Tark and Zyra stepped into a vast, disorienting whiteness. The door slammed shut behind them. There was no discernable floor, ceiling or walls, but it was solid underfoot. The metal door through which they had stepped, and pulled their cart through, was now just one of hundreds that dotted the blank landscape in a vague pattern of expanding circles. The doors were freestanding, with simple frames but no walls supporting them. They seemed pointless. They couldn't possibly lead anywhere. And yet they did. Each door was an entry point into this white limbo. Tark circled the now closed door through which they had entered.
‘There!’ Zyra pointed to a pedestal in the distance. It protruded from the nonexistent floor in the centre of all the doors.
They walked between the doors, leaving a trail of green sludge behind them.
‘We mades it,’ Tark said, as they approached the metal plinth.
‘Not quite,’ said a familiar voice.
Tark and Zyra looked up to see Princeling Galbrath step out from behind a nearby door, where he had been waiting.
‘I believe you have something belonging to me,’ he announced. ‘I shall have it back. And I shall have your money as well, as compensation for all my troubles.’
‘Who's the annoyin’ squirt?’ asked Zyra.
‘The princeling I tooks the sword o’ light from,’ answered Tark.
‘Sods off,’ called Zyra to the princeling. ‘Or I'll breaks ya face.’
‘Oh, I think not,’ said the princeling, smiling broadly. ‘May I introduce to you my new mage, Skurgebroth the Undefeated.’
A purple-robed figure stepped from behind the door on the opposite side to the princeling. He had flowing locks of curly gold; a long, disproportioned face with a squat nose and copious pimples; round, wire-rimmed spectacles; a wand of entwined gold, silver and bronze, ending in a flurry of platinum filigree; and he looked all of about thirteen years old.
‘Lets me guess,’ said Zyra. ‘He's undefeated ’cause he's too young to have beens challenged yet?’
‘Lay down your arms and surrender,’ said the pimply-faced mage in a cracked voice, as he raised his wand. ‘Or I'll turn the both of you into toads.’
‘I didn't thinks mages used wands,’ said Zyra conversationally to Tark.
‘No,’ agreed Tark. ‘Wands is used by apprentices who don'ts has enough of their own powers.’
‘So it's kinda like trainin’ wheels, really,’ said Zyra.
Tark nodded.
‘Stop it!’ whined the young mage, the end of his wand sizzling with power as he raised it above his head.
‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ demanded Princeling Galbrath. ‘Toad them!’
Skurgebroth threw his hand forward, pointing the wand at Tark. Sparks shot from the end, elegantly flew through the air for several metres, and then dropped to the ground and fizzled out of existence.
‘Real impressive,’ Zyra said.
‘Crap!’ said the princeling.
‘Hold on, hold on,’ said Skurgebroth, holding up his hands. ‘I've done this before. I can do it. I know I can.’
He raised the wand again, concentration contorting his face.
‘Betta be safe than sorry,’ said Tark, drawing the lightless sword o’ light, and holding it over his shoulder like a club.
Skurgebroth flicked his wand. Sparks shot from the end, this time heading for Tark with greater force. Still, by the time they reached him they were slowing. Tark swung his sword like a bat, easily hitting the ball of sparks, which streaked straight back to the mage with far greater speed than they had left him.
Skurgebroth tried to duck, but alas he was too slow. With a yelp and a puff of purple smoke, he demonstrated the validity of his spell by turning into a toad.
‘Crap!’ said Princeling Galbrath.
‘Croak!’ said the mage as he hopped out from the pile of robes and over to the princeling, jumping up into his hands.
‘You have not heard the last of me,’ said Princeling Galbrath, holding up the toad and shaking it at Zyra and Tark. The toad's eyes bulged. ‘I shall return!’
And with that, he turned tail and ran.
‘Star?’ asked Tark.
‘It'd be a waste,’ answered Zyra, as the princeling ducked out of sight behind a door.
Tark nodded.
‘Well, that wuz entertainin’, but,’ said Zyra, ‘backs to the matta at hand.’ She approached the pedestal and reached out a hand.
‘I'd waits if I was you,’ said a voice from an opening door.
A figure stepped into the whiteness, slowly cracking the knuckles of his right hand.
‘Nots again.’ Zyra sighed theatrically. ‘I thought we gots rid of ya.’
‘Don'ts ya eva learns?’ said Tark.
‘Oh, I learns plenty.’ The Cracker chuckled.
Straining to see, Zyra thought she caught a glimpse of red drapes, wood-panelled elegance and glass display cabinets, before the door slammed shut behind him.
‘Seems ya gots more learnin’ to do, yet,’ said Tark in his best menacing voice.
Zyra's hands moved like lightning, producing and throwing three stars in quick succession. With equal speed, the Cracker raised his right arm. The stars froze in mid-air, a centimetre from the back of his hand.
With his other hand, the Cracker pointed to a watch-like device strapped to his wrist.
‘Magnetic field.’
With a flick of his wrist, the stars were flung aside.
‘Toys,’ Zyra said.
‘Yeah, well,’ said Tark, stamping his feet and looking down at his boots. They still had splatters of green sludge on them. ‘I coulds just kick the crap outa ’im.’
The Cracker's eyes fell on Tark.
‘Well, well, well,’ he said slowly, tongue darting across his lips. ‘Aren't we the pretty-pretty boy.’
‘Wot?’ said Tark, glancing at Zyra, who rolled her eyes upwards.
‘You must be Zyra's pretty-pretty boy,’ continued the Cracker, eyes examining Tark from top to toe. ‘My, my, my. A thief for hire. The thoughts of potential coinage verily doth gives me the dizzies.’
‘Wot?’ snapped Tark, louder now, glaring at the Cracker. ‘Wot's ya on about?’
‘You, my pretty-pretty,’ explained the Cracker. ‘There is peoples who'd pay handsomely for a thiever the likes of you.’ He then shifted his attention to Zyra. ‘Of course, the two of you. Together. Now that's would be some serious coinage.’ He stroked the back of his hand across his burnt cheek. ‘Says the word, and I woulds be willing to forgets past grudges.’
The muscles in Tark's face twitched. ‘We works for no one!’
‘Sods off!’ snarled Zyra.
‘Haves it your way.’ The Cracker shrugged and reached into his coat. He pulled out a glove made of shiny black fabric, inlaid with silvery wires. It crackled and sparked with energy as the Cracker pulled it onto his right hand.
‘Nots more toys,’ grumbled Zyra. ‘Where, in the name of the Designers, does ya gets ’em all.’
‘Froms me employer, o’ course,’ said the Cracker. ‘And he wants you out of the way.’
‘Ya has an employer?’ asked Zyra.
‘’Course I does,’ said the Cracker flexing his gloved hand. ‘I freelance as well. But alls the big jobs is for the Fat Man.’
Zyra's eyes narrowed. ‘Ya works for that tub o’ lard?’ she spat.
‘Now, now, now, my pretty-pretty,’ said the Cracker. ‘Name callings will gets you nowhere.’
‘I can help you,’ called a voice from the whiteness.
Princeling Galbrath dashed out from behind a door.
‘Why woulds ya wanna ’elp us?’ asked Tark, surprised.
‘I have no intention of helping you,’ snarled the princeling. ‘I meant that I could help this fine gentleman, who is in the employ of my potential benefactor.’
‘Wot?’ asked Tark and Zyra together.
The Cracker also raised a quizzical eyebrow.
‘The sword o’ light,’ explained the princeling. ‘The Fat Man is my buyer. I was on my way to sell it to him when you,’ he pointed an accusing finger at Tark, ‘stole it.’
‘Shoulds ’ave used a star when ya hads the chance,’ said Tark to Zyra.
‘I believes I have the matter in hand,’ said the Cracker to the princeling, lifting his gloved hand and cracking his fingers, one by one.
Tark drew the sword o’ light. ‘It mays have lost its shine,’ he said, threateningly. ‘But it's still a sword. And I knows how to use it.’
The Cracker suddenly clenched his fist and thrust it forward. A bolt of white-hot energy discharged from the glove and blasted the sword from Tark's hand. Tark yelped and clutched his hand, which tingled and stung as if it had just been set upon by a swarm of bees.
‘Watch it, you moron,’ yelped the princeling. ‘That sword is worth more money than you'll ever see in your pathetic lifetime.’
The Cracker rounded on the princeling.
‘A dead sword o’ light ain't worth all that much,’ said the Cracker, flexing his gloved hand threateningly. ‘And you'd better watch your mouth or I'll shut it for you.’
‘The sword is not dead,’ said the princeling. ‘It just needs …’
His voice trailed off.
‘Fine,’ said the Cracker. ‘Then I'll be takin’ it to the Fat Man and getting all that coinage.’ He turned back to Tark and Zyra. ‘But first, I needs to be getting rid of these two.’
The Cracker punched the air in front of him and a bolt of energy sizzled towards Zyra. She jumped, rolled and sprang back to her feet with the ease of someone sitting down to tea. Meanwhile, Tark dashed for the nearest door and hid behind it.
‘Stands still my pretty bint,’ said the Cracker, all his attention focused on Zyra.
In response, Zyra flung two of her throwing stars at him.
As she did so, Tark slipped out from behind the door and raced to the next, working his way around to the Cracker.
The Cracker held up his gloved hand, palm out. The stars disintegrated in a crackle of energy.
‘Nice try,’ he said. ‘My turn.’
He pulled back his gloved fist, ready to punch another energy bolt at Zyra. Zyra cartwheeled across the whiteness, a spinning streak of red, and flung herself behind one of the doors.
The Cracker threw another energy bolt. It exploded on the door Zyra was hiding behind, but with no visible effect.
Princeling Galbrath watched as Tark slipped out from behind his current door and edged towards the former mage's robes and wand. The princeling dug in his pocket and pulled out the toad.
‘You may yet be of use to me,’ he whispered.
‘Croak,’ answered the toad.
The Cracker was about to shoot off another bolt at Zyra, when he noticed movement from the corner of his eye. He whirled around and hurled a bolt at Tark instead.
Tark dived for the wand and the energy sizzled past him. He grabbed the wand and staggered to his feet as the Cracker took aim again.
The princeling also took aim and threw the toad. The former mage landed on the Cracker's head with a wet plop, distracting him from Tark. As the toad slapped a webbed foot into the Cracker's eye, the Cracker grabbed him and held him aloft, ready to dash him against the nearest door.
But Tark now had the wand, and although he had no idea how to use it, he raised it high and flicked it in the direction of the Cracker. Sparks shot from the wand and hit the toad. With a croak and a puff of purple smoke, the toad turned back into the mage and flattened the surprised Cracker.
As the smoke cleared, Tark, Zyra and Princeling Galbrath approached. The Cracker lay unconscious in a crumpled heap, the naked mage, also unconscious, beside him.
‘Now there's a sight I hope I never have the misfortune to see again,’ said the princeling. ‘For the sake of the Designers, someone cover him up!’
Zyra shuddered her agreement.
Tark scooped up the mage's purple robes and threw them down over the former toad.
‘Me thanks to ya,’ said Tark to the princeling. ‘But the sword's still mine.’
The princeling eyed Tark and then sprinted for the sword. Tark flicked the wand again. It fizzled, but did little else. He dropped it and gave chase.
The princeling dived for the discarded sword o’ light. His hand closed around the hilt as Tark landed on top of him, bringing his elbow down hard on the princeling's arm. The princeling shrieked and let go of the sword. But he also bucked and threw Tark from his back. Scrambling to his feet, the princeling made for the sword again. It was almost in his grasp, when a sizzling bolt of energy burst right next to him. He looked up to see Zyra, wearing the Cracker's energy glove and a self-satisfied grin.
‘Gives it up, snotling! The only reason ya ain't dead already is ’cause yar toad-flinging saved Tark.’
Princeling Galbrath snarled, then hung his head in defeat.
‘Rights,’ said Tark, elbowing the princeling in the back of the head as he strode past. ‘Times to enter Paradise.’
Boom!
The noise reverberated through the whiteness. Tark and Zyra froze.
Boom!
The door that Tark and Zyra had entered through shook violently.
‘Ya don'ts suppose?’ asked Zyra.
‘Nah!’ said Tark.
‘What?’ asked the princeling.
Boom!
A large dent appeared in the door.
‘Quick,’ ordered Zyra. ‘Hides the stash.’
Tark hastily concealed the shopping cart behind another door.
Boom!
The metal door buckled and twisted, then flew off its hinges. Vera stood framed in the doorway, the sewage tunnel visible behind her.
‘Run!’ hissed Zyra, and the three of them dashed for cover behind the doors.
Vera stepped into the whiteness, trailing sludge and spitting a rat tail from her mouth. She was covered in wounds and dripping blood, her pearls gone, her make-up smeared, her clothes stained and tattered. Two of the monks’ crossbow bolts still protruded from her broad back.
‘Come out, come out, wherever you are,’ she shrieked, an odd quaver to her voice.
‘Doesn't nuthin’ stops that woman?’ said Tark.
‘It ain't no ordinary woman,’ replied Zyra.
‘Who is she?’ asked the princeling, eyes boggling. ‘What is she?’
Tark and Zyra ignored him.
‘Wots are we gonna do?’ asked Tark.
‘We needs the sword o’ light,’ said Zyra, turning on the princeling. ‘How do we recharge it?’
‘I'm not about to tell you that,’ said the princeling, crossing his arms. ‘I'll never get it back.’
‘If ya don't tells us, we is all done for,’ hissed Tark.
The princeling turned his back on them.
‘Why, ya little — ’ Zyra raised her gloved fist.
‘The glove!’ said Tark, excitedly. ‘That might slow her down.’
‘A whole temple full of armed monks couldn't stop her. Do ya thinks this glove's gonna do much?’
‘It's all we's got.’
‘Well, I thinks we just hides,’ said Zyra.
‘Peek-a-boo!’ screamed Vera, looking around the side of the door at them.
They nearly jumped out of their skins, but regained their senses and ran. Vera lumbered around the door.
‘I've got plenty of time,’ shouted Vera, toying with them. ‘I might even destroy the access console!’
‘Wot's that?’ asked Tark.
‘The pedestal that gives you entry to Designers Paradise,’ said the princeling. ‘Don't you know anything?’
‘Well, I guess we has gotta fight,’ said Zyra, stepping out in plain view.
Tark nodded and followed her.
‘Speak for yourselves,’ said the princeling, crouching lower.
‘All rights,’ shouted Zyra. ‘Ya wanna fight? Well heres we are.’
Vera stalked towards them.
Zyra took aim with the glove and fired three bolts of energy in quick succession. They hit Vera square in the face. The first stopped her in her tracks, the second made her stagger back, and the third knocked her off her feet.
Zyra and Tark looked at the fallen dragon's wife, then at each other.
‘Didn't expect that to work,’ said Zyra with surprise.
Princeling Galbrath joined them as they approached Vera. The flesh on her face was charred and hanging in tatters, revealing a face-shaped metal casing.
‘Wot in Designer's Paradise are ya?’ whispered Tark.
‘Vera 919,’ answered Vera, without moving her metal lips. The voice was distorted, with an electronic twang. ‘Cyborg. Wife model. Inbuilt retrieval prerogative. Special order for Edgar. Constructed by Fat Man Inc.’
‘The Fat Man has got a finger in every pie,’ said Princeling Galbrath knowingly.
‘Complete retrieval,’ said Vera.
Her hand shot up and grabbed Zyra's arm. She sat bolt upright, then stood shakily as Zyra attempted to break free.
Tark jumped back and drew the sword o’ light.
‘Tells me how to recharge it,’ he yelled at the princeling. ‘Or we is all dead.’
Vera lifted Zyra off her feet, tore the glove from her hand and enveloped her in a slow, crushing bear hug. Zyra kicked and punched and thrashed about, but Vera's arms slowly constricted, crushing the air from her lungs.
‘Not a chance,’ said the princeling, attempting to make a dash for the nearest door.
Tark grabbed him and dragged him towards Vera and Zyra.
‘Let me go,’ demanded the princeling. ‘What are you doing?’
‘This ’ere is our employer,’ said Tark to Vera. ‘We has only been doin’ wot we has been told.’
The princeling started to protest, but Tark gave him a sharp punch to the mouth.
‘The snotling gaves us the sword o’ light,’ continued Tark. ‘He tolds us to do in Edgar and takes his gold.’
Vera dropped Zyra, who fell to her hands and knees, gasping for breath.
Tark shoved the princeling towards Vera.
‘It's not true,’ yelped the princeling, as Vera wrapped her crushing arms around his podgy body.
‘Tells us,’ demanded Tark, ‘or ya dies first.’
‘The hilt,’ gasped the princeling. ‘Panel … open … button.’
Tark fumbled with the sword hilt, pressing at it with his fingers, until a small section clicked inwards and slid aside, revealing a red button.
‘Ya means — that's all?’ said Tark.
The princeling nodded, gasped and lost consciousness.
Tark pressed the button.
The sword flared into brilliant life. Tark tried to shield his eyes as it sprang from his hands, streaked through the air and embedded itself deep within Vera's side, missing Princeling Galbrath by a hair's breadth.
Vera immediately dropped the princeling, threw back her head and released the most inhuman howl either Tark or Zyra had ever heard. Light spilled from her eyes, nose and mouth. Her flesh and her clothing burst into flame, turning to ash in seconds. Her metal skeleton glowed white-hot, then disintegrated.
The sword clattered to the ground, spent and lightless. Tark sheathed it absently, his eyes fixed on the smouldering metal fragments scattered about the room.
Zyra staggered to her feet and shook Tark from his reverie. ‘Comes on,’ she said.
They made their way past the unconscious princeling to where Tark had left the cart. They slowly wheeled it over to the pedestal. Zyra fished their keys from a pocket and placed them on the pedestal. Then they put their hands, palms down, beside the keys.
‘Access granted,’ said the same disembodied androgynous voice as the Oracle's.
Tark withdrew his hand. On impulse, Zyra pocketed the keys.
And then everything around them melted away.