Frog Read online

  Joffre White was born in Bradford-on-Avon, Wiltshire. He is now a professional trainer and life coach and lives in Frome, Somerset, with his wife and young son.

  FROG

  Joffre White

  Book Guild Publishing

  Sussex, England

  First published in Great Britain in 2010 by

  The Book Guild Ltd

  Pavilion View

  19 New Road

  Brighton, BN1 1UF

  Copyright © Joffre White 2010

  Paperback edition 2011

  Reprinted 2011

  The right of Joffre White to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher or the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Typesetting in Century Schoolbook by Nat-Type, Cheshire

  Printed in Great Britain by CPI Antony Rowe

  A catalogue record for this book is available from The British Library.

  ISBN 978 1 84624 711 8

  ePub ISBN 978 1 90971 671 1

  Mobi ISBN 978 1 90971 672 8

  For Chris, my pride and joy

  Contents

  Prologue

  1 The Orchard

  2 Sir Peacealot

  3 Castellion

  4 Don’t Look Down

  5 Introductions

  6 What’s in a Name?

  7 The Map

  8 Through the Telescope

  9 Secrets of the Scrolls

  10 Going Down

  11 Into the Labyrinth

  12 Pebbles

  13 Fire and Ice

  14 The Earth Sage

  15 Let the Light Free us from Evil

  16 A Dragon’s Revenge

  17 Take me Home

  18 The Blackwater

  19 Lord Maelstrom

  20 Into Lord Maelstrom’s Hands

  21 Don’t Call Me Little

  22 10.38

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Another world. Another dimension ...

  As the sound of birdsong and the musical chinking of his horse’s bridle created a soothing symphony to his ears, a brave knight rode his horse along a woodland track. Sunlight dappled through the trees and reflected off his armour, sending out flashes of light into the surrounding foliage.

  His thoughts turned to the start of his journey. He had been sent on a quest to cleanse the kingdom of three terrible witches who roamed the lands, spoiling harvests, poisoning wells and streams and spreading sickness in any animals and good folk who happened to cross their paths.

  Saleeza, Farella and Belzeera were sisters in wicked witchery. The deadliest of them was Belzeera, for she was a powerful shamanic witch who had long defeated and killed all who had the misfortune to come into contact with her. The knight had taken counsel with the great Wizard Gizmo, who had armed him with various charms and placed protective spells on him. He recalled Gizmo’s parting words.

  ‘Good luck,’ he had said as he watched the knight mount his horse to begin his quest. ‘You’ll jolly well need it!’

  He had been journeying for two days and now followed the directions of some villagers whose livestock had mysteriously dropped dead in the fields while grazing. His horse’s ears suddenly pricked up and he pulled back on the reins to stop their progress. He could hear the low murmur of a woman’s voice coming from somewhere through the shrubbery and he carefully dismounted and drew his sword.

  Saleeza was in a clearing, with her familiar, a jet-black crow perched upon her shoulder. She was stooped over a poor village child whom she had caught out alone gathering berries. With cruel excitement she busied herself tormenting the girl with demonic visions and apparitions; so involved with her own depraved enjoyment that she did not hear the knight coming. With one swift swing of his sword he separated her head from her body (the only sure way to end the life force of a witch who practised the Dark Arts). He also managed to catch the tail feathers of the crow before it flew awkwardly away to refuge in a tree. As he administered a calming potion to the child, the remains of the witch shrivelled and dissolved into nothingness. The crow cawed loudly as it flapped itself away, its ragged backside disappearing over the tree-tops. The knight gathered the girl up into his arms and, safe now, high in the saddle of his horse with him, he returned her to her grateful parents.

  A few days later and further into his quest, his encounter with the second sister was more of a challenge. Farella had been warned of his coming by the crow whose rear end he had de-feathered.

  He had been mounted on his horse, slowly crossing a narrow, but deep river ford. Halfway across he had heard the caw of a crow which sounded like a mocking laugh.

  ‘Cawhawhaw.’

  The crow could not contain its delight in knowing the trap that had been laid for him. This, however, was the knight’s saving, for had he not looked in the crow’s direction he would not have seen the great wall of water silently churning down the river towards him. Those precious few seconds allowed him to spur his horse on and scrabble up the bank. However, the height of the wave was still enough to catch his horse broadside and dismount him, leaving them both to flounder in the aftermath of the water.

  From her hiding place in a large tree which overhung the river, Farella had descended on him with the wailing of a banshee. She flew down on her enchanted hazel branch and leapt at him fiercely before he could stand. She lashed at his face with her long, dirty, venomous nails. He grabbed her wrists, but her strength was powerful and he struggled to force her arms back.

  She was spitting and screaming into his face.

  ‘You killed my sister! I’ll suck your eyes out! I’ll rip out your tongue and deafen your brain!’ Her mouth drooled a green and yellow slime, the stench made him feel faint and darkness was beginning to cloud his eyes as his arms weakened.

  Then, in an instant, she was gone. A wailing screech followed his release and he opened his eyes just in time to see her land heavily in the grass a few metres from him.

  Looking quickly to his side, he saw the still twitching rear legs of his horse, green slime splattered on its hooves from the kick that it had just administered.

  ‘Good fellow, good fellow,’ he said as he rose and drew his broad, shining sword. ‘Go wash that muck off in the river before it does you harm, while I dispatch another witch.’

  As he approached her, the witch was trying to come to her senses, but the horse’s kick had dazed and blinded her. Before she knew of the knight’s presence his sword had swung down in an arc and another head was separated from its owner’s wicked body.

  Sir Peacealot had been travelling the countryside for more than a month after his encounter with Farella and he was beginning to think that his quest would be a lifetime task. The trail for Belzeera had gone cold – no news of her wickedness had reached him, it was as if she had completely disappeared. He thought of returning to the realm of his king to seek further counsel with the Wizard Gizmo and finally resolved to do so the following day. That night he made camp in a clearing at the foot of a waterfall, a full moon dominating the sky above him and its image rippling in the pool fed by the water. The fire that he had made earlier to cook his supper on still crackled and hissed with burning wood which sent sparks dancing up into the night sky. He was staring dreamily into the flames when the presence of evil came.

  W
ithout warning the fire froze and the flames turned ice blue, the air around him became deathly cold. He could see his breath escape him in the night air even though it was a mild summer’s evening. He knew the signs, the Wizard Gizmo had educated him well and so he stood, sword at the ready, with his back to his horse. In an instant the sound of the waterfall was quelled and he looked towards it to see it frozen and suspended in ice. The pool itself was a solid white circle of frost. Nothing moved in the sudden silence.

  Then came a grinding and groaning as the surface of the pool splintered and cracked apart, shards of razorsharp ice flew at him and he shielded his face. From the fissure in the pool rose a large figure, a distorted frozen man, his body creaking and cracking. He clambered onto the bank and towards the knight. The voice, when it came, was mournful.

  ‘The witch Belzeera awaits your company at the ridge of the waterfall. She will grind your bones one by one while you scream your way to death, a sweet revenge for her sisters. That is after I have had the pleasure of administering some cold torture upon you, you feeble knight.’

  The figure drew itself upright to almost twice the knight’s height and directed its vicious icicle fingers towards him. With unexpected speed it moved forwards, intent on piercing his body. Sir Peacealot moved directly at the oncoming figure and at the last moment doubled up and slipped himself between its legs. In one movement and before it could turn, he gripped his sword in both hands and with all his strength drove it upwards and into the frozen body. The result was shattering – literally. As the creature exploded into thousands of fragments it emitted an ear-splitting scream. Sir Peacealot dropped his sword, closed his eyes and clamped his hands over his ears in case he was struck deaf. He waited to be pierced by a thousand daggers of ice. Instead he was drenched in freezing water as the remains of the creature, now harmless, washed over him. He opened his eyes. The pool had returned to normal and as he looked towards the now flowing waterfall, there, hovering in the air above it, was the witch.

  ‘Such a shame that you spoilt my fun. Now it’s time for you to meet your doom. I’ll be waiting for you up here by the willow tree, but hurry, my desire to enjoy your slow demise could soon dissolve and you may meet a swift end where you stand. Either way, you’ll not be taking any more heads after I’ve finished with you. I will avenge my sisters and then I will ravage the land until nothing but misery remains. Your head will sit prettily on the end of my broomstick for all to see!’ She cackled as she disappeared from view.

  The path was steep up to the top of the waterfall but Sir Peacealot’s horse was foot-sure and steady on the rough ground. The knight was now fully attired in his battle armour, his visor raised and his shield ready in case the witch threw an unwelcome object at him.

  As he neared the top of the path, he could see the source of the waterfall, a lake spreading out to his left, its flat surface mirroring the pale, full moon. Ahead of him, standing as a dark silhouette, was the sad-looking, leafless form of a large willow tree, its foliage blackened and lying in heaps on the ground at its base.

  ‘Is nothing left untainted?’ questioned Sir Peacealot sadly to himself.

  The trunk of the tree exploded as though struck by lightning and from the billowing black smoke flew the witch, screaming and wailing with wretched glee. She arched her arm in the air as a fireball formed in her vile, clawed hand and with one swift movement, she released it at him.

  He was ready and brought his shield up to glance the fireball sideways and into the lake where it sizzled and popped before sinking, extinguished and harmless.

  ‘Just something to warm you up, how about some brimstone, you tin fool?’ she cackled as she flew over his head.

  He had just enough time to bring his shield up for protection as the pellets of white-hot sulphur rained down on him, bouncing off the metal to burn furiously in the grass about him.

  ‘You’ll have to try harder than that, you ugly old hag!’ he shouted after her. ‘If you want to prove how good you are, why don’t you come down and face me? Or haven’t you got the nerve that your sisters had?’ he taunted.

  He could sense her growing rage.

  ‘If you’re as powerful as they say you are, you shouldn’t have any problem facing a mere knight like me.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll face you and you’ll stare into my eyes. You’ll see death as it approaches and not be able to stop it. You’ll feel my sisters’ pain ten thousand fold, I’ll boil you alive in that steel suit and serve up that horse of yours in pieces to my goblins!’

  She touched the ground no more than five paces in front of him. The grass withered and blackened around her and a fetid rotting stink filled the air.

  Gathering all his resolve, Sir Peacealot addressed her.

  ‘As you have come to ground, then I shall dismount from my horse and meet you standing, I shall fight as a knight should, with only shield and sword.’

  He dismounted, keeping his eyes firmly on the witch. ‘I ask only one thing,’ he continued as he settled himself before her. ‘That you let my steed go; he has been faithful and deserves no merciless end.’

  The witch grinned her wicked smile. ‘You expect mercy? You expect too much!’

  She reached up and flicked the black feather which curved from the brim of her hat. In an instant, three dark, needle shapes flew forwards and past the knight. He turned and his eyes followed their path. All three pierced his horse’s chest and without a sound it closed its eyes and collapsed to the ground, dead.

  ‘There’s your mercy,’ she jibed. ‘And you’ll be begging for such a swift end for yourself pretty soon.’

  Rage gathered inside Sir Peacealot’s heart and it took all of his focus to control it. He knew that if he allowed his emotions to rule his actions then he would surely be doomed. Up until this moment he had been carrying out his duties for his king and the good folk of the realm – now it was personal. Avenging his noble and trusty steed would make destroying the demonic creature all the more satisfying.

  He knelt on one knee as if in prayer.

  She mocked him. ‘Call upon whatever god you like, you fool, there is no one who can help you now, my black arts have the power of my brother, the Dark Lord himself, and soon I will path the way for his return by darkening the skies and scouring the earth.’

  He knew that if he could distract her, make her too confident, then he would have the advantage and so he encouraged her to rail and screech.

  ‘What makes you so sure that you will meet his expectations, you old crone?’ he goaded.

  ‘You dare to question my abilities?’ she spat.

  As she lectured him and cursed him with all manner of profanities he quickly took advantage. He reached inside his breastplate and found the cloth bag given to him by the Wizard Gizmo. Turning his shield towards him he tore the cloth open and smeared the contents across its shiny surface. He stood, pulled his visor down and unsheathed his sword, bringing it up to cut through the cloth in his gauntleted hand so that the blade was drawn through the material from hilt to tip.

  She railed on at him. ‘I see that you are eager to meet your end, but I am afraid I will have to disappoint you. I have a much slower death in mind for you; let’s see if we can relieve you of a few limbs first!’ Her hand curled in mid-air and a green glowing orb appeared in her fingers. ‘This has the power to slice though steel, let’s see how you stand with a leg missing, you clanking pile of waste.’

  He was right. She was too confident and he was ready for her.

  The orb flew from her hand and towards him; he dropped on one knee again but brought the shield across and struck the sickly green object to one side. No steel was sliced; the orb fizzed and then imploded on itself, vanishing with a final ‘crack!’

  She shrieked with a mixture of surprise and rage. ‘What trickery is this? What fool thinks they can defeat me with lesser magic?’

  She threw another orb and another, and each time he deflected them with his shield to the same end. Her rage increased with each second;
she spat curses and chants at him, but to no effect – he was for a while protected by the Wizard Gizmo’s preparations and secret sorcery.

  Thunder rattled overhead as she raised her hands skywards, summoning forces of death and destruction. Two lightning bolts struck the earth in front of her. Chanting an incantation, she dug her clawed hands into the blackened ground which boiled and gave off a sickly colour through her fingers. The orb that she gradually shaped was much larger than the previous ones, its green much darker and more vile and, as Sir Peacealot watched, it seemed to pulsate and throb. He summoned all his remaining strength and courage just to stop his legs from giving way under him.

  ‘You want to play with magic, you little man?’ she jibed at him through black and wicked teeth. ‘Your fate is for your body to be split into pieces and those pieces will be spread across time and space, forever searching for your soul and mind. Prepare for your endless torment!’

  Both of her hands raised the pulsating mass above her head and with a mixture of fury and glee she hurled it at him.

  The orb was an arms-length away when he sliced through it with his sword and everything from that moment was as if in slow motion. One half of the orb spun from the sword and struck his shield which reflected it back towards the witch who now seemed frozen to the spot, unable to move, her mouth open in a silent scream as her own creation of destruction streaked back and struck her body. Sir Peacealot’s shield exploded into pieces while the other half of the orb attached itself to his sword, slowly melting into it and causing the blade to shimmer and fade from a sickly green colour to a bright electric blue; golden runes appeared along the length of the blade.

  His last memory was of being engulfed by the bright blue light from his sword and the sight of the witch becoming transparent as she produced a small wand in her hand and, pointing it at him, shrieked a curse just before she stretched into nothingness and disappeared.

  ‘Know this foolish knight, by my last powers I cast you into the sleep of time and other worlds, but one day, past or future, I’ll find you, for all the white magic since the time of knowledge will not keep me imprisoned and I’ll reap my revenge!’