldria will be finished. The road is long, but the doubts have been overcome and the destination is mapped. We’re halfway there, and the march continues…

There’s always a risk in starting a story before the last page is published (although, in this case, I’ve already written it). But isn’t that the point of every quest worth undertaking?”

So let me throw it back to you: do you wait until a series is finished before starting, or do you like being in at the ground floor? Which unfinished sagas still haunt your shelves, and how do you feel about binge-reading versus reading a saga as it comes out? Drop your thoughts in the comments — I’ll be lurking there with my cryptic, non-committal replies, as always.

And if you’ve been putting off your adventure into Heraldria, the timing couldn’t be better. The Based Book Sale kicks off Wednesday, September 3, 2025, at midnight PDT — with Sacred Times Part I free and Sacred Times Part II just 99¢/99p for one week

Every long road begins with a single step. This one goes ever on.

March 14 2021

Chris: Looks like lockdown is finally over. See you guys soon IRL

Matt: Later, bawbags

Dave: That’s not very nice.

Hugh: Git

#

January 26 2023

Matt: Anybody want to buy a few K’s? I’m in a bit of trouble.

#

January 27 2023

Hugh: ffs, go dark if you’re serious.

Matt: Group chat? Like the lockdown days

Dave: OK

Andrew: I though you lot were dead

Rich: I thought I was. What’s the rdv?

Matt: Half an hour? The old place?

Rich: Roger!

#

“The Bastards”. Private Voice Chat, The Dark Web

“Testing, testing, one, two, three. Can you hear me at the back?” Hugh’s voice crackled into the silent voice chat.

“Give it a rest Hugh, it’s a chat not Carnegie Hall,” Andrew said, laughing.

“I’ve got a new mic set up, want to make sure it works. Look at Dave, he’s muted.

“Dave! Dave, you fucking boomer. You’re muted!”

“…calling Danny Boy,” Dave replied, unmuting himself mid-sentence.

“Looks like we’re all here. What the fuck, Matt?” Hugh demanded.

“Sorry about posting out of the blue, but I’m in a bit of trouble. I need cash, real quick. I was hoping one of you guys could stand me. I’ll pay it back, promise.” His voice sounded strained.

“I told you not to move to Ecuador. You pissed off the cartels already?” Rich asked.

There was a short silence before Matt answered. “It’s Venezuela, and yes, I have.”

“Jesus Christ, I was joking.” Rich said, anxiously. “What happened?”

“Do you remember Mariana?”

“Yoko Gómez, the girl who broke up the band? How could we forget?” Hugh said.

“Save the, ‘I told you so’s’ for later. You were right. She’s fucked off with my crypto keys and five kilos of cocaine I was selling on for some rather angry fellows. Needless to say, I’m screwed,” Matt confessed.

“If you want money, you just have to ask,” Rich offered. “How much?”

“They want a million, they’re charging me street prices.”

“Oof! That’s steep. I’ll send you some bitcoins.”

“They want cash.”

“I’ll wire it. Send me your bank details.”

“I don’t have a bank account,” Matt admitted. “I’m pretty much off-grid.”

“Jesus Christ Matt. Western Union won’t touch that amount and I can’t trust a courier. I’ll have to fly it over myself.”

“I don’t have much time. They’re threatening to cut my ears off, and that’s just the start,” Matt’s voice trembled.

“If we can get a plane, I can fly Rich over and get you out of there,” Dave offered.

“Cheers, but it’ll cost you as much to bring it here.”

“I’ll take the hit,” Rich said. “I’ll write it off against expenses. I’m sure I can find some business I need to take care of in Venezuela.”

“You could airlift him out and save the money,” Hugh suggested.

“They’ve got connections everywhere. I don’t think I can out run them.”

“Even Scotland?” Andrew asked.

“Scotland too,” Matt replied.

“Fuck.”

“We’ll get you out of this. Send us the deets of where to pick you up,” Hugh promised.

“You guys are real friends. I can’t believe I’ve fucked everything up again.”

“Don’t stress. Where are you?” Hugh asked.

“I’ve got a beach bar just West of Cumaná, called El Niño’s. I’m living here, at least until the cartel claims it as part of my debt.”

“I don’t know about you lot but I’m excited,’ Hugh said, trying to inject some optimism. “We haven’t done anything like this for, what? Five, six years?”

“Has it been that long?” Rich asked. “It feels like I’ve been in prison.”

“Lockdown does that,” Dave said. “It changed a lot of things.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Hugh said. “It feels like I’ve been in a rut for a lot longer than that, writing pointless code for pointless projects for pointless clients, just for money, and for what?”

“You’ve had plenty of holidays if your insta is anything to go by. All that rock climbing and whatever,” Rich said.

“It fills a void but even that gets boring,” Hugh replied.

“BASE jumping is boring? What kind of adrenaline junkie are you?”

“A burned out one?” Hugh admitted.

“So what’s the plan?” Dave asked, bringing the conversation back to the matter at hand.

“Meet at Gatwick Saturday morning. I’ll supply the transport,” Rich replied.

“I’ll have to phone in sick, but I’ll be there,” Dave promised.

“I’ll come along for shits and giggles,” Hugh added.

“No way I can get the time off, we’re short staffed but if you need any help from ATC, I’ll be on the line,” Andrew offered.

Suddenly, gun shots rang out through the chat.

“Matt? What’s happening!” Rich demanded.

The space was filled with shouting and sounds of a scuffle before Matt’s line went silent.

“Matt, say something. You’d better not be shitting us. Matt?” Hugh pleaded.

After a short pause, Rich announced, “Take off is moved up to tomorrow. Everybody still onboard?”

“Roger!”

“I’ve just got a text from Matt,” Rich said.

“What does it say? Is he OK?” Dave asked.

“It’s just a random string of numbers, I’ll share it. I’m off to pack. See you all in the morning. Six am. Sharp,” Rich announced.

#

Dave walked across the hanger to where Rich was waiting at the bottom of the stairway leading to a brand new Gulfstream jet.

“A G700? Nice,” Dave exclaimed, clearly impressed.

“First off the production line. Think you can handle her?”

“Just show me to the cockpit, I’ll take it from there.” Dave grinned, pleased at the prospect.

“And don’t you dare put a scratch on her. I’ll be leasing her out when we get back,” Rich warned, half-jokingly.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.”

“Like you were with that Cessna?”

“It was my first solo, and how was I to know the carburettor would freeze up?”

“It was my first crash landing, I’ll never forget it. You scared the shit out of me.”

“It was a forced landing, and you walked away without a scratch, didn’t you? That’s a good landing in anybody’s book,” Dave said.

“I suppose so, but I wouldn’t fly for months after.”

A few minutes later, Hugh came running to join them, burdened by an oversized rucksack.

“Sorry I’m late. Security was a nightmare,” he said, dropping the sack. “They gave me all kinds of shit to get my gun through. I’ve got a licence and followed the rules.”

“What do you need a gun for?” Rich asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Drugs. Cartels. Why do you think?”

“What else have you got there?” Rich asked him, pointing at the rucksack. You pack like a woman going on a weekend city break.”

“It’s my climbing gear. I was thinking of a trip to Gran Sabana since I’m getting a free ride over there. I haven’t had a proper climb since before lock down.”

“Is that a parachute?”

“There’s some great BASE jumping out there,”

“Aren’t you getting a bit old for extreme sports, Hugh?”

“You’re only as old as the dreams you hold,” Hugh retorted.

“Sounds like some ‘Live, Laugh, Love’” shit that Matt would say. Stick it in the hold, I’ll see you inside,” Rich chuckled, heading up the stairs.

#

Hugh waved to Dave who was going through his pre-flight checklist. Rich waved to him from the cabin, ushering him in.

“This is fancy. I thought we might take a P-51, or something a bit more vintage,” Hugh remarked.

“They’re a bit small. I’ve just got a Junkers ‘88 we could all fit in but it hasn’t got the range for a transatlantic flight without a few modifications, then you’d be climbing over fuel tanks trying to find a seat,” Rich said.

“I was just joking. I’ve never been in a Gulfstream either. I think I prefer it.”

“Come to Scotland and I’ll take you for a flight when we get back. I could even arrange for a parachute jump from the Junkers,” Rich suggested.

“Deal.” Hugh shook Rich's hand.

The sound of engines starting up interrupted their conversation.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking…” Dave’s voice came over the intercom.

“Ladies? Have you got a couple of hosties stashed somewhere?” Hugh joked.

“Unfortunately not. This is a boys’ only adventure,” Rich replied with a shrug.

“So who’s going to serve the drinks?”

“You’ll just have to help yourself.”

“No problem, I’ll forage. I’m nothing if not adaptable.” Hugh walked over to a wine fridge and contemplated the contents. “Côte Rotie or Condrieu, that’s one hell of a choice,” he mused.

“Have both if you want, it’s a long flight. Just don’t spill any,” Rich said.

“I’ll start with white, isn’t that what the French do?” Hugh uncorked a bottle of Condrieu and filled two glasses, passing one to Rich, sitting in one of the plush, leather armchairs that lined the cabin. “Sorry, Dave,” he called to the cockpit. “Nothing for you, you’re the designated driver.”

Hugh brought the bottle over to the table and sprawled in the seat opposite Hugh, dangling one leg over the armrest.

“Careful of the leather!”

“Soreee. Are you going to be a houseproud housewife all the way or are you going to relax. He refilled their glasses. “You can pay for a cleaner with all your crypto gains, can’t you?”

“That’s not the point. It’s about respect.”

“Now that sounds like some ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ shit that Matt would say.”

They sat for a while in quiet contemplation, sipping their wine.

“How’s the writing going? Did you ever finish that novel you were working on?” Rich inquired.

“I need to do a bit more research on Septimus Severus, but I should be handing off the final version to my editor soon.”

“Soon. You said that last year…” Rich teased. Hugh shoved him playfully.

“Don’t spill your wine on the seats,” Hugh quipped.

#

The seat belt light went off. Hugh finished his glass, stood and stretched. He saw Rich was asleep. He made a cup of coffee which he carried forward and knocked at the open cockpit door.

“Coffee, captain?” Hugh proposed.

“Perfect,” Dave said, accepting the proffered cup. “So what have you two been talking about?”

“Just catching up. It’s been a while,” Hugh replied, taking a seat on the copilot's chair.

“I know, lockdown messed everything up. It’s hard to get back into the swing of things.”

“Tell me about it, this is my first trip in years. Couldn’t go anywhere because I wouldn’t get jabbed.”

“I had to, to keep my job,” Dave sighed

“It was Orwellian. Anyway, that’s, how’s Sheila and kids?” Hugh asked.

“They’re fine. Sheila’s busy and the kids are doing well at school.” Dave didn’t elaborate any further. “What about you? You and Eve still together?” he asked.

“Nah, not for a while now.”

“What happened?”

“We just kind of drifted apart. We wanted different things.”

“It happens.”

“It does.”

They fell into a morose silence.

“Can I have a go?” Hugh asked, perking up.

“Nothing to do but watch the sky,” Dave replied with a shrug.

“OK, I’ll go and see how our benefactor is doing, later, captain.” Hugh said, throwing an exaggerated salute.

Hugh found Rich looking intently at tablet which showed their course on the screen.

“What’s that?” he asked, peering over Rich’s shoulder.

It’s new, does the same as an onboard flight computer but it’s portable. I can plot courses, landing trajectories, whatever.”

“Sounds fancy. Time for the Côtes Roti, I think.”

#

The afternoon sun bore down upon Cumaná airport as Dave landed the Gulfstream. Rich had planned ahead and by the time they had taxied to the terminal and disembarked, a bright yellow Lamborghini Urus awaited them on the tarmac.

Hugh shook his head as he squeezed into the back seat. "You and your flashy tastes. Next time, get a Roller. At least then I'll have some legroom. And that colour is atrocious," he said.

“Rent it yourself next time if you’re so picky,” Rich replied. “I had to pass up an Aventador so I could fit you in.”

Their journey to the coast past swiftly, the Lamborghini cutting through the winding roads like a bullet. As they pulled up at Matt's bar, a sense of unease settled over them.

Unlike the bustling neighbouring bars, El Niño's terrace was deserted. The sight of the door hanging off its hinges and a shattered window only added to their concern.

Hugh's brow furrowed. “This doesn’t look right,” he muttered, instinctively reaching for the pistol tucked into his waistband.

Entering cautiously, they were met with a scene of chaos— tables overturned, chairs broken, glasses and bottles were smashed and papers lay strewn across the floor like confetti. Rich scanned the wreckage. "This doesn’t look like a robbery," he said. "There are plenty of valuables still here. And where's Matt?"

"We need to find him," Rich said.

Dave nodded. "But where do we start?”

Hugh spotted a photo of the four of them behind the bar. “This was definitively his place. Remember this trip?” he asked the others.

“Yeah, that was one hell of a ride. Thought I’d given myself cirrhosis, turns out it was a ruptured spleen,” Rich joked, though it did little to dispel the sense of worry.

Hugh picked up the photo for a closer look and saw a telephone hidden behind it. “Look, he’s left his phone,” he said.

“How do you know it’s his?”

“It’s got a sticker with his name and number on it. He could never remember his own phone number.”

“Yeah, and he was always losing his keys and his wallet. He had those AirTag things on everything so he could find them,” Dave said, smiling at the recollection.

“We can see if he’s carrying something we can locate,” Hugh suggested.

Rich nodded in agreement. "Good idea. But we'll need his passcode to access the app."

“The last message he sent was a string of numbers. That could be it. Maybe he knew what was happening so he hid his phone for us to find and sent the code.”

“Sound a bit too James Bond for Matt but it’s worth a try.” He handed the phone to Rich.

#

“Bingo!” Rich exclaimed triumphantly.

“So, where is he?” Dave asked anxiously.

“Well, his keys and his wallet are together so lets hope he’s still hanging on to them. However, they’re not close. It’s about a five hour drive southeast of here. The closest town is somewhere called Temblador,” Rich replied, studying the map on Matt's phone.

“Five hours in that cage?” Hugh exclaimed in exasperation. “Can’t we take the plane?”

Rich shook his head. “There aren’t any airports nearby and there’s no way Dave can land the Gulfstream in a field. It’s not a Cessna. Besides, it won’t take five hours in a Lambo.”

“He can’t land those in a field either, I seem to remember,” Hugh muttered.

“We’d better get some supplies for the journey. There’s no telling what we might find out there. I didn’t even see a McDonalds on the map,” Dave said.

They pulled up outside of a small, roadside mercato. Rich stayed in the car, which drew a crowd of admirers, while the others grabbed essentials.

The pair soon came back carrying bags of shopping.

“Look, I got one with a worm in it,” Hugh said, waving a bottle of Mescal in front of Rich. “And nachos for the road trip!”

“Did you get any actual food?” Rich asked.

“I’ve got salad, some arepas and some cachitos, whatever they are, but they’re cold,” Dave replied.

“I suppose that’ll have to do. Get in.”

As they drove off, followed by a gaggle of waving kids, Hugh took a swig from the bottle of Mescal and passed it to Dave.

He declined. “No thanks, Sheila doesn’t like me drinking.”

“What’s she going to know? She’s five thousand miles away,” Hugh retorted.

“Four and a half, but it’s not about her, it’s about me.”

“Why haven’t you called her? Let her know we’ve arrived safely.”

“She’s busy and the time difference would mean waking her up in the middle of the night.”

“Don’t you want to speak to the kids?” Hugh pressed.

“I said they’re busy!” Dave snapped.

“OK dude. Let’s chill with some music.” Hugh connected his phone and played some Iron Maiden.

“I’m not listening to that for five hours, put something good on or switch it off,” Dave grumbled.

“OK, grumpy. I forgot that you only like obscure b-sides and bootleg seventies albums . How’s this?”

The tones of Dirty Honey’s “Rolling Sevens” oozed out of the speakers.

“Hmm, that sounds acceptable,” Dave said, nodding along to the beat while Hugh took another swig of Mescal.

Hours passed in a blur, the landscape transitioning from bustling towns to empty countryside, with only the occasional shack breaking the monotony. Finally, Rich pulled over atop a hill overlooking a sprawling hacienda nestled in the middle of nowhere, just as the sun was beginning to set.

“He’s here?” Hugh asked, peering at the villa below.

“According to the app,” Rich said, squinting at Matt’s phone.

“I thought you said there were no airfields,” Hugh said, pointing to an airstrip with an old fashioned aircraft parked at the end.

“Those aren’t public,” Dave explained. “A DC-3, nice bird,” he remarked.

“Or C-47,” Rich added. “Hard to tell if it’s been refitted from up here.”

“What do we do now?” Hugh asked.

“We need to get Matt out of there,” Rich replied.

“I know that, but how?”

“I’m thinking.”

#

Rich drove the Lamborghini down the winding driveway towards the hacienda alone. He honked the horn but two men were already marching to meet him with guns strapped over their shoulders.

“Hola!” Rich called out as they approached. “Can you help me? I think I’m lost.”

“This is private property,” one of the guards replied in broken English. “You go now!”

Rich pulled a hundred dollar bill from his wallet.

“Help a poor gringo, por favor. I’m looking for a property in the area. My agent said it was around here.”

A third man appeared in the doorway, watching intently. He didn’t appear to be armed.

“Not for sale. You go now, vamos!” the first guard insisted.

Rich handed him the bill and showed him his phone. “Casa Blanca, it’s supposed to be around here somewhere, can you help me find it?”

The third man approached, smiling. “There’s no Casa Blanca around here, señor. I’m sorry but you have the wrong address,” he said in impeccable English.

“Damn. Is there a hotel nearby? I’ll have to sort this mess out tomorrow.” Rich sighed.

“You need to go to Temblador for a hotel. About thirty miles, but I don’t think you will enjoy. They are not very, how you say, classy. We do not get many tourists around here.”

“That’s a shame. It seems like a lovely area. Very remote. Do you live here?”

“It is my boss’ holiday home. He is in town on business.”

“So you get the place to yourself, just you and your two colleagues? How wonderful.”

“Yes, just us for now.”

Rich noticed the guard eyeing the car with admiration.

“You like the car?” Rich asked, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“It is Lamborghini, yes? Very nice. Very, very nice,” the man replied, nodding in appreciation.

“Would you like a ride?” Rich offered.

While Rich distracted the guards, Hugh and Dave sneaked around the back of the house.

“The signal’s definitively coming from inside. Lets hope he’s with it. Here, take it,” Dave said, handing Hugh Matt’s phone. “Go find him while I fire up the bird. It might take me a while.”

Hugh heard the car revving up and driving away as he pushed open the unlocked door and crept inside.

The signal was coming from a room off the main corridor. The key was in the door. Hugh opened it quietly. “Matt?” he whispered.

“Hugh? Is that you? Thank God!” a familiar voice whispered back.

“Lets get you out of here.”

Hugh’s phoned buzzed in his pocket. It was a message from Dave:

>Expedited pre-flight inspection complete. Ready to go. Let me know when to start the engine run-up.

>And hurry up. I need three hands to start this properly

#

Rich came screaming back down the driveway. The guard was slumped unconscious in the passenger seat next to him. A red patch stained the dashboard. “You should’ve worn a seat belt,” Rich said. “The acceleration on these things is a beast. Didn’t I mention it?”

He screeched the car to a halt outside of the house.

>Now would be a good time, Hugh texted Dave.

“Quick, your boss is injured, he needs help!” he shouted as he dragged the unconscious man out of the car. Both men came running to answer his call.

Hugh and Matt appeared from the house behind them. Hugh had his pistol drawn and pushed it into the back of one of the guards and cocked it. He instinctively raised his hands. Hugh unslung his gun, Matt took the second’s.

“Get in,” Rich shouted. Hugh and Matt did so and Chris sped them off towards the plane.

“Go! Go! Go!” Rich shouted as he climbed on board over the wing.

“Wait a second while I get my bag,” Matt insisted.

“I’ve only just got one engine up! I haven't even pumped the second,” Dave shouted down the fuselage.

“Just get her up!” Rich shouted back.

“On your head be it.” The second engine spluttered to life and they sped off down the runway. They lifted off just in time as bullets whizzed past them from the guards who had rearmed themselves.

#

All four squeezed into the cockpit. Matt, Hugh and Rich exchanged excited hugs while Dave complained quietly to himself.

“Head to Cumaná, it can’t be that far. We can fly back on the Gulfstream tomorrow,” Rich suggested.

A message in Spanish crackled over the radio.

“What was that?”

“That was the plane’s owner putting out an APB on us. I don’t think Cumaná will be safe, or anywhere else for that matter. We’ve just hijacked a plane belonging to the Cartel of the Suns,” Rich announced.

“Next stop Blighty then. This is going to take some explaining to ATC. We’re going to need Andrew’s help. See if you can get in touch.”

Hugh came hurrying back from the hold. “Guys, I’ve just had a look in those cases in the back and I think we might have another problem,” he said, breathing heavily.

“What is it?” Matt asked.

“There’s what looks like several tonnes of cocaine back there.”

“We can chuck it once we get over the ocean, there’s a sliding cargo door. Just don’t go sampling it,” Dave said.

Matt stood for a moment in thought. “OK, guys, hear me out.”

“No!” Dave and Rich replied in unison.

“But guys, just think about it. This is a game changer. It could set us up for life.”

“Thanks, but I’m fine,” Rich said.

“I’m not talking about you, Daddy Warbucks, but this could change the rest of our lives for ever.”

“I make a good enough living,” Dave said.

“But you’re not living, are you? You told me yourself that you were bored of flying,” Matt said.

“I still love flying, it’s just the treadmill that gets me down, but I’ve got used to it. Besides, I need it. I’d go off the rails if I didn’t have some kind of routine,” Dave said.

“You could become a helicopter pilot, you’ve always wanted to do that. You can’t tell me that doesn’t sound better than endless early shifts and four sector days.”

Dave appeared to consider the suggestion for a moment.

“No, it’s just extra weight. It’s slowing us down and costing us fuel. We jettison it at the first opportunity.” Rich nodded his agreement but Hugh was not convinced.

“The flight plan is to the coast of Spain. They must have prepared enough fuel for that, with the cargo.”

“We could make it for sure but there’s no flight plan filed, and no squawk. We’re going to be challenged as soon as we leave international airspace, probably long before. If we turn up with this cargo we’re all going straight to jail.”

“If they spot us,” Hugh said.

“What do you mean?” Matt asked excitedly.

“We could fly under the radar?”

“That’s only about twenty five feet,” Dave said. “It’s too risky.”

“In a commercial airliner full of families and kids, it would be, but there’s just us and we’re above the ocean with nothing in the way. How risky could it be?”

“You’re seriously not buying into this madness too, are you, Hugh? Dave, don’t listen to him.” Rich said. “Look, if you need money that bad, I can help you.”

“I’m sure you would but I couldn’t take it. It wouldn’t be the same. You earned your money your way, let me make mine. Besides, I don’t need it, but I want it if I can get it.”

“As a drug smuggler? I’m sure the careers guidance officer never suggested that. Besides, how are you going to shift it?”

“I can help out there,” Matt interjected. “I told you the cartel had contacts in UK, well they don’t work for them directly. If they found another supplier, cheaper and more convenient, they’re not going to turn their noses up at it. Nobody needs to know where it came from. I’ll keep you guys out of it altogether.”

“No!” Dave insisted. “I’m not putting everything on the line for a couple of million.”

“It’s more than that, Dave,” Hugh said. “A lot more. I estimate there’s at least two tonnes. At wholesale prices, that’s around fifty million, two or three times that on the street. At least ten mil’ each, even if we give Matt a hefty fee for moving it on.”

“Dump it off the coast, just before we land, somewhere I can get to it in a boat,” Matt insisted. “That way the plane will be clean when you land, no problems.”

“The answer is, no!” Rich reiterated. “We’re not smuggling cocaine to England just so this hippy doesn’t have to get a job. I’ve already bailed him out for a million, a Lambo and a fucking jet. I’m not going to prison for him too!”

“This way, I can pay you back,” Matt pleaded.

“I don’t want your drug money,” Rich spat.

“Oh, and how did you make your fortune, mister holier than thou?”

“I got lucky.”

“Yeah, you got lucky buying thousands of bitcoin for two cents each so you could buy and sell drugs on Silk Road. Don’t think I’ve forgotten,” Matt scowled.

“That was a long time ago. I’ve invested most of it now. I’m a legitimate businessman.”

Matt laughed mockingly.

“Then give us the same chance,” Hugh chimed in. “We’ve never resented you for your success, you’ve always been just one of the gang even though you’re a feckless millionaire, but now you want to stop us getting rich because you’re alright Jack. That’s not fair.”

“For God’s sake, think about what you’re saying, Hugh. You’re talking about smuggling vast quantities of drugs, risking years of jail time, Dave would loose his licence. Some of us have families to worry about.”

“And some of us don’t anymore,” Dave stated flatly.

The squabbling stopped and everyone looked at Dave. He stared straight ahead through the windshield. “She’s left me, taken the kids and the house. Even got a court order to stop me seeing them. She says I was ‘mentally abusing’ her because I spent so much time at work. The courts were one hundred percent behind her.”

“Man, that’s rough. Some real longhouse shit. Why didn’t you say anything before?” Matt asked.

Before Dave could answer, lights started flashing red on the control panel.

“What the fuck now?” Rich said. “Can’t we get a break?”

“Ice building up on the wings,” Dave announced. “This old thing doesn’t have any deicers so I’m going to have to take her lower, below the clouds.”

“Under the radar?” Matt asked.

“Not that low.”

“But you could do?”

“I could, but I won’t.”

#

“Ten thousand feet,” Dave announced. “She’s wallowing less. We should be OK at this altitude.”

As the hours passed, the vast expanse of the sea stretched out below them, seeming almost in reach. Matt started humming, “Da da-da daah da, da da-da daaaah da. We’re the damn busters, yeah!” he exclaimed.

“What was the code word again? Named after his dog, wasn’t it?” Hugh asked.

“It’s a word we don’t say in polite company,” Dave replied.

“Oh yeah, N…”

The plane lurched violently, sending everyone scrambling to stay upright. All hell broke loose in the cockpit. Alarms blared, lights flashed as Dave gripped the yoke, fighting to keep it steady.

“We’re loosing number two,” he announced through gritted teeth. “Hang on, this is going to get rough.”

After a tense moment, the plane gradually stabilised but the right engine spewed clouds of black smoke.

“That doesn’t look good. What’s happening?” Hugh asked.

“Oil leak,” Dave replied. “We need to stop it. I’d put her down but we’re still miles away from anywhere. Anyway, we need to jettison the cargo before we land. Rich, can you find me the nearest landing strip?”

“Sure thing, captain.” Rich replied and turned to his tablet.

“Is there nothing else we can do? We’ve made it this far. It seems a shame to give up now,” Matt said.

“Can’t you just switch the engine off?” Hugh asked.

“I’m going to have to but it’s the intake line that’s on fire. It could keep burning even with the engine off. There’s nothing to do until we land, unless you want to walk out on to the wing at 160 knots and shut off the valve.”

“And how do I shut off the valve?” Hugh asked.

“You can’t be serious,” Dave said, shocked at the suggestion. “We’re going nearly two hundred knots above the Atlantic Ocean and you want to go for a wing walk. You’re mad! You’ll be blown off as soon as you open the door at this speed.”

“So how slow can we go without stalling?” Hugh asked.

“I’m not doing it.” Dave was adamant.

“I’m the one taking the risk, and we all get rich if it works,” Hugh insisted. “How slow can you go and how do I stop the leak?”

“Theoretically, just theoretically, there’s a panel on the wing behind the engine. If you can get it off it, there’s a valve underneath. Turn it anticlockwise to shut off the oil. I’ll have to stop the engine but at least we wont end up burning all of our oil. We can still make it home on one engine. Theoretically.”

“Dave, I want to do this. Switch off the engine and slow us down as much as you can.”

Dave shook his head. “It’s suicide.”

“It’s my choice.”

After a moment’s reflection, Dave inched the throttle backwards, slowing the engines to a low hum and flicked some switches which caused the right engine to splutter to a stop.

Hugh was already putting on his climbing harness over his cold weather gear, climbing gloves and goggles. “I knew this would come in handy,” he said, smiling before he zipped his anorak shut.

“Crampons? Aren’t they going to tear up the wing and make us crash anyway?” Matt asked, watching Hugh attach the spikes to his boots.

“Haven’t you seen any war films? These things can take salvos of flak and still make it home.”

“Those are movies!” Rich exclaimed.

Matt and Rich moved to the door while Hugh stood and looked for somewhere to attach his carabiners. He found a solid metal rail welded to the fuselage roof leading to the door. “It’s still got the rail for paratroopers’ static lines, just like in the movies,” he said, grinning with bravado. “You two should probably strap yourselves in too, it’s going to get blustery in here. There’s extra rope in my rucksack,” he told them.

Once Matt and Rich were securely attached, Hugh handed them each a rope connected to his harness. “Keep these tight, I don’t want any slack. But don’t pull on them either, just let it out as I advance. And if I fall, pull like hell. Got that?”

The pair nodded.

“OK, lets go, Geronimo!” and he slid the door open.

The wind hit like a hurricane.

#

The deafening roar of the wind pounded against his eardrums as he knelt down and eased himself flat against the wing. The wind whipped at his clothes, rattling them like a buzz saw, threatening to tear them away and send them streaming into the sky. He felt the full force of nature challenging his perilous balance.

Hugh's heart raced as he surveyed his precarious situation. The vast expanse of the sky stretched out endlessly, while the sea below raced past like a horizontal waterfall. Hugh couldn't shake the feeling of dread gnawing at the pit of his stomach. What had possessed him to undertake such a reckless endeavour? Somewhere in his mind, he realised the futility of his obsession with seeking out extreme situations. They had always been controlled, safe simulacra of true danger to drive out ennui for a while with dopamine and adrenaline. Now that he faced the real threat of death, he felt no thrill at all, just fear.

But there was no turning back. He was committed to this perilous path, and he had to see it through. His muscles strained against gravity and the wind as he inched his way forward, his fingertips searching for any purchase on the cold metal surface beneath him. Three points of contact, he reminded himself, as he felt his way along the wing, digging his spiked toecaps through the metal and pushing himself forward. Each movement was deliberate, calculated, as he battled the powerful forces threatening to hurl him into the abyss at any moment.

As he reached the panel housing the oil valve, Hugh was engulfed in a plume of acrid black smoke that blinded him and sent him into a paroxysm of coughing. His heart pounded and each cough felt like a hammer blow against his ribs as he blindly prised the panel off, revealing the vital component he needed to deactivate. The noise of the wind seemed to intensify, drowning out all other sound as he reached for the valve.

Gripping tightly, he twisted the valve shut, cutting off the flow of oil to the engine and thinning the smoke almost immediately. Relief flooded through him as he strained to give a triumphant thumbs up to his companions inside the aircraft. Now, he only had to make it back.

Summoning every ounce of determination, Hugh began the treacherous return journey. The wind howled, threatening to tear him from his precarious perch. But he pressed on, his focus unwavering. The two taught, guide ropes like Ariadne's thread, provided handholds and beckoned him back.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he reached the safety of the aircraft's fuselage. Matt and Rich dragged him over the threshold and slammed the door shut.

“I’m never doing that again,” Hugh gasped. Exhausted but victorious, he collapsed onto the floor, his body shaking involuntarily with the intensity of the experience. Matt and Rich rushed to his side, their laughter mingling with relief as they congratulated him.

#

“OK, that’s one problem taken care of. I’ve plotted a course to Málaga. We still need to ditch the cargo before we land,” Dave announced.

“What? After risking my life, we still don’t get to keep it? That’s way out of order, Dave!” Hugh protested.

“He’s the captain, Hugh. It’s his duty to make sure that we land safely. We’re down to one engine, remember?”

“We only need one bloody engine, remember?”

“We land in Málaga, I’ll hire us a plane, with a pilot, I think Dave’s had enough flying for a while. We’ll be back home this evening, everything back to normal. How does that sound?”

“To be frank, it sounds bloody awful.” Dave said.

“It does,” said Hugh.

“Couldn’t agree more. And he’s the captain,” Matt added.

The trio looked at Rich.

“Descending to twenty-five feet. Plot me a course to Bara and get Andrew on the line,” Dave announced.

#

“Broadsword calling Danny Boy, over.” Dave called over the radio.

“This is Danny Boy,” Andrew’s unmistakable Aberdeen accent replied. “Where have you guys been?”

“Get us down safely and we’ll fill you in.”

“No problem. It’s dead here, come on in.”

“Roger that.”

“Damn, were loosing number two,” Dave announced coldly.

“You can bring her in on one engine," Andrew reassured him.

“That’s the thing, one’s already gone.”

“Oh, shit. I’ll have emergency services on standby, over.”

“I’d rather we kept this to ourselves. They can’t help us anyway, over.”

“Where’s the runway?” Hugh asked. “Is it near the beach?”

“That is the runway.”

Clouds came down as they glided through the air, engines silent. Dave's hands moved with practised precision over the controls as he manoeuvred the rattling plane towards the narrow strip of sand. Sweat glistened on his brow, but his expression remained calm and determined. Rich sat strapped into the copilot’s seat ready to help.

Andrew's voice crackled over the radio, guiding Dave with steady reassurance. "You're doing great, Dave. Keep her steady. You've got this."

“Releasing landing gear.” Dave frantically flicked at a switch. “Right landing gear’s out. The fire must have fried it.”

“You don’t need it Dave, the ground looks soft enough. Retract the left one.”

Dave flicked another switch but there was no response.

“You’re going to have to wind it up manually,” he told Rich. “There’s a winch back there.”

“Roger.” Rich unbuckled himself and hurried away.

“You’re coming in too fast!” Andrew radioed. “Slow down or you’ll hit the rocks!”

Matt and Hugh worked frantically, tossing suitcases out of the side door to lighten the load. Matt sighed at the thuds of each discarded suitcase hitting the sand below, echoing his desperation.

As the plane hurtled towards the beach, the wind picked up, buffeting the aircraft and threatening to throw off its trajectory. Dave's hands tightened on the controls as he fought to maintain stability, as Rich frantically inched the landing gear back up, they were only a few feet above the ground. It would be disastrous if it hit the ground before the rest of the plane.

On the beach below, a group sitting around a campfire scattered at their approach.

“Keep her up for a few more seconds! I’m almost there!” Rich screamed.

“I can’t, we won’t have enough distance to slow down before we hit those rocks if I don’t contact now!”

Dave pushed the yoke forward. Metal groaned and buckled under the force of the impact, as the plane bounced along the beach, tearing trenches through the sand as it hurtled towards the rock face.

Hugh grabbed his parachute pack and clipped it to the rail. “Here goes nothing,” he said as he pulled the ripcord, sending the silk bundle flying out of the door where it ballooned into a mushroom canopy.

The plane skidded violently to the left as the lopsided drag of the parachute hit, turning them parallel to the rock face. The wing tip crumpled as it hit stone, absorbing the last of their momentum as it screeched and buckled under the strain.

“I knew that would come in handy,” Hugh said, collapsing to the floor next to Matt and Rich.

Dave staggered out of the cockpit and lay down next to them. The silence was only broken by the sound of their heavy breathing until Matt chuckled then all four of them burst out into hysterical laughter.

As they stumbled out of the wreckage, they were greeted by a group of bemused onlookers who were carrying the jettisoned suitcases.

“You dropped these,” a long haired, bearded man in colourful baggy clothes said. “That was cool, are you making a movie?”

Andrew came running over. “Thank God you guys are OK!”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Matt said.

“Any landing you can walk away from…” Dave reminded them.

“I need a drink,” Hugh exclaimed.

“We’ve got plenty of booze at the campsite,” the bearded man said, introducing himself into their conversation as if nothing was more natural. “Bill runs a still and Maggie makes mead. Hey, that sounds like a poem. Anyway, you’re welcome to join us.”

“That’s James,” Andrew explained. “They’re my neighbours. It’s an off-grid commune. They’re friendly enough.”

“Lead on McDuff,” Matt said.

“It’s, ‘Lay on…’” Dave corrected him.

#

“The Bastards” Private Social Media Group, The Internet.

March 7 2024

Rich: GM

Dave: It’s “good morning”.

Hugh: Only @Dave could care about proppa gramma in chat lol

Rich: lol

Hugh: You still coming 2 rome @Rich

Rich: at the airport. rdv later, piazza navona?

Hugh: It’s your round

Rich: Funny that. btw, I saw shelves full of your books at the airport

Hugh: I’ll sign your copy when you get here

Rich: I didn’t buy one lol

Dave: While you’re here, I’ve had some good news. I’ve won joint custody. The lawyers Rich recommended did a great job.

Hugh: Fantastic. Come Roma celebrate

Rich: Congrats man

Dave: Sorry, I can’t make it. I’ve got the kids this weekend. And now that I’m self-employed, I can schedule work so that I’m always off when I have them.

Hugh: *thumbs up*

Rich: *OK*

Hugh: Any news from @Matt?

Rich: Saw him last week. They’ve made him head guru or something. He’s loving it but no internet allowed

Hugh: His very own Jonestown. Let’s hope he keeps out of trouble

Rich: Aye

#

March 9 2024

Matt: Guys, I think I might have a problem…

Matt: Guys?

I'm four books into an eight-book epic fantasy series I’ve been writing for over twenty years.
It’s called The Chronicles of Heraldria. You probably haven’t heard of it.
That’s the problem.

Yesterday I checked my Amazon dashboard.

€0.00.
Zero orders.
Zero pages read.
Zero proof that the work I’ve poured decades into has reached anyone this month.

It hit like a hammer wrapped in silence.
Not failure. Worse.
Indifference.

So I did what any frustrated author might do.
I poured a drink. Too early in the day.
Had a Hemingway moment. Stared at the ceiling. Contemplated the abyss.

Then I remembered something:

“Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more…”
– Henry V

And also:

Endure. And do the f*ing work.**

Because nothing comes from nothing.
Not worlds. Not stories. Not legacy.

If you want readers, you have to finish the damn book.
If you want to be heard, you have to keep speaking into the void until someone echoes back.

This isn’t a pity post.
This is me, dragging the sword back into my hand and getting on with it.

Book V is coming.
The world may not be ready — but I am.

And if you’re a writer, creator, or dreamer staring down your own €0.00 moment, know this:

You’re not alone.
And you’re not done.

— MS Jones

It’s another one of those… awkward “real” ones.

Consider it a sequel to the last one (which seemed to resonate with a few of you — thanks for reaching out).

This one’s about what happens after the soul-baring.

Writing for Me (Until It Wasn’t)

I’ve always told myself I was writing for me.

A personal journey. A noble hobby.

Something to keep my mind from turning to mulch.

And then I finished a book.

Then another.

And another.

I published them — and nothing happened.

No rush of readers. No reviews. No sudden spike in royalties.

Just silence.

I told myself I didn’t care.

But I did.

Because I wasn’t just writing for me anymore — not really.

I wanted people to read them. To love them.

To reach out, ask questions, tell me something clicked.

(“Where do the ideas come from?” “How did you build the world?” “What’s he really thinking?”)

I know that’s ego. But it’s also human.

It’s not the spark that started the fire — but it is part of what keeps it burning.

Welcome to Mount Marketing

And now, here I am, standing at the foot of a new mountain:

Mount Marketing.*

Its dread peak is lost in clouds of self-doubt, exhaustion,

and the quiet dread of becoming That Guy —

the one shilling their wares in every thread, every timeline, every comment box.

(I can already taste the cringe.)

But I’ve done hard things before.

I scaled Mount Novel without a map, without a guide, trespassing without permission.

Not just when I thought I couldn’t — but when I thought I wasn’t allowed to.

The Next Ascent

So maybe this is just the next climb.

Maybe I’m not just climbing — maybe I’m doing what Sisyphus did.

Shoulder to the stone, again and again.

Not the first time. Not the last.

But that’s the deal, isn’t it?

We push because we must.

Because the story won’t tell itself.

Because the top might just be worth it — this time

even if the boulder rolls back down again tomorrow.

The Story Deserves a Reader

Maybe this is what happens

when you realise the thing you wrote deserves a reader.

And the only way it finds one…

is if you carry it, hand over heart, to the gates of attention.

I still feel like a bit of a fraud

trying to “connect emotionally” as a marketing strategy.

But here I am.

Apparently, this is what we do now.

To sell books, to share worlds, visions

So if you’re reading this —

thanks for climbing a little way up the slope with me.

I wrote these stories for the silence —

to empty the pressure in my head, to keep the ghosts company.

But now they’re done, I want you to hear them too.

Anyway, enough of all that “connecting” nonsense.

Click here to Buy My Books — they’re really good.

And for those of you who have made it this far:

Drum roll… Cover reveal 👇

Times of War II — coming soon…

(Emotional manipulation ends here. Now back to war, revelations, and very large swords)

* I didn’t invent this concept, I first heard it from fellow author Devon Erickson in his interview with YouTuber The Nonsense-Free Editor:

This post is a little different.

Most of what I share here is fiction — short stories, poems, the occasional book promo.

But this time, it’s personal.

This is the story behind the stories — how I came to write them, why it took so long, and why I’m still pushing forward.

I never believed I could be a writer.

I thought writers were born fully forged from the womb — fluent in metaphor, gifted with perfect timing, fated to write since childhood. I thought you either had it or you didn’t.

I didn’t. Or so I thought.

I spent my life doing what I was supposed to do. I followed the path that was handed to me: science, medicine, research. I got the degrees, did the work, earned the titles. But I never felt like I was living in the right story.

I wasn’t writing. I wouldn’t even allow myself to believe that I could.

Then came the breakdown. The burnout. The long silence. The part where everything that wasn’t me fell away — and I found myself standing in the wreckage, holding a story I’d been carrying in my head for decades.

The Chronicles of Heraldria didn’t come to me as inspiration. It came as pressure. Accumulated. Compacted. Unavoidable.

I started writing, not because I was confident — but because I couldn’t keep it in anymore.

It’s taken years. I’ve raised children. I’ve kept a household running. I’ve walked away from the corporate world. And now, at last, I write — not as someone with permission, but as someone with no choice.

If you’re reading this, you’re seeing the war room, the raw room: the reason. The fourth book in the series is nearly finished. I’m closing in on the ending of something that’s shaped most of my adult life.

I still don’t know if I’m a “real writer.” But I know I’ve written books. I know I’ve fought for them. And I know I’ll finish them, no matter how long it takes.

That’s what matters.

So if you're still waiting for permission — this is it.

Start late. Start scared. Start tired.

Start when no one’s looking, and no one cares.

You may never get paid. You may never get famous.

But you will get free.

The reward isn’t the income.

It’s the becoming.

And you don’t need permission for that.

The Chronicles continue in Times of War I, available now! https://amazon.com/gp/product/B0F

Times of War II coming soon!

Times of War I, the next thrilling chapter in The Chronicles of Heraldria, is out now!

To celebrate this release, the very first book in the series, Sacred Times I, is available for just 99p (UK) / 99¢ (US) this week as part of The Based Book Sale.

If you haven’t started the saga yet, now’s the perfect moment to jump in and get ready for the new adventures ahead.

Thank you for your support — I can’t wait to share more of this journey with you.

Happy reading,
Marcus S. Jones (aka Illuminatus)

P.S. Grab Sacred Times I for 99p (UK) / 99¢ (US) by clicking here

Continue the journey with Times of War I by clicking here