Ellen Under The Stairs

Book #3 in the Bandworld Series

John G. Stockmyer

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 John G. Stockmyer

Discover other titles by John G. Stockmyer at
www.johnstockmyer.com/books

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this free ebook.
You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be
reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes,
provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you
enjoyed this book, please return to Smashwords.com to discover
other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

* * * * *

About this Smashwords Edition

This version of the book you are reading is a
product of the automatic file-conversion process used at
Smashwords.com. As a result, much of the original formatting has
been stripped out, or simplified. If you want to read a version
that looks much more like a traditional printed book (with a table
of contents, proper chapter breaks, and text formatted for maximum
readability), you may get it (for free) from the author's web site.
To download the lovingly hand-coded version of this book in .epub
or .mobi format, visit the author's web site at
www.johnstockmyer.com/books

NOTE:
This is the third of 10+ books
in the Bandworld Series. Book #1 is
Under The Stairs
. Book
#2 is
Back Under The Stairs
. The first three books are free.
The other books in the series can be purchased for $5.00 each at
the author's web site.

* * * * *

Cover Art: Peter Ziomek

Peter Ziomek is a graphic designer, comic
book artist and instructor in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Peter
received his B.S. in Graphic Design from Eastern New Mexico
University in Portales, New Mexico. He lived in Chicago for 14
years before moving to New Mexico in 1995. He is currently the Vice
President and active creator with the New Mexico self publishers
group 7000 B.C. He uses a combination of digital and traditional
media to create works that range in style from cartoon to
realistic. Influences include two-dimensional patterns, the
original Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle comics, The Simpson's comics,
Jeff Smith's Bone and brother Paul Ziomek. He is currently
co-creating an all-ages comic book entitled "Fakin' the Funk" with
Paul Ziomek. You can check out Peter's work at:
www.overthetopcomics.com
and
www.7000bc.com
.

Ebook Conversion: John L. Stockmyer

John L. Stockmyer is an Associate Professor
of Marketing at Eastern New Mexico University in Portales, New
Mexico. In his spare time, he dabbles in ecommerce, audio-book
production and eBook design. He is also an avid disc golfer. His
current ambition is to help talented "undiscovered" authors (like
his dad) find an audience through the use of non-traditional media
and innovative technology. Thank you for helping us shake up the
publishing industry!

* * * * *

Pfnaravin cursed! Above and ahead of
him, echoing along the sweating stone corridor of this crumbling
pile called Hero Castle came the shouts of soldiers, the dogs of
war Pfnaravin had unleashed on the pretend-Mage of Stil-de-grain,
John-Lyon.

John-Lyon with the green eyes and
yellow hair of that abominable other land, was headed for the stone
turret room, the gateway between worlds.

Pfnaravin allowed himself a
pinched-mouth smile.

There could be little doubt that,
running with the false Mage were the men who'd freed him. The
sailor, Coluth, who John-Lyon had dubbed Admiral. Possibly the
girl, Platinia.

As Pfnaravin flogged his old man's
bones to limp after the soldiers' shouts, he thought about the
girl.

Small. Slender. Dark.

Did she have a kind of sorcery? The
marrow of him said so.

Not that it mattered. Pfnaravin,
Crystal-Mage of Malachite, would soon have both of them within his
power!

Pfnaravin cursed again! Even though
the green Crystal at his neck thrummed with dark Wizardry, he felt
... tired.

Age.

A thing to be feared, even by a
Crystal-Mage.

The tingle of Crystal force spidering
his skin, Pfnaravin clawed his way forward, the ox-hide soles of
his boots scraping the rough stone floor. Though lightly robed, the
thrill of the chase protected him from the castle's
chill.

Up, ever up, he trailed his human
hounds. Past silent rooms, his path lighted by the cool flames of
the eternally burning torches angled near the stone hallway's
ceiling.

Excited shouts ahead; the bark of dogs
who'd treed their prey!

The chase near it's end, Pfnaravin
allowed himself a hint of smile, deep lines splitting his cheeks
into leathered plates.

So near, yet ... so out of
breath.

Gasping in the castle's rancid air,
brushing his long, grey hair from his faded eyes, he was thankful
to be in a lighter pulling place like Stil-de-grain, than in his
home Band of Malachite.

Even with less Band sickness, he'd be
exhausted after this business was concluded.

Pausing to catch his breath, he
smelled old dust and creeping rot in this little used
corridor.

Ahead, a cry!

Fingering up the iron chain around his
neck, the Mage stroked the smooth circle of his flat green Gem. To
build more power.

His beloved Crystal! Newly restored to
him!

Since the young Mage ahead had somehow
lost the gold Disk of Stil-de-grain, the youth's only power lay in
knowledge of the other world, a place replacing magic with
machines. While trapped there, great as he was, Pfnaravin could
work no wonders -- even simple Wizardry that slaveys could perform.
Fire magic. Cooking magic. Nor was there healing in the light of
that place, its illumination coming, not from a revolving eye at
world center, but from a blazing circle in the sky!

Again! This time, a scream!

Warned, Pfnaravin barely crept ahead,
his white robe of Cinnabar silk pooling about his feet, the moist
corridor pinching in, its grimy ceiling dipping low.

Rounding a bend, he saw his squad of
soldiers up ahead. Found them mysteriously stopped -- a pile of
blazing fire stones back-lighting them in the narrow
hall.

No. Not fire stones!

Approaching cautiously, the old Mage
saw that the tongues of fire ate chairs, tables, dressers. Saw,
then smelled, what the other world had taught him was called
smoke.

Lying in shadow at the sides of the
corridor, he noticed other soldiers, dressed in the short, white
tunics of the Stil-de-grain military, the men moaning, their skin
red, blistered.

In a flash, it came to him! They had
confronted otherworldly fire! Flames that spit out a terrible heat
--- a threat to man and beast!

Ten. Fifteen soldiers stood as if
paralyzed before this unknown magic.

One turned. Whirled back to shout, "It
is the Mage!," all looking, their eyes wild with fear.

"Stand at attention!" Pfnaravin
commanded, the men straightening, the force of his presence
steadying them.

"Great Lord," stammered the troop's
white-faced officer, "We can go no farther. The Mage we pursue has
built here a great magic!"

"Fools!," cried Pfnaravin "He is a
Mage no longer. The hot flames before you are a trick, nothing
more."

"But ...."

"Notice that this fire eats only wood
and cloth. When the wood is gone, this fire dies with
it."

The soldiers' looks told him they were
unconvinced, their eyes staring.

"It is unlike the cool fire of magic,"
Pfnaravin continued, pointing at a torch glowing near the cramped
ceiling. "This fire burns with heat, yes. But it is
impermanent."

What Pfnaravin kept to himself was
that the fire-phenomenon before them could consume the world!, the
young Mage dangerous, even without his stolen Crystal.

"You ... and you!" Pfnaravin stabbed a
twisted finger at the nearest men. "Search back along the corridor
for other furnishing. Bring chairs to use to push this fire from
the corridor into a side-room ahead. If you refrain from touching
these flames, they cannot harm you."

Eager to retreat from the raging fire,
the solders sprang to do the Mage's bidding, returning with chairs
and tables.

"Use what you have brought as shields.
Push them against the fire ahead. Clear a path!"

Moving forward reluctantly, testing
carefully to confirm that, if they avoided the flames they would
feel no pain, the squad began to push the burning furniture parts
to either side, making a path down the corridor's
center.

"Now!" Pfnaravin shouted, ordering the
pack to move ahead.

Too frightened of him to disobey, the
group's commander edged forward to mince through the hole, the
others finding the courage to follow, Pfnaravin
trailing.

Past the dying fire, at full run
again, rounding a final crimp in the narrow hall, the soldiers
thumped into the tower room, Pfnaravin striding after them, the
lead soldiers slipping to a stop on the room's wet-moss floor, the
circular room more turret than tower, its thick walls incised with
wedges, arrow-slits chiseled to the outside.

The room glowed from the golden sky of
Stil-de-grain, light shafts streaming through a jagged hole in the
room's ceiling.

The yellow color of this band's light
still apt to take him unawares, Pfnaravin realized how much he
missed the bright green firmament of his home Band. Missed
Malachite heat.

As for the heavier pull of the
Malachite Band ....

Pfnaravin wrenched his mind from those
distant thoughts.

Returning to the present, a glance
told him the room was ... empty ... roofing tiles shattered to the
floor. Since the room had a single entry point, it was clear the
fugitives had vanished through the roof hole.

In a rage at the realization his prey
had escaped, Pfnaravin pointed the stiffened fingers of both hands
to unleash a Crystal-blast of electro psychic power, the green bolt
careening off the walls, cracking out chips of stone, the
lightning-stroke striking down a soldier who had strayed from the
pack.

No matter. The fighter's dismembered
body would remind the others of the deadly force an enraged
Crystal-Mage could command.

Quieting, the Mage saw, as in a
vision, what had happened. Those who had freed John-Lyon from
Pfnaravin's iron cage were Coluth's sailors, sailors never far from
ropes, all escaping through the roof-hole.

Yes! On the floor was the rope, a
grapnel at one end.

No .....

The Mage stroked his disk to extend
his Crystal-enhanced senses.

Though some had climbed the rope,
John-Lyon had not, his bag of otherworldly tricks including passage
... home. Even without his golden Crystal, the former Mage had
built enough transformation fluid to bridge the gap between the
worlds.

For a moment, Pfnaravin thought of
using Crystal-generation to follow ..... But only for a
moment.

Muttering to himself, he shook his
head.

Even such thoughts were dangerous. For
in that other place he would be powerless, Mage Crystals unable to
leave this world. He would again be trapped there. Subject to
aging. And to what were called diseases.

No!

A sobering thought. While Pfnaravin
must remain, John-Lyon could journey between worlds if he
wished.

To stop the young Mage from returning,
Pfnaravin would order slaveys to seal this room's only
passage!

And yet .....

A smile creased the hardened
face-plates of the wizened sage.

To find his lost Crystal, John-Lyon
must return, and to this room, the gateway between
worlds.