ON HOLD

A sixteen-year-old, a race of angry Norse gods, and a volley of monsters all racing to reconstruct Excalibur: does it even matter who the victor is when the result is invariably Ragnarok?

*

These are the things that he thinks he knows: 

- His name is Owen Grace 

- He's 16 years old 

- He's an average British teenager, neither overtly failing nor succeeding in life



These are the things he doesn't know:

- None of this is true

It all happened in the blink of an eye. Owen heard 'him' when no one else could. And 'he' held Owen's entire life hostage - or, at least, the memories he didn't know were missing. The only way to retrieve them was by aiding an ancient and clandestine order known simply as ‘The Riders’ in the collection and reconstruction of the shattered, legendary sword, Excalibur. As if that weren't outlandish enough, the voice only continued with his inexplicable assertions; not only does it claim that The Order of the Riders was created by the gods, but the young amnesiac also possesses a strong blood-link to their enemy, the giants, and the only way to understand why, is by betraying the only family he seems to have left.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Wanna chat? Hit me up here: 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Like what you've read so far? Check out my other ongoing story 'Hallowed Be'

Fool's Gossamer

I kept my grin hidden as the eight ball cleanly disappeared into the corner pocket. Marc wasn’t so quiet about it, but he never was. I didn’t care much, though. Easy money was easy money – it was worth listening to Marc’s orchestra of cheering if I got fifty pounds out of it. 


“Beginners luck,” the man standing on the other side of the table mumbled. 


“For the past three games?” Marc snickered. “Sure, mate. Oi, how ‘bout this, though – add thirty to the pot and we’ll consider a rematch. Winner takes all.” 


I straightened, setting the pool stick on the edge of the table. 


“Make it twenty,” the man countered. “And then you’ve got yourself a rematch.” 


“Twenty’ll do for me,” Marc agreed, elbowing me excitedly. “How ‘bout for you, old boy?” 


“That’s the spirit!” He chortled, turning to me with a reinvigorated sense of superiority. “I’m gonna go grab me a pint. Want anything?” 


“I’m alright.” I could’ve gotten away with it, especially with Marc buying - and it wasn’t as if I didn’t want it - but it was already half past eight. There was absolutely no way I was going to finish a game, deal with post-victory Marc babble, and make it home in a half an hour. It was just bad humor to come home late and buzzed. One poison at a time was more than enough. 


“You sure?” Marc furrowed his brow. 


I cocked a grin at him. “One of us has to be able to hit the cue.” 


He slapped my arm lightheartedly. “Damn right. Alright then, hold the table for us, then. Be back in a tick.” 


“Ya best be,” I muttered, glancing towards the clock. I shouldn’t have agreed to another game, but the easy win was too enticing. Still, Aunt Alice would kill me when she found out, and she would find out. She always did. 


I turned, taken by the tone of familiarity in the otherwise unfamiliar voice. I cocked an eyebrow. 


He was a younger man, mid-twenties maybe, with a mischievous look about him. He flashed me a feral grin before leaning up against the billiards table beside me, casually. My gut pulled and the hair on the back of my neck prickled at his proximity. 


“I don’t know why,” he began, his grin reaching his voice, the undertone of seemingly uncalled for excitement seeping through. It only made my gut twist all the more. “But we haven’t met yet. I’m Erik. Seems to me like you’ve got yourself the attention of the rider.” 


“The what?” I questioned, narrowing my eyes at him. 


He cocked a brow, confusion flitting across his expression, but, after a beat, he released an amused chuckle. 


“You had me there for a second, mate!” 


Mate? What the hell was with this guy? 


“You know, it’s not too often someone goes under my radar,” he continued. “But you’re seriously sneaky.” 


“I…” I furrowed my brow. This guy wasn’t acting drunk and nor did he smell like he’d had anything – yet. I sort of wished he was. “Thank you?” 


He laughed. “So what're you doing here?” 


I opened my mouth, poising my question. 


“Hush now. Do as exactly as I advise or I swear you will wish you had.”


Babels of Bedlam - Part 5