The Amulaet of Kings: The Banned Underground, #1

By Will Macmillan Jones

'Tolkein meets Spinal Tap!'

The first volume in The Banned Underground collection of stories that can be read in any order, or disorder.  Perhaps disorder, for when two suburban teenagers arrive for an enforced holiday at their aunt’s cottage, they find a lot more going on than they expected.

Most of the local Wizards and Witches are all on holiday – sorry, that’s the Annual Joint Professional Conference of course – in the South of France. It’s a perfect opportunity for the local Dark Lord (who has been left behind) to summon up some goblins and try to invade the underground Mansion of the Dwarves.

Can the teenagers help their new friend the King of the Dwarves save his kingdom?  The Dark Lord has his goblins and his minions; the teenagers have a luminous green, jazz-loving bog troll and his rhythm-and-blues band – and an amazing collection of jokes, one-liners, and awfully bad puns, as this new fantasy series gets off to a crackling start.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Red Kite Publishing
• Release date: Mar 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524287832

Will Macmillan Jones

Will Macmillan Jones lives in Wales, a lovely green verdant land full of myth, magic, legends and beers. When not writing he is usually to be found lost on top of a hill in the middle of nowhere (with the aid of his GPS) looking for dragons.  He hasn't found one yet, but it is only a matter of time...

Book preview

Author’s introduction to the second edition

We want to re issue Amulet of Kings, with the original text, said the Publishers.

I’d like to revise it to make it better, now that I’ve got a few years experience under my belt, I said.

No, the original text, warts and all, they insisted.

I really want to make it into the book I’d always dreamed about, to reflect who I am and what I do now, I replied.

No, the original text is what we want, they told me.

Over my dead body! I told them.

Maybe that comment needs re evaluating so as to continue to express the overall concept whilst maintaining a less rigorous emphasis on the literal and specific content of the remarks, I told their hitman when he called.

So here it is. As it was originally. For posterior. Or maybe posterity. Whatever. I haven’t touched it, except to remove the dedication. No, not even that. Honest.

CONTENTS

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Dedication

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When asked by the publisher if I wanted to write a dedication for this book, there could only be one answer: the characters, and in particular The Banned Underground.  Led by a jazz-loving bogtroll, this bunch of drunken, pizza loving dwarfs shouldered their way into my head; and as so often with unwanted guests had a riotous party and forgot that they had homes of their own waiting for them.

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Of course the real inspiration came first from the incomparable delight of rambling in the Lake District: sitting beside the Boulder Stone, panting on the steep slopes of mighty Helvellyn, gasping at the view from the easier to reach Cat Bells and lying under a brilliant blue sky on top of the sprawling High street  (site of the highest known Roman Road in the world) dreaming of a whole land of elves, dwarfs, trolls and wizards living and laughing and squabbling  all around us and below the soul-searing beauty of the high fells.  Who could sit there and not want to write about it?

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And the music. Always, at the heart of it, the music. Has it been a long time since Rock N Roll? Not for The Banned Underground. It’s never been away.

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This is the story of a time in the history of an Amulet. NOT a charm, which can be, well, a bit charming – a bit lightweight in magical terms. The impression to get is of the sort of thing that needs a very thick chain to hang from. And a very thick neck to hang around.  HRH King Kong would do nicely, here. Solid. Dependable. Worthy.

Which is why it was such a shame that it was lost one night after a rather good party

Following a concert by the Banned Underground, a mystical Rhythm & Blues band.

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Cover Artwork sponsored by Grizelda’s Frog Sanctuary.

CHAPTER ONE

Robert Smith and his Band The Cure are in love with Friday. They made a hit record about it.

Sir Bob Geldof doesn’t like Mondays. He, too, wrote a hit record about it.

Grizelda, Witch of the Fourth Pentangle, didn’t like any day of the week very much but lacked the commercial skill to exploit the song and dance she made about it.

In fact, her lack of commercial skill was a problem, as it meant that for the fourth year running she had failed to make the Joint Convention for White Witches and Wizards of Caer Rigor, and Black Witches, Wizards and Warlocks of Caer Surdin. Held in the South of France, again.  The conference was held jointly to save money, and because it saved having to fight each other in the good weather.

[ Grizelda, despite the colour of her laundry, and especially despite her kitchen, was nominally a member of the White Group. Although her membership was occasionally reviewed for excessive use of her frog/people spell.]

This late afternoon was dark, very dark. So dark that the wind kept bumping into things, which occasionally fell over. To ease the fears of environmentalists at this point, the wind was unharmed. Rain fell, driven in sheets by the wind, on anything that moved. Or didn’t move, rain having signed a non discrimination agreement.

All things considered, Grizelda was not in a good temper. Aggravated, multiplied by very, very cross sums it up well. So when her broomstick began to misfire, and the terrain clearance fell to roughly six inches unless the power cut in or she lifted her skirts over a particularly large rock (which resulted in some spectacular if unplanned aerobatics) it is safe to presume her mood did not improve. Trailing skeins of green smoke, the witch progressed erratically across the heather with one hand on her hat for security and the other on her skirts for modesty. She would have been better off if she had had three hands – for example, she might have been able to steer.

Its no fun on your own, she muttered. Can’t go round saying ‘When shall we meet again?’  Not when there’s only one of you, and the cat, and about 600 cat fleas. Not even easy to ‘ave a good row. Not impossible, just not easy.  But then, a wild, eldritch screech to freeze the blood burst from her lips –TOURISTS!

Away in the rain haunted mist she could see some hikers trudging through the gathering storm towards the village, in the hope that it represented if not safety, then at least the chance to be robbed in the dry. The witch narrowed her eyes, shifted her grip on the broomstick...

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! she screamed as she and the broomstick swapped places relative to the ground.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! screamed a hiker, as crockery used earlier in her picnic fell from Grizelda’s pockets and showered around the hiker’s head. FLYING SAUCERS!

Little green men? asked her companion, with visions from various sci-fi movies running through his head.

[These usually involved an attractive female lead being abducted and ravished by unbelievably good-looking aliens, and kept several psychiatrists from enjoying their just rewards on Jobseekers Allowance.] 

No, answered the first hiker. It was black, upside down and threw these at me.  She held up a cheap dinner plate inscribed with archaic lettering, which read : Virgin Rail.

Interstellar travellers, eh? mused the second hiker. Must be bloody rich if they can afford to use the trains to get around when they get here. And no wonder they never arrive when you expect them, either. Instead of sneaking around in clouds trying to avoid the RAF, they are probably sat on the platform at Crewe Station waiting for the connection to Venus and stealing souvenirs from the buffet to laugh at when they get home.

"Got to be better than eating the food I suppose."

Aloft, Grizelda nursed the failing broomstick to cloud base (30 feet), surrounded by green fumes from the back end, which made her look like a small, bilious cumulus cloud. Muttering curses, which missed and so didn’t help her quota, she headed home. Landings could be tricky...

OK, Approach speed 1.3 times stalling speed... Flaps down.. She dropped her skirts and undid her coat.... Here Goesssssssss...

Climbing out of the compost heap she swore, and then swore to get a newer model...

*

Manchester was busy. The day was fine, so instead of sheltering from the rain, the pickpockets and muggers were out and about, practising their viable alternative to paid employment. Our vision is guided to the South of the City, and focuses now on one particular house. Within, life was busy too, although muggings were unlikely as the weekly pocket money had been paid on time. Pocket picking of course remained an option.

"Now, with yer mother ill in hospital after visiting Leeds, there is no way I am going to... can manage to look after you. Playing in a bear pit, or going to Manchester United’s  football ground in a Manchester City scarf would be safer. So, you are both going to stop with your Aunt Dot in The Lake District for the holidays. No option."

A middle-aged father was lecturing his two sullen looking children. It would be tempting at this point to describe the father as tall, moderately good-looking, and an honest and upright person.* Unfortunately he was none of these things, so that temptation can be safely resisted.

[*Attributes of the typical Mancunian.]

The children were in their early teens, and therefore inclined to be moody. The elder of the two, Chris, was trying (though in fact failing) to look dark and interesting like a Northern Marlon Brando, whilst his slightly younger sister, Linda, was still in her tomboy phase. And blonde, another temptation to be resisted.  Both were tall and skinny. The prospect of a holiday in one of the few areas of the UK perceived to have a higher annual rainfall than Manchester seemed to lack appeal to the adolescents.

Dad, are you trying to get rid of us? asked Chris.

No, of course not. I’ve succeeded.

Yeah, but why there? It’s all full of spiders and creepy things.

One of those is Aunt Dot, complained Linda.

But there’s nothing to do, Dad! added Chris.

Yes there is, cleaning up after yer aunt for one thing. I still remember the last time she visited here. Took me ages to shift that last spider.

Is he serious, Linda? I mean, it’s miles to Macdonalds, and the telly is only black and green.

Like yer aunt then, said their dad.

She’s got some creepy horrors there too, complained Linda.

That’s just her mates, replied her dad. You should hear what people say about some of your mates. Better yet, perhaps, they should hear it. Anyway, it will be an experience for you. You’ll come back changed kids.

Yes, replied Chris. Changed into frogs, probably.

Well, she’s the only one prepared to have you.

For tea?

To stay. Anyway, she’s turned the goat out to make room, so you two:  just be grateful.

For a month in an open prison? sulked Linda.

It’s not open. She’s had glass put in the windows now. Anyway, the taxi is here in twenty minutes, so get packing.

Can’t we visit Mum again before we go? asked Linda.

The doctors want her to get better. So no visits, they told me.

*

Right, said the taxi driver. That’s as far as I can be bribed to go.

But the house is right down that lane! muttered Chris.

The teenagers stared down the lane. It was narrow, and unkempt, with weeds growing in the verges. Brought up in Manchester, they were unused to such things, the colour green being normally reserved for graffiti, and growing things for the car parks.

Yep. But, your Auntie, she’s not keen on taxi drivers. The last one to go down there never made it back. The driver leant closer to the kids. But his ghost wanders the lanes, calling as a dreadful warning his last words...

The teenagers, well versed in horror movies, shivered. What could they be?

Oi!  Where’s me tip you witch?

Chris and Linda sat down on their bags as the taxi vanished in an evil smelling cloud, as though the driver had diluted the petrol with something cheap and nasty. Canned lager? All around, clouds rested on the fells, taking a break from dropping rain on the lakes. In front of them, the lane wound south towards the lake, and a small dark cottage that stood on the banks. Chris sighed, and picked up their bags. Let’s get it over with.

Linda nodded.

Gest.. Gerrrt,, Get wha’ over? slurred a voice beside them The children jumped round. A youth peered over the wall next to them, then very slowly fell over into a small but smelly peat bog in the next field.  Bin tryin’ to get this peat to burn, he explained moodily. The Scots an’ Irish do it, so why not me?

Is it the right sort of peat? asked Linda, bemused.

Dunno. Should have asked it, I suppose. Still, can’t expect a bit of bog to tell you straight if you can set fire to it. I’m Ned.

I’m Chris, that’s Linda, and you’re drunk.

No, I’m Ned. Just said that. Bloody kids, never listen. Where are you goin’ then?

Down to the cottage.

Oh, don’t be doin’ that. That Grotbags, she don’t like visitors.

Why?

They don’t fry properly, I suppose. And turnin’ them into frogs doesn’t help. And what she did to the milkman, well it were horrible.

What did she do? asked Chris, fascinated.

Well, she told him the milk were off. Then, when he tried to charge her anyway, she cursed him!

What did she do? Chris wanted to know.

She put spell on him, so he had ter be nice to people. See, it were all right with his customers, but when he went home and was nice ter his wife, well she wouldn’t stand it.  One thing kissing the customers, she said, but I’m not havin’ yer come home and kissing me.  With a mighty heave, Ned got his arms and shoulders over the wall, and treated the children to a gaze, which would have brought tears of joy to any shareholder in Guinness. With a shrug, Chris started down the lane. Linda looked back at Ned.

Why do you call her Grotbags?

The way she dresses. Ned fell back off the wall, and lay there looking like an extra in a disaster movie – after the big scene. Don’t say I didn’t warn yer! he called, scrabbling frantically for his pipe as it settled into the peat. Keep getting bogged down in detail, he grumbled to himself.

*

So there you are at last!  You didn’t have to be so loud, scolded Aunt Dot, opening the door to the cottage.

But we only just opened the garden gate, explained Linda.

That’s no excuse. I nearly ruined an important test. If I had, you two would have had no tea!

Why? asked Linda, who was hungry.*

[* A default state in teenagers.]

Cos it was the curry sauce. Explosive sometimes. Come inside, and take care of the goat.

Why? asked Linda, again.

Cos he’s just road tested the curry, and might need some room to move.

Do goats move fast? asked Chris.

They do if you put a lit match near their whatsit after a plate of vindaloo. You are having the same rooms, the crocodile is quite safe now, the second taxidermist got it properly stuffed at last.

What with?

The first taxidermist, mostly. When you come down, Chris, you can get the fire lit.

Later, with the fire lit and the washing up safely ignored, the three sat by the open window listening to the evening sounds of the small night time creatures going about their business, and the goat’s stomach complaining about the curry. The two children stared at their aunt, who had changed little since their last visit. Just above medium height (if you have an average sized medium of course: the ones who perform on TV always seem to be a bit tall), with long tangled dark hair and clothes that had certainly seen better days, and quite a few better nights as well, she was almost a classic modern version of the traditional forest witch.

Of course, to get Council Building Regulations approval for the cottage she had had to give up on the gingerbread and marzipan as building materials, and she had also cut down on the straw roof (in that case however because the local thatcher was too expensive). But the oven door still shut with a traditional clang and the kitchen remained a place to avoid on safety grounds, not least as a result of the smell, which  contravened some important Biological Warfare Treaties. The sitting room was however comfortably furnished, with a pleasant open fire in the grate and a nice sofa. Occasional chairs also graced the room, and were occasionally sat on by the brave. Prints of elderly relatives, and occult icons hung on the walls, and sometimes it was hard to tell the difference.

So, how’s yer mum? asked their aunt.

Supposed to be getting better, but they won’t let us visit her, complained Linda, who was missing her mother.

That’ll be ‘cos they want her to get well enough to leave hospital. Don’t expect me sister gives the nurses an easy time.

She doesn’t give us an easy time, so why should the doctors get one? muttered Chris.

Where’s Uncle Ben? asked Linda.

Dunno, her aunt replied. Sent him off to do an errand this afternoon, and I suppose he met some of his mates. They don’t seem to like me much. Can’t abide intolerance.

Linda looked at Chris. That was a bit rich, coming from someone who turned visitors into frogs instead of saying ‘Go Away’. Linda picked up a somewhat faded photo of her Uncle. He was dressed simply, in a tatty monk’s cloak (a bad habit he had picked up on his travels) and the angle of the photo emphasised that he was tall, craggily good looking and had a mild expression. (Which could turn bitter if he had too much to drink)  She knew him as good-natured, but reserved, like an old port. [ Probably not Grimsby. Certainly not Hull.]

He’ll be back, said Dot comfortably. And he’d better have what I sent him to the shops for.

But it’s late, said Linda. Shouldn’t we be worried?

Too much like hard work, muttered her aunt.

I tried hard work, but it doesn’t agree with me, put in Chris.

The two females looked unconvinced. To the teenagers’ unease, their aunt leant back in her chair and, her eyes closed, started snorting like a steam train. Nothing magical happened. Instead of entering an eldritch trance, she had dozed off. Linda stood up, and walked to the window. Night was falling, and she could no longer