The Darkening King

Clunk, clunk, clunk.

Smoking canisters were launched into the room, their great clouds of green gas instantly reducing those nearest to slumbering heaps. There were, however, some amongst the Darklings and Hidden who were immune to the effects, and for that lucky handful, the fox-haired man had soldiers. Heavily armoured men of a darker grey attire in riot gear and gas masks burst into the room. In place of sub-machine guns, they all carried long-poled electric batons and high-powered dart guns. This was nothing like the raid Ned had witnessed at the Circus of Marvels – the BBB worked the room with ease. With a jolt of their batons, a blast of their darts, one by one resistance was quashed. All, that was, except for Mavis, who launched blow after blow of her great arms at the mounting assault of grey.

One of the more heavily armoured intruders spotted Ned at the edge of the fighting and began to stride across the room towards him. Ned focused – focused with everything that he had – on the small band of ring at his finger. But just as before, the air shimmered in front of him as he tried to draw it together, then … nothing.

“Dad, over here!” he yelped.

Terry Armstrong, meanwhile, had no such problem when it came to his ring and was about to unleash a shower of hardened projectiles when one of the many Mavii reared up behind the man in grey and proceeded to break a teapot over his helmet. Reinforced alloys are lightweight and durable, the perfect material for special-forces armour. No match, however, for Mavis’s best china, and the man hit the floor hard.

“You lot – with me, before this gas gets the better of us!” she ordered and quickly led Ned and his family back down the corridor. “The door knew who you were the minute you knocked, it always does – the Lady de Laqua indeed!”

“I thought Mavis’s tea shop was neutral? Why are you helping us?” rasped an out-of-breath Ned.

“You have more friends than you know. From what I hear, what’s coming doesn’t care about neutral!”

“Thank you, Mavis – or what do I …?” started Terry.

“I’m Number Six, and you’re welcome.”

Heavy footsteps pounded after them and a quick glimpse over his shoulder had Ned witness the great ooze that was Gorrn surprise two of the dark-grey tanks by dropping on to them with a toothy and painful flup. The men screamed through their masks and the Armstrongs rounded the corner. Just as they did, they came face to face with Sur-jan, but not as they’d seen him before – reformed to his true flame-licked self. Sar-adin was the only Demon Ned had ever seen in his true Demonic form, but Sur-jan was quite different. His size and shape were similar, though his mouth was wider, and from it hung a snake-like tongue that forked at the end. A layer of fire crackled and spat over him like a sheet of armour and what little of the creature’s skin Ned could see through the flames was red and brittle, as though made of rough glass. Only his eyes remained as they were, and they were all the more unsettling for it, as though somehow through all that power and magic a part of him had remained human.

Sur-jan nodded to Number Six, who nodded back, and on the Armstrongs hurtled, down another corridor that ran behind the main tea room, Whiskers scurrying ahead like a wind-up rocket.

There were more screams behind them as the Demon dealt with the few men who had managed to get past Gorrn.

Finally Number Six ushered them into the last room in the corridor, inside which was a tall mirror framed by two high-backed chairs.

“Emergency exit. We’ve never had to use it before today – oh, the shame of it!”

She handed Terry a sliver of glass and the Armstrongs were just readying themselves to walk through when everything went a little bit wrong. From behind the wall they heard:

“YOU BRUTES! I’LL FEED YOU TO MY WYVERN FOR THIS!”

And in a last violent outburst, Mavis – the original and far larger Mavis – struck out at her assailants. Unfortunately for Ned and family, she struck out at the other side of the wall, on which hung the mirror, and instantly both wall and mirror were destroyed.

In a spray of plasterboard, splinters and mirrored glass, their emergency exit was turned to rubble. As the dust cleared, a dumbfounded Ned and family could only blink through the hole in the wall at the once again silent tea room.

Mavis lay sprawled over her counter. She’d been peppered with hundreds of darts and whatever liquid they’d carried to make her slumber had finally taken its hold. Every single one of her tea-drinking customers lay like Mavis, out cold on the floor, or sagging at their seats and tables.

Staring at Ned was the BBB’s fox-haired leader, behind him at least thirty armoured men, each and every one with a dart gun pointed at the Armstrongs. Tears of frustration began to well in Ned’s eyes even as he focused on his ring. Ned had no powers to call on, and his dad had no time as the grey-suits pulled their triggers.

Pfft, pfft, pfft.

A short blow of air, a sting at Ned’s neck and everything turned to black.

Old Faces

ed was barely aware of the jolting motion of the transport, of the blindfold that had been placed over his eyes or of the muffled voices discussing “the boy” and his parents. We’re captives was all his bleary mind could muster, and everything was lost.

After more than an hour of travelling, they were led from the vehicle and into a building, then finally into a room of some sort, though where in the world they were now was anyone’s guess.

“Mr Fox will be with you shortly,” announced the grey-haired wall of an agent they had seen at Mavis’s as he took off the Armstrongs’ blindfolds and left them in what turned out to be a windowless concrete room.

“Ned, Terry, are you OK?” asked his mum just as soon as the door was closed. Red-eyed from the dart’s effects and clearly ruffled, Olivia Armstrong still managed to look beautiful as she ran round the room checking the walls for some hint of a weakness, some way in which they could escape.

“Fine, Mum,” managed Ned. “Still a bit groggy, though.”

His dad, on the other hand, looked beaten. For one thing, the clothes they’d had to buy him after their last run-in weren’t quite big enough and his hair was now completely on end, but it was the look of utter dejection that finished off the picture.

“We were so close!” he howled. “Months, months of looking, of hunting and being hunted – for nothing! Do those fools have any idea what they’ve done?”

“Don’t get worked up, Terry – you’re no use to us when you’re worked up, and I’m going to need your skills to break out of here.”

But Ned’s dad was “worked up” and in no hurry to un-work himself.

“That’s the fifth time they’ve caught up with us now. How are they doing it?”

Ned had to admit, the BBB had been impressive. He thought back to the way they’d taken out the tea drinkers, how deftly they’d worked their batons and guns.

“I was there when they raided the circus,” said Ned. “They were a hopeless bunch of jossers! But this time and the last few times they’ve caught up with us, they seemed to know exactly what they were doing. It’s like someone’s been teaching them.”

Olivia was now wrestling with the door handle to their room and, as she did so often, switched off to her two men’s ramblings.

“And anyway,” agreed Ned’s dad, “Mavis’s is one of the most closely guarded secrets in the entire Hidden underworld. If the Hidden can barely find it, how does a squad of suited jossers even know it exists in the first place?”

And then the door opened.

“With help, of course.”

Standing in the doorway was the grey-suited, fox-haired man Ned had seen at Mavis’s – the same man he had seen some months previously during the BBB’s raid on the circus. Just behind him was a gaunt, smallish agent who was again wearing a grey suit.

Ned’s mum was glaring at them angrily, clearly annoyed that they’d removed the one obstacle between her family and the building’s corridor with the simple turn of a handle.

“My name is Mr Fox. This is Mr Spider, my associate.”

Mr Spider’s eyes were wide and bulbous and he took in the Armstrongs carefully, eyeing each one with meticulous attention.

“I am very sorry about the darts but you have proved to be rather hard to talk to in the past.”

It was only then that Ned realised his backpack was missing, and much more importantly – there was no sign of Whiskers! His heart started to beat violently. Whiskers, his dear old Whiskers, who had seen him through more scrapes than he could count – where was he?

“What have you done with my mouse?!”

And as the words burned on his lips, a shadow by Mr Fox’s legs started to move. Mr Fox’s eyes flitted to the floor.

“Please ask your creature to stand down, Ned. I really am trying to be nice. Your ticker has been taken to our R and D department to check that he’s functioning properly.”

Ned’s dad formed a compact ball of ice by drawing in the air molecules around the room with an audible fwup. It was about the size of a walnut and Ned had seen the man blow holes through steel doors with far less. A second later and the ice had turned to hardened glass.

“Do you know, he said this might happen,” said Mr Fox with an air of resigned certainty.

“Who said? Who’s been helping you?” seethed Ned’s dad, the newly formed glass ball now hovering between them both with clear intent. “Was it one of the Shar’s men? Or Atticus and his tin-skins?”

“It was I,” said a voice, as Mr Fox’s informant appeared from behind him and walked slowly into the room.

There was a swagger to the way he walked, and a jolliness to the twitch of his moustache. He was wearing his signature striped trousers, a worn military jacket with broken braiding and tassels, and a severely beaten top hat. Aside from some deep shadows under his eyes, a clear sign that he’d had little sleep, he was the same wax-moustached Ringmaster as ever.

“Bene?” was all Ned could manage.

“Hello, pup,” said Benissimo with a smile.

Which promptly fell away when he saw the look on the face of Olivia Armstrong, who then proceeded to pummel the man’s arm. Ned and his father watched in awe, Terry’s ball of glass having landed on the floor with a clunk as his wife administered Mr Fox’s informant with swift and painful justice.

“Months, we looked, all of us!”

Whack!

“And all that time you were here with these men, these revolting men in grey?!”

Whack!

“Livvy, if you could just let me explain!” said Benissimo, who did little more than raise his arms in a useless and rather timid defence.

“Explain why you abandoned us?! Explain this!”

Whack!

“Madam, the man can heal, but he still feels pain – please refrain from hitting him,” tried Mr Fox.

Olivia Armstrong, nun and agent, stopped. Her eyes turned to Mr Fox.

“How did you do it?” she shouted. “How did you turn the greatest leader of all time into an informant?”

What was quite clear was that Ned’s mum had absolutely no interest in Mr Fox’s answer, nor for that matter did Ned’s dad, or the enlarging shadow that was Gorrn as he inflated to fill the rear of the room. The Armstrongs were about to blow when Benissimo decided to tell them what, exactly, was what.

“Livvy, you’ve got this all wrong. Mr Fox works for me.”

The Butcher and the Hammer

arbarossa sat at his stone table, glaring out of the window. In front of him lay the great sweeping carpet that was the Siberian taiga. Down below in his fortress’s iron belly the Darkening King stirred. The butcher could feel him, in the pores of his skin and the pit of his stomach. The Darkening King had a hunger that knew no bounds, a wish to devour, to rule, to reign. In that they were very much alike.

He looked down at the roasted pork that Sar-adin had so carefully prepared. It was, as always, just the way he liked it, its skin glazed to a perfect crackle, boiling fat oozing from its sides, and on a different day, in a different mood, he would have devoured it all till his chest was awash with grease and dripping. But Barbarossa had a different hunger and it would not be fed through his gut. Atticus Fife sat beside him drinking from a goblet of fine red wine. For some strange reason the man did not show fear in his company – if anything, he seemed to consider himself an equal.

Barbarossa supposed he had been a little vague about the arrangements between them. Perhaps Atticus believed himself to be important to him? A partner, even? He had been the second-in-command to the great Madame Oublier after all – the Circus of Marvels’ Prime, their one-time leader. Not that he’d done her any good. In fact, the tin-skin had betrayed her and the poison that had ended her life could not have done so without him. Well, Barba wouldn’t let the same happen to him. The man clearly needed some chivvying up, which was just as well, as Barbarossa was in the mood for a little “chivvying”.

“Walk with me, Atticus.”

Barbarossa led him away from the great hall down a set of spiral steps. Behind them Sar-adin followed quietly. The Central Intelligence had done exactly as ordered. He had built them a fortress that could not be taken. But something still troubled the butcher, even now. Until the Darkening King returned to his full power, they could, conceivably, still be undone no matter how many tin soldiers he had, or fanged and wicked creatures fought for him. Barbarossa did not like “odds”. So close to his prize, only certainties would do.

“The fair-folk will come, Atticus, and they will try to stop us.”

“What remains of them, yes.”

“And what does remain of them?”

“The pinstripes who still answer to me have heard word of a growing force in St Albertsburg.”

Barbarossa grimaced but continued leading the way.

“A growing force … Do you know how a force grows, Atticus?”

“We have banned all flights between the Veil, Barba, and my men are—”

Barba raised a hand and the tin-skin quietened.

“A force grows when there is hope. It is your job to remove that hope, Atticus.”

Barbarossa stopped by a heavy steel door and Sar-adin pulled out a set of keys.

“I am treading a fine line as it is, Barba. My men are beginning to suspect.”

Sar-adin opened the door to reveal a dimly lit cell. There were no windows, only a withered figure chained to the wall.

“This, Atticus, is Sur-jan. Once he swore to fight for me, yet only this morning he met with the Armstrongs. You promised me that you would take away the fair-folk’s hope and yet it grows.”

Atticus’s face dropped. The Demon looked to be in terrible pain. As cruel and as heartless as their kind was, he felt for it, knowing that whatever Barbarossa had done to the beast to reduce it so must have been unspeakable.

“Do you see hope in my captive’s eyes, Atticus?”

“I-I …”

“You will feed them lies upon lies. You will confuse and befuddle them, till they cannot tell friend from foe, till they cower in their beds calling for their mothers. You will feed them and feed them, till all their hope, strength and vigour is swallowed whole.”

“I will redouble my efforts.”

“No, Atticus, you will push them till you have nothing left to push with.”

And with that, Sar-adin shoved the tin-skin into the cell and locked the door.

“Barba?! Barbarossa, what is the meaning of this?”

“By the time they reach my forest, their spirits will already be broken. You will do the breaking, Atticus. You gave me your oath that you would. Your cellmate gave me such an oath once. A night with him should do plenty to remind you of what is at stake.”

Barbarossa turned his back and retraced his steps, even as Atticus pounded on the door.

“Tell me, Sar-adin, how much longer?” growled Barbarossa.

“He grows stronger.”

“But when will he rise, Sar-adin – WHEN?”

“Weeks.”

“And the boy, his parents? I fear while they walk free that the fair-folk will continue to have hope.”

“Sur-jan did not tell them about the stone.”

“Then we are still safe. Find them, Sar-adin. Use the clowns and whatever else you deem necessary. The Armstrongs must not stand in our way again.”

“Yes, master.”

The butcher slowed.

“And, Sar-adin – when you end them, make them suffer.”

The Nest

enissimo and Mr Fox led Ned and his family through the labyrinth that was the BBB’s headquarters. Now somewhat over the initial shock of seeing their old comrade-in-arms, they followed with a keen eye on their surroundings, Gorrn clinging to Ned’s shadow in silence.

“I still don’t get it, Bene. How on earth have Mr Fox and the BBB wound up working for you?” asked Ned’s dad.

“The BBB was set up decades ago. In many ways their purpose was not so different to the Twelve’s or its circus. Our role was to protect the Hidden – theirs was to protect the jossers. The BBB knew about us fair-folk, though very little, and what you don’t know is always frightening. They have been investigating us for years, trying to find out more. I simply set them straight – told them who the bad guys were and what sort of danger they posed to all living creatures, on both sides of the Veil.”

“And then what?” asked Ned.

“Well, I think their brains rather melted – they went berserk. Had it not been for our red-headed friend here, they would have had me shot.”

Mr Fox smiled.

“Not that shooting him would have worked. But you see, Mr Bear, my boss, well … he doesn’t like surprises. I do think he mellowed after that first heart attack, though,” Benissimo continued. “It turns out what you do know can be far more frightening than what you don’t. But in any case, it’s worked out rather well. Seeing as I became their topmost informant on all things to do with our kind, they have put me in charge.”

Mr Fox promptly stopped smiling.

“A temporary measure, till we sort things out.”

“But a measure nonetheless, Foxy.”

An unmarked door slid open as they approached.

“Which, as you can see, has its benefits. This, my friends, is ‘the Nest’.”

Ned and family walked through the door and out on to a balcony, one of more than a dozen that circled several floors all looking down over a large indoor training ground. Far below, hundreds of grey-tracksuited men were being barked at by a severe-looking Frenchman and a rotund, slightly ageing Italian who had great curling horns protruding from his head.

“Special Forces, don’t give me no-a rubbish. You couldn’t climb your-a way out of a can!”

Several deflated-looking operatives were struggling their way up an admittedly treacherous wall that the ancient half-satyr was playfully skipping across. To one side the Frenchman was demonstrating the easiest way to neutralise a nightmonger. The terrifying creature was a blur of blade-like fingers, but was soon made quite harmless when the instructor launched two weighted nets from a gas-powered machine that looked very much as though it had been designed on this side of the Veil.

“Couteau and Grandpa Tortellini!” exclaimed Ned with the first truly genuine smile he’d given in months.

“The greys are coming along nicely under their tutelage and Tinks has been having a whale of a time mixing our tech with theirs – fascinating results.”

“Tinks?!” grinned Ned. “Where is he?”

“Looking after your mouse, I should think. About half of the old troupe has joined us. The rest are still MIA, I’m afraid.”

“MIA?”

“Missing in action, Ned. You know as well as I do how bad things are out there.”

A horrible thought struck Ned: What about Lucy and George? If they were here, Lucy would have sensed him by now and George would have been hot on her heels, knocking down any number of walls or grey-suits to see his old ward. He didn’t need to ask – Benissimo spotted the look on his face immediately.

“George and Lucy are with the Viceroy. They’ve been delivering one of the old troupe, and I can’t tell you more than that, I’m afraid. Don’t worry – word’s been sent and I should think they’ll have threatened the nearest pilot by now and demanded passage back to the Nest.”

“Delivering one of the troupe? Who?”

“All I can tell you is that he’s a vital part of the plan – as are you, of course, Ned. And we have been trying to bring you in for a while now, as we have new intel that you need to hear. I needn’t mince my words, especially not with you three. The Darkening King is growing stronger by the day. George, Lucy, all of us are scrambling to work with our allies, and telling friend from foe has never been harder. Come on, let’s go to see the boffin – he’ll explain our situation in more detail.”

***

The boffin, known to Benissimo’s old troupe as “Tinks”, had been given a new laboratory to work in and it was to there that Benissimo and Mr Fox led the Armstrongs now. As Ned and his dad entered, they both went a little misty-eyed at what they saw. Ned and his father, both being Engineers – who had the power (when it was working, that is) to bend and manipulate atoms – had a different relationship with all things mechanical than most other people. Their powers hinged on understanding the structure of things, how they came together and worked, so that they could reimagine them into another form. And within these brightly lit walls were the most advanced examples of what modern-day science and technology had to offer, fused together with just a pinch or two of the Hidden’s own magic.

The lab was big enough to house an entire circus troupe along with its cars and lorries. It was also teeming with smartly dressed scientists in matching grey lab coats. They were all building and testing equipment, and all of the equipment was designed, from the ground up, to fight Darklings.

Traps, snares, laser-guided harpoons, listening devices, scanning equipment … and data. Lots and lots of data, pouring out of printers, to be pointed at and argued over incessantly by teams of bespectacled analysts. They weren’t all jossers, either. A good number of them were waist-height minutians, just like the Tinker, and no doubt, Ned guessed, refugees from the ill-fated city of Gearnish, now under the control of Barbarossa’s ghastly machine-mind, the Central Intelligence.

Ned gawped in wonder at a man clicking a device on his belt that made him turn invisible and visible again, with varying results. At one point his head disappeared while the rest of him stayed visible; at another he appeared to be floating off the ground with no legs. His dad, meanwhile, was mesmerised by an aged minutian who was talking to a flea. He wore a large trumpet-ended device on his ear, while the flea responded by hopping up and down on a minuscule sensor at its feet.

Everything had the touch of the Tinker to it, but the Tinker himself was nowhere to be seen.