The Twilight Realm

by Christopher Evans

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Hard Science Fiction

Synopsis

It's just a fantasy role-playing game. Until the game becomes reality . . . Friday night is games night. But one special Friday, Paul and his four friends are transported into the heart of their own game, to the strange, bleak land of Xhandarre . . . Where reality vanishes, and the five players assume new and exciting identities - with new and exciting power. Where hostile tree dwellers, predatory birds, and flesh-eating werewolves lash out from darkened shadows. And where the evil sorcerer Avron Kromar holds the key to freedom. Can Paul and his friends survive their strange, new world? Can they escape its treacherous dangers? And if they can escape, do they really want to return to reality? (First published in 1985 as by Christopher Carpenter)

Release date: September 29, 2011

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 233

Sample

FRIDAY NIGHT WAS GAMES NIGHT.

Downstairs in the cellar, Teresa and Willie had already arrived. Paul Kinnersley was in the kitchen above his uncle’s shop,
making coffee for his friends. It was approaching seven o’clock, and soon Kate and Justin would arrive and their numbers would
be complete. Every week the five of them gathered in the cellar to fight wizards and witches and weird creatures of every
description.


It was a bright July evening, but across the landing a light was burning inside his uncle’s bedroom, as if he had drawn the
curtains against the sun. Paul went to the door and tapped on it. There was no response. He tapped again.


“Yes?” Ivor Kinnersley said in a distracted tone.

“I’m making coffee,” Paul said. “Do you want any?”

“No. Not now.”

Paul retreated to the kitchen, knowing from his uncle’s tone of voice that he did not want to be disturbed. Over the past
year his uncle Ivor had become increasingly solitary and eccentric, locking himself inside his room for hours at a time. Paul knew
that he had become interested in spiritualism and often conducted one-man seances in the hope of contacting his dead wife;
sometimes he could hear his uncle mumbling unintelligibly to himself behind his locked door. At other times a distant look
would appear on his face, almost as if he were seeing the world for the first time. Paul had begun to wonder if his uncle
were going senile, and he didn’t know what to do.


He put the coffee on a tray with a plate of cookies and carried them down the narrow stairway. His uncle’s shop, which was
called Enigma Variations, sold everything from jigsaw puzzles and sets of Monopoly to Rubik cubes and the latest computer
video games. It lay in a Soho sidestreet, sandwiched between a pizza parlor and a seedy bookshop. His uncle had owned the
place for over twenty years, and had doggedly resisted lucrative offers from developers who wanted to buy up the shop. The
Kinnersley family had lived in that part of London for generations, and they had no desire to move elsewhere.


A wide-angle mirror high in one corner of the shop gave Paul’s reflection a swollen-headed appearance. He wore Levi’s and
a dark blue shirt. Today was actually his eighteenth birthday, though he had told no one about it and his uncle had evidently
forgotten. He hadn’t liked to remember any of his birthdays since the death of his cousin, Brian.


Paul descended a second flight of stairs to the cellar. Willie and Teresa were already sitting at the table, discussing the
progress of their latest adventure. Willie, tall and hugely built, was still wearing his pea jacket, while short, plump Teresa
was dressed in denim dungarees over an army surplus shirt. They were studying their character sheets and comparing notes.
When they had adjourned last week, Justin had succeeded in trapping both of them in a labyrinth where they were under threat
from a fire-breathing minotaur.


“Coffee’s up,” Paul said, putting the tray down on the table. He had made five cups in anticipation of Kate and Justin’s arrival.

Teresa took hers, putting three spoonfuls of sugar into it.


“How’s work?” Paul asked her.

“Hectic as usual,” she told him. “I spent most of the afternoon dyeing a seventeen-year-old boy’s hair all the colors of the
rainbow. He’s an apprentice with a firm of accountants.”


“That should go down well in the office.”

“That’s just the idea. He hates the job and wants to give his boss the excuse to sack him. How’s business?”

“Slow but steady. I think my uncle’s grooming me in absentia to take over the shop full-time. He hasn’t emerged from his room all day.”


“In absentia. Sounds like you’ve been boning up on your Hindustani again.”


Paul smiled and reddened a little; the others often teased him for his academic leanings. They were all old classmates, and
none of them had been able to understand why he had not gone to a university but had left school at seventeen to work in his
uncle’s shop. He had a very good reason, in fact, but it was not something he felt he could explain to anyone.


“Help yourself,” he said to Teresa, passing the cookies.

“Not for me,” she replied, patting her midriff. “I’m stuffed.”

Teresa had come directly from her parents’ house after polishing off a large plate of fish and chips followed by a cream doughnut
and a chocolate eclair. She was squat and freckled, with a cheerful disposition and a sweet tooth that was irresistible. She
ate with gusto because she knew there was no point in doing anything else; even if she dieted and took up regular exercise
she could never become one of those beautiful, willowy creatures who adorned shampoo advertisements or modeled designer jeans.
She could never be beautiful no matter what she did, because she was broad and large-boned and had a nose which had spread
too far over her face, and ears which jutted out just a little bit too much for comfort. But she tried to be philosophical
about her shortcomings, and usually maintained an air of bluff good-humor. At the hairdressers’ she was popular with the customers,
who generally preferred her relaxed line in chatter to the more aloof elegance of the other two assistants.


“You sure I can’t tempt you?” Paul asked.


“You could. But I just don’t have the room. Besides, I think Willie’s cornered the market.”

Willie was cramming chocolate cookies into his mouth, but he immediately stopped, looking guilty, and made to push the plate
across the table to them. In his haste he fumbled, and the plate was knocked to the floor.


Willie sprang up, wanting to recover the spilled cookies. There was a crunch and a cracking sound: he had trodden on the plate
and broken it.


He stared glumly and helplessly at Paul.

“Don’t worry,” Paul said. “These things happen.”

Willie insisted on clearing up the mess himself. The broken plate and cookies were dumped into a wastebasket under the table.
Willie still looked abashed.


“It was only a plate,” Teresa told him. “It’s not the end of the world.”

Willie simply shrugged awkwardly.

Paul, always uncomfortable with other people’s embarrassment, said, “How’s your mum?”

“She’s all right,” Willie said.

“Any luck on the job front?”

“Yeah. I’ve got an audition with the Royal Ballet.”

It was one of his few jokes, and it reflected a certain sense of desperation. Willie had been unemployed for most of the time
since leaving school at seventeen. He had managed to get only temporary menial jobs, none of which had lasted more than a
few weeks.


Willie knew what the problem was. He was big and he looked dumb and couldn’t always get his words out as quickly as he’d like,
so most people took him for an idiot. Sometimes when he told them that he had passed five “O” Level exams they’d give him
a look of disbelief, and at that moment he’d know there was no chance of his getting the job. He’d never claim to be a genius;
but he wasn’t exactly stupid either.


Willie was tall enough to have hit his head on many lintels, and he habitually ducked when entering a room. He had reached six feet at the age of fourteen, and was now six feet three. He always walked with a slight stoop, as if to deny his
height.


At school Willie had been a star rugby player, the ball nestling easily in his large hands, his powerful body making him an
asset in any scrum. He had played prop forward for London Schools in several regional tournaments and had acquitted himself
well. He’d often reflected that if he’d been born in America he probably would have gotten a football scholarship and would
now be in college, with lots of girls cheering him on every time he stepped out on the field. Instead he was stuck in a poky
flat in the middle of London, with no job and a bedridden mother to look after. The only way of making ends meet was by not
doing anything that cost money. His weekly visits to Paul’s were the sum total of his social life.


But Willie wasn’t bitter; he didn’t blame anyone. Times were tough and there were a lot of people worse off than him. At least
he had real friends in Paul and Teresa and Kate and Justin. The five of them had all been close at school, and they’d stuck
together afterward. He also had his mother, who hadn’t been well for years and who depended on him to look after her: he prepared
her meals, did the washing, kept the house clean, and so on; it made him feel useful.


The doorbell rang at that moment and Paul went to answer it.

Through the glass he could see Kate, wearing a summer dress of buttercup yellow. When he opened the door he saw that she was
breathless and a little flustered.


“Is Justin here?” she asked.

“Not yet,” Paul said.

“Have you heard from him?”

Paul shook his head. “Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing. It’s just that I was supposed to meet him at six outside the Swiss Centre in Leicester Square. I waited over
half an hour, but he didn’t show up. I thought he might have come straight here.”


“You know Justin—he’s always late.”

Kate nodded, trying to appear unconcerned. But her words belied her expression: “I haven’t seen him in three days.”


“Perhaps he’s been busy. Hasn’t he got exams?”

“Not until September. He hardly ever rings me.”

Justin was studying economics at Kingston Polytechnic. Kate and he had been going out together ever since their last year
at school, but it hadn’t been plain sailing. He was often late for their dates, and on occasions had not shown up at all.
With his handsome looks and his fast line in patter, Justin had always been popular with women, and it was Kate’s secret fear
that he was dating other girls when she wasn’t around.


Privately she felt that she was as much to blame for Justin’s offhand attitude toward her as Justin was himself. Her trouble
was that if she was concerned or anxious she couldn’t help showing it. And Justin took advantage of this, playing on her insecurity
and her faithfulness toward him. Paul had often counseled her that she should try to cultivate more independence and detachment
in order to whet Justin’s appetite for her. She was attractive and personable and ought to have more confidence in herself.
She knew Paul was right and she had tried her best, but wherever Justin was concerned she simply couldn’t keep her feelings
in check.


Kate was slim and pretty, with a head of long, honey-blond hair. She worked as a trainee nurse at the Charing Cross Hospital
in Hammersmith, and in her professional duties she was efficient and able, showing none of the self-doubts which she exhibited
in her private life. She had dealt singlehandedly with blood-soaked wounds and epileptic attacks, and was not averse to disputing
a doctor’s diagnosis or arguing her case with a more senior nurse. She enjoyed her work, and was determined to make a success
of her career. It was a source of some irritation to her that she was not able to display the same confidence in her relationship
with Justin.


“Teresa and Willie are here,” Paul said. “I’m sure Justin won’t be long.”

Directly overhead, Paul could hear his uncle shuffling around like an old man. Ivor Kinnersley was in his late forties, but he looked twenty years older, the loss of his son Brian and then his wife having taken its toll on him. His hair had turned
almost white and his face was haggard. Paul could scarcely look at it without feeling a pang of guilt. He blamed himself.


He and Kate went downstairs. The cellar was bare and unfurnished apart from the table and five chairs; its plastered walls
were cracked and grimy with neglect. It was windowless, lit by a single bare electric bulb which hung from the ceiling. The
place had once been used as a storeroom for old furniture, but now all that remained was a large and ancient gilt-edged mirror
which was propped up against a wall. The mirror had once stood in Ivor Kinnersley’s bedroom, but he had banished it there
after his wife’s death. The cellar’s air of abandonment provided just the right kind of atmosphere for their games, making
it seem as if they were huddled in some secret chamber.


While they waited for Justin to arrive, the four chatted about their current adventure—a quest to recover the Wand of the
Worldmage which had been stolen by a villainous hobgoblin. The game had been devised by Justin, and they called it Axes and
Enchanters, reflecting the brutal and sorcerous dangers which they faced on their quest. Justin was the guiding force behind
the adventure, planning the campaign and constantly presenting them with threats and dilemmas on which the very lives of their
fantasy characters might depend.


The five of them had become interested in role-playing games during their final year at school. At first they had played the
variety of games which were already on the market, but later Justin had begun to adapt their formats to create his own versions
of them. At the outset of each game they threw dice to establish what abilities their particular characters would possess—how
much strength, dexterity, weapons proficiency, magical powers and so on. Then they set off on their quest across Justin’s
fantasy domain, which had its own rules and laws that had to be obeyed. Justin would confront them with situations, and they
would have to choose which strategy to adopt. Should they enter a closed room or bypass it? Accept the advice of a stranger
met along the way or treat him with suspicion? Attack a dragon or make a prudent retreat? The wrong decision might deplete them of vital stamina points or drain their magical
abilities to the extent where they would be defenseless against the next threat. And if this happened, their characters would
“die,” and they would be eliminated from the game.


Paul’s character in the current campaign was a cleric whom he suspected would not last long in the savage and mystical realm
through which he was traveling. And yet Paul was fond of the cleric, whom he had managed to instill with a certain shrewdness
and wry sense of humor. These were qualities which Paul would have liked to possess in real life; part of the fun in role-playing
games was that you could become the kind of character you were too timid or hidebound to be in the ordinary world. The others
were warriors, assassins and thieves—much better equipped to survive the quest. But Justin, as the Domain Master, liked to
keep them constantly under threat; he was especially fond of nine-foot trolls who were immune to magic and would not hesitate
in cleaving human heads from their shoulders.


Though he enjoyed the games, Paul often felt hurt and even resentful whenever one of his characters was killed off. It was
almost as if someone real had died, and it always made him feel that Justin had done him a positive injury. Then he would
begin to brood, begin to think that since he provided the location for their games, he should also have the chance to develop
a fantasy world and act as its master. But Justin wouldn’t have allowed this; he liked to be in charge, and everyone was accustomed
to letting him have his way.


Paul could see that Kate still looked anxious, though she was pretending otherwise. There were times when he felt like hitting
Justin for treating her with such indifference. But Paul would have given anything to be in Justin’s position: he had admired
Kate from afar ever since the fourth form at school, and his longing for her had not lessened one whit since then. Of course
he had never mustered the courage to tell her as much. She had always been surrounded by admiring boys with far more confidence
and personality than himself, and when Justin had finally got her in his clutches he knew that there was no hope for him.


“It’s half past seven,” Teresa said. “I don’t think Justin’s coming.”

“How are we going to play without him?” asked Kate, though the game was in fact the last thing on her mind at that moment.

“He’ll be here,” said Willie. “Justin never misses.”

“Well,” said Teresa. “He’ll just have to miss out on our little celebration.”

“What celebration?” asked Paul.

Teresa reached into her canvas shoulder-bag and withdrew a squat box.

“Your eighteenth birthday, of course,” she said.

The box contained a small cake covered with white icing, with “18” inscribed on it in red and a single candle at its center.

“I didn’t think anyone knew,” Paul said.

“Kate remembered,” Teresa told him, “so you can blame her.”

Kate was smiling faintly. “I remembered you told me it was the day after American Independence Day.”

Paul recalled the occasion. He had been consoling Kate when Justin had failed to remember her birthday one year and had suggested
that she tie her birthday to a well-known calendar date so that Justin would have no excuses for forgetting in the future.


He fetched a knife from the kitchen upstairs, and the cake was promptly cut into five segments. Teresa, Willie and Kate then
gave a cracked but hearty rendition of “Happy Birthday to You” while Paul did his best to hide his embarrassment with a smile.
He had never liked being the center of attention, but he was pleased that Kate had remembered the date.


They had just finished singing when the doorbell rang again.

“I’ll get it,” Kate said immediately.

She climbed the stairs, telling herself that she was going to be calm and composed and relaxed and offhand. But as soon as
she saw that it was indeed Justin who was standing outside the door, she felt only a profound relief.


Justin was standing there with his hands tucked into a brown leather jacket, a briefcase under his arm. The briefcase contained
the rules of the game and a list of spells which could be used by the players. Justin was a slim young man, no taller than
she, with blond hair and striking blue eyes.


“What happened?” Kate said immediately. “I waited for you for over half an hour.”

“The bus was late,” Justin replied, stepping into the shop. “Then three came along together. It’s bloody typical.”

There was no hint of apology in his tone, nor did he do any more than glance at her. Kate felt the familiar stirrings of anxiety
that he might have been seeing someone else.


“Are the others here?” Justin asked.

She nodded, looking somewhat downcast.

“What’s up?” Justin asked.

“I was hoping we might have some time to ourselves,” she said. “I’ve hardly seen anything of you in the last few weeks.”

She hated the faintly whining note which she heard in her voice, but couldn’t help herself.

“The bus was late,” Justin said again. “I can’t be held responsible for the inefficiencies of London Transport.”

“So nothing’s wrong?”

“Wrong? What’s supposed to be wrong?” He studied her. “Do you think maybe I’ve been sneaking off to see someone else?”

“Have you?”

He grinned. “I’m having this mad passionate affair with a bus conductress. Pink toenails and hands all dirty with the money.”

Kate did not smile. It was impossible to get him to take her anxieties seriously. He either laughed it off or complained that
she was being neurotic. But for the past month or so she’d been feeling that Justin would prefer to do anything but spend
time alone with her.


“Come on,” Justin said, moving toward the stairway. “I want to see if I can kill off a few of you this evening.”

Kate watched him descend the stairs before following him. As he reached the bottom, something fell out of his jacket pocket.
Kate knelt to retrieve it as Justin entered the cellar, unaware that he had lost anything.


It was a small black-and-white passport photograph of a pretty, dark-haired girl. On the back was written: To Justin. Lots of love and kisses. Lucy.


Kate stared at the photograph for several seconds, her face growing hot. She could scarcely believe that her worst fears had
been confirmed, but there was no denying it. She was tempted to snatch at the notion that Justin had simply been sent the
photograph by some secret admirer whom he had not met or was not attracted to in return. But the photograph was crumpled at
its edges, as if it had been in his pocket for some time. As if he could not bear to be parted from it.


Kate’s immediate instinct was to follow him into the cellar, confront him with the photograph and demand an explanation. But
she managed to stop herself, and instead stood at the bottom of the shadowy stairway until the blush had faded from her face.
She couldn’t bear to risk a scene in front of the others; she would have to bide her time until she and Justin were alone.
Closing her left hand around the photograph, she entered the cellar.


“What’s the cake in aid of?” Justin was asking Teresa. There was one piece left on the plate.

“It’s Paul’s eighteenth birthday,” Teresa said. “That piece is yours.”

“Eighteen, eh?” Justin said to Paul. “Think your uncle’ll let you stay out after midnight now?”

“Ho ho,” Paul said. “Very funny.”

“Didn’t he keep you in short trousers until you were fourteen?”

Paul smiled diffidently. “I’m just grateful he didn’t make me wear a blazer with padded shoulders as well.”

Justin was stung. A blazer with padded shoulders was precisely what his own father had made him wear in his first few years
at secondary school. His father was a strapping man and he liked to think that Justin would develop into some kind of colossus
as well. But he had remained lean and short for his age, so his father had made him wear built-up shoes, thick sweaters and all the re. . .