Mr. Jennings awoke to the rumbling of the ground that shook apart the earthly pit he’d landed in. He was sure he had broken a bone or two. Wet leaves and muck covered his lanky body. His pain and discomfort angered him further. In one desperate attempt, he tried to lift himself up out of the pit, but his weakened state wouldn’t allow it. Falling onto his back, Mr. Jennings started screaming in agony, unknowingly alerting the remaining predators of the forest that howled in response.
“Help me! Somebody!” he cried repeatedly in between his grunts and moaning.
Something drew near. The sounds of the wolves’ movements and howling ceased as if they’d suddenly evaporated in the mist.
Five wolves silently scavenged, in stealth-like coordination, crawling beside him, until the leader claimed its territory above his head. Mr. Jennings knew they’d found him when he felt warm heavy breaths tickle the few hairs on the back of his balding head. A few crows nested on the towering branches above, goggling down at him, awaiting their meal of leftovers after the inevitable attack. The eyes of the wolves reflected the shimmering light of the moon. Six lights twinkled out of the darkness, revealing three of the wild beasts.
Mr. Jennings couldn’t contain his fear any longer and started to weep loudly. Soon, other wolves gathered, snapping at one another over their dinner.
“Please, I don’t want to die like this,” he cried, after one wolf seized the moment and dared to be the first of the pack to take a bite, sinking its razor sharp white fangs into Mr. Jennings’ ankle. His screams were so high pitched they could have been heard over half of Warwickshire.
“Get off, beast!” he screamed, springing to a sitting position.
The rumbling grew louder. Then the two nine-foot assassins marched through the forest toward him, trampling everything in their path. The wolves shifted their attention away from Mr. Jennings to gaze upon the giant assassins. The leader of the pack instinctively bared its teeth at the approaching threat.
Mr. Jennings looked around for any sign of the angry mob he’d led into the forest before realizing their disloyalty was certain. He’d been left to die, to be eaten by wild beasts or something worse.
The leader of the wolf pack charged at the armored assassin to protect his meal. Without much effort (a tap really), the assassin brushed the wolf away from its sight as a human would a fly. The injured wolf fell down and limped into the woods, swiftly followed by the rest of its pack. Mr. Jennings was left to face the deadlier assassins alone.
“Stay back. Stay back, I say.” He coughed, trying to climb out of the small grave-like ditch.
The cloaked assassin stomped impatiently over to him and picked the old man off of his feet.
“Don’t eat me!” Mr. Jennings yelled, his legs shaking in thin air, trying to kick with what little energy they had left in them. “Who are you? What are you?”
“We want the Children of Aba-sssin,” the assassin hissed like a serpent.
“Oh, dear heavens, your breath is worse than mine,” Mr. Jennings said. “I didn’t think that was possible,” he added quite boldly, proud of his rotted tonsils.
“Silence!” ordered his capturer, squeezing him by the neck. “Bring us to The Three That Are One,” the cloaked beast said while Mr. Jennings gasped for air.
“Three That Are One? I do not teach mathematics, you overgrown bean can,” Mr. Jennings wheezed, his ego getting in the way of his common sense.
“Do you know the Children of Aba-sssin, petty human?” the armored assassin asked.
“I-I…I can’t tell you if you won’t release me…bean can,” Mr. Jennings muttered, forcing his insult out loud once more.
The cloaked assassin promptly tossed the old man into the clutches of its partner, like a rag doll. This time, Mr. Jennings was held upside down.
“Tell me now or I will drop you on your head,” growled the armored assassin as he swung Mr. Jennings back and forth.
“Ah…okay…okay. I don’t know them personally. They’re my pupils. Please, don’t kill me. I can help you find them,” he begged.
The armored assassin looked into Mr. Jennings’ hard, worn face.
“The Three That Are One…they are students of yours, treacherous human?” it growled again. “You teach the enemy!”
“No, that’s not what I meant,” Mr. Jennings said.
“Crafts against His Majesty!” snapped the cloaked assassin.
“I’m on your side. I hate the little brats!” Mr. Jennings smiled unconvincingly.
“Liar,” the armored beast whispered eerily to his captive. “You teach the Children of Aba-sssin to fight against our King.”
“No. I wasn’t trying to help them…honest. I agree with you charming gentlemen…I mean, gentle-bean cans,” Mr. Jennings said.
Both beasts began to cackle at the pathetic captive pleading for his life.
“You don’t look as if you would be much use out on the battlefield, human,” the cloaked assassin said, laughing.
The armored assassin gave Mr. Jennings a stern look seconds before flinging him back to his original capturer. Held by the scruff of his jacket, the humiliated principal looked like an entangled puppet.
“Now this is just getting ridiculous,” Mr. Jennings grunted.
“The children have many powers, foolish human,” said the cloaked assassin.
“Powers? My boys? Are you sure about that?” Mr. Jennings giggled.
“Do not mock us, human worm!” the armored assassin warned, pointing its finger at him.
“Well, I could hang around here all day with you chaps, or we could stop babbling nonsense and go find the little scrappers,” Mr. Jennings suggested tensely.
At this point the beasts started to talk amongst themselves in a language that Mr. Jennings could not comprehend.
“He’s a wasteful human, Thestor, diseased and dying. Leave him for the carnivores of these lands. He’s of no use to the Master,” said the cloaked assassin, glancing back and forth between Mr. Jennings and its counterpart.
Thestor silently shook his head in disagreement.
“His soul has escaped him, and his heart is empty. I rather like this uncaring, devious excuse for human fodder. If nothing else, he can wash the warts off my back and help with the other slaves in the dungeons, if he survives the transition. He’ll be my wart scrubber.”
Both beastly assassins looked at the pathetic man and began to laugh at him when the cloaked assassin handed Mr. Jennings over to its counterpart.
“Very well, my ugly pet; I’m sure we can make some use of you…if the Master lets you live,” Thestor sniggered.
Unknowingly, Mr. Jennings laughed together with his new villainous brethren in relief that his life had been spared.
In one movement, Thestor abruptly threw Mr. Jennings onto his back, preparing him for their lengthy flight into the unknown. “Make yourself comfortable up there, peasant, you might have to get used to it, if you’re very lucky.” Both assassins roared with laughter.
“Where are we going?” Mr. Jennings asked in sheer fright, gripping the steel armor on the assassin’s back.
Thestor gave a warning look over his shoulder. “Not another word from you, slug,” he growled. He took off from the ground at great speed. Mr. Jennings screamed like a little girl (revealing his fear of heights), digging his fingernails into the rusted grip points in the assassin’s armor.
The darkened clouds opened their mouths, showing razor-elongated teeth. A bright blinding light shone out from the gateway, increasing the coldness upon their faces. Mr. Jennings’s stomach turned as sulphuric smells flew out at him, attacking his nostrils and clouding his senses. His weak heart slowed to a mere crawl when he slipped into unconsciousness. Luckily for Mr. Jennings, the freezing temperatures had covered the black steel armor in a thick layer of sticky frost that kept his body attached to the flying assassin.
Seconds after his mind faded out of consciousness, the mouth of the vortex opened up, revealing the blinding cold light. Unbeknownst to him, Mr. Jennings was now a prisoner, belonging to the assassin he rode on.
After they entered through the vortex, it evaporated, leaving behind a great patch of gloomy colors in the skyline over Warwickshire. The new brethren of villains had crossed their gateway in pursuit of the three human children who had arrived on the other side of their own gateways…each awaiting his fate.