Enter the magical, nightmarish, colourful, worlds of the four L’amie.
Deep in a dying universe, the end of time is coming.
Only four children hold the key to defeating the Tar-klis the Dragon King tyrant, Grimhildr the witch vampire and Sugwin the wicked imp.
Can Tyersel, Simon, Clough and Shifter unite and make the perilous cross-world journey to overcome the evil forces and save the forsaken?
With the fantastical worlds of J.R.R Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, the epic adventures and magic of CS Lewis’ The Chronicles of Narnia, this enchanting story will captivate readers young and old alike.
Enter the magical, nightmarish, colourful, worlds of the four L’amie.
Deep in a dying universe, the end of time is coming.
Only four children hold the key to defeating the Tar-klis the Dragon King tyrant, Grimhildr the witch vampire and Sugwin the wicked imp.
Can Tyersel, Simon, Clough and Shifter unite and make the perilous cross-world journey to overcome the evil forces and save the forsaken?
With the fantastical worlds of J.R.R Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, the epic adventures and magic of CS Lewis’ The Chronicles of Narnia, this enchanting story will captivate readers young and old alike.
Stars tried to push out the small amount of feeble light available to them through the heavy, gaseous atmosphere of a future earth. The moon was not faring much better; together with the big red disc of a setting sun, they gave enough orange and purple twilight to outline a small shack situated on the outskirts of a large shantytown, known to its inhabitants as the Outer Zone for want of better words.
It was a region of harshness and tears, due to the poor living conditions and over-crowding. The Outer Zone in turn sat on the outskirts of an even larger place known as the Inner City, or sometimes the Bronze City, as the radiation protection shields placed around it reflected bronze in the pale sunlight of the day. Within the radiation protection shields the old metropolis was crumbling into piles of dust, pollution and time taking their toll on the bricks and mortar of what was once a great city.
A large row of dark and foreboding chimneys dominated the skyscrapers. These belonged to the Chem Corporation and belched out black and acrid smoke, making the thin, polluted air more contaminated and less breathable.
Our story doesn’t concern the dark, lonely streets of this contaminated city at this time—we will return there later. This story begins within the walls of a small shack.
A single candle gave a flickering light to the cheerless occasion which was unfolding in the shadowy sanctuary of the main room within the small shack. The dwelling boasted two rooms, being in itself a conflict of physics, given the circumstances to which this small dwelling had been subjected—the acid rain and violent winds which wreaked havoc across the Outer Zone. Even a well-built dwelling would be given merit for simply still standing.
An old television screen inserted in the end wall served as a small window. This was roughly placed between an old “No Parking” sign and a stop sign, through which you could look out upon the bustling streets of the Outer Zone. Its people were out and about carrying on with their everyday affairs, all acquainted with poverty, all trading in survival, with limited resources. The people of the Outer Zone inside alleys, in doorways, in taverns, and in the main streets traded food, contraband, or even their organs. Not many of them thought beyond a day at a time and most of them didn’t think at all past the next meal. The children, dressed in rags, ran and played in disgusting effluent which ran down the main street like some old medieval town.
Within the main room of the shack stood a makeshift table, made of two old steel oil drums and a metal door placed carelessly on top of them. Its green paintwork peeled off to show the previous colours of red and then white. Placed upon this table, wrapped tight in an old blanket, was the corpse of a young woman. The only part of the woman not concealed by the tightly cocooning blanket was her face, which had relinquished what was once a most exceptional beauty. The woman looked older than she really was. She was known to the local people of the Outer Zone as Neith the Toggery, a scavenger of cloth and rag.
No doctor or medic was on hand to record or issue a certificate of death, or to show any interest in the cause of death. The appearance of a health inspector from the Inner City council showing concern for the welfare of Outer Zone dwellers would be a cause for celebration. In fact, three decades had passed since the Inner City health department had abdicated all responsibility for the welfare of the region. The Outer Zone was on its own when it came to health care. The Inner City bureaucracy was preoccupied with the Inner City dwellers. Apparently, lack of resources, cut backs in revenues, and the unresolved matter of vanishing health inspectors probably remained the biggest obstacles to the return of any normal activity in this area.
The virus that persuaded Neith’s vigorous life force to depart her body would not have been difficult to diagnose at first sight for a capable doctor acquainted with the bubonic plague.
Standing around the deceased Neith were her three children, all of them solemn, observing the stillness of their dead mother. All three watched in silence, their eyes tightly fixed on her pallid face, just hoping that her eyes might open; returning a smile to her warm face and announcing herself alive and well; once more pouring out her affections on them, which they all longed for; ending the dark thoughts of a life abandoned by her.
The hours passed by slowly. Neith’s lifeless face just stared up at the old, leaking roof, expressionless and sad. Darkness crept into their hearts. She was not their mother now. A mother was warmth with outstretched arms, but this mother would never stretch out her arms again.
Tyersel, the oldest of the three children at the tender age of fourteen, would have to lose the role of child and immediately position herself as guardian to her younger brother and sister. Tyersel was a slim, tallish girl with short auburn hair tangled up in curls, an oval face and large brown eyes to match her hair, a pale English rose complexion, and a small mouth framed by thick ruby lips. Her bottom lip was held tight between her teeth to stop it from trembling, endeavouring not to permit herself to cry and hoping that this concealment of emotion would encourage her siblings to deal with the death of their mother. Tyersel wore a dirty blue dress, closed at the front by an odd assortment of different coloured buttons. One was green, another red, and her favourite was a large gold one on her chest. Over her small shoulders she wore an old wool shawl of red tartan, which looked shabby and was covered in dog hair. On her feet she wore a pair of old leather shoes that were absurdly too big, with no laces to tie them up.
Tyersel was given to sudden mood changes, from affectionate laughter to an ice-cold stare which would leave you trembling within a matter of moments, wondering what careless word had so severely changed her mood. She was an extremely intelligent girl and, if she were at school, would be one of those girls with a determined character who would triumph over the rest and the kind of girl you would be only too glad to sit next to in an exam to complement your poor marks.
The problem was, Tyersel had never attended a school or even seen one. Tyersel was totally illiterate. The shantytown had no education system and no schools, and nearly all its inhabitants suffered from this fixable affliction. Their own language was a mixture of crude Inner City speech and hand signs. They had no written communications, instead they used a kind of graffiti to advertise trade and indicate the division of land squats or property.
Tyersel looked at her younger brother and sister. Slightly bowing her head, she said, “Mum has gone and all the crying from now until the end of the world will not bring her back.”
Simon and Clough just stared at the still form of their mother laid out motionless upon the cold metal door.
The door of the shack opened slowly with a rusty creak. The smell of burning material filtered into the room accompanied by a cold draft, making Tyersel shiver. An old woman bent with age entered the room, closing the rough corrugated iron door behind her. The woman’s face was coved with a green scarf, below which her grey eyes scanned her surroundings.
“Poor children lost their mother, it is a hard world indeed,” whispered the old woman. “Tyersel, I’ve burnt your mother’s clothing and the bed covers. That should kill any infected fleas, but you can’t be sure. That’s how the plague is spread, you know, by fleas,” claimed the old woman, her wrinkled face a manifestation of warning.
“We thank you for your help, Midwife Goodwin,” replied Tyersel.
“Don’t mention it, my dear, only doing my job. Tyersel, I know it’s hard on you, but it’s best for all if we burn your mother’s body. It stops the plague spreading. What about the young ones?” argued Midwife Goodwin, looking at Simon and Clough.
“I’ll watch out for my brother and sister,” decided Tyersel with a frown on her juvenile face.
“Well, Tyersel, have it your own way. You can dig her grave, then, but she should be burnt the proper way—I hope I’ve killed all the fleas. Now I must be off, a baby to deliver a few shacks down from here. Imagine bringing a newborn into this world, some people have no brains; more misery, another mouth to feed.”
Tyersel showed the old woman to the door to bid her good bye. “Should you venture out, Midwife Goodwin? It’s getting dark, are you not scared of Organ Hunters?” said Tyersel, taking a quick look up and down the alleyway.
“I would not spend a great deal of time worrying about my organs, my dear, they’re not worth taking. She should be burnt—the body should be burnt,” said Midwife Goodwin, making her way down the alley-way into the gloom of the night.
Tyersel closed the door behind her and locked it. She turned on her heels and looked once more at her little brother and sister. “Simon, you will have to contact Shifter and arrange for him to help us bury Mother,” said Tyersel, trying to look confident.
Simon, his blue eyes rubbed red from crying, pressed down the emptiness which he felt inside and just replied, “I’ll set out tomorrow. It’s getting late, anyway, the weather’s bad, and there could be Organ Hunters abroad.”
Simon, the second of Neith’s children at around ten years old, was a figure of abundant energy and activity. With a large mop of thick blond hair on the top of his head, his soft ultramarine eyes were bright and alert and set in a round face, which until now had always retained a large smile. He was a notorious daydreamer and never turned down an opportunity for fun. Given that all Neith’s children suffered from mild malnutrition, it was amazing that he could sustain any kind of physical exertion on a sub-standard diet. Not that Neith, in her short life of only thirty-five years, ever failed to provide for her children. A diet of mainly potatoes, lentils, and onions if available, and protein in the form of cooked meat would be on the table, though the type of meat or the animal of origin would be effectively hidden from the purchaser. Most successful cats and dogs were kept indoors in the region.
Neith would have traded or exchanged repaired clothing for food and other items. With this humble profession, Neith secured a small income for her growing family. There was no currency in the Outer Zone. Business transactions were entirely carried out on a bartering system, which could be extremely time-consuming. A day or two to pursue a deal was not uncommon, when both parties found a service or item to their liking. A strong handshake was the final endorsement. For Neith, there was never enough to satisfy the hunger of a young family. Neith worked long hours under hard circumstances, with the constant threats to her person of hunger, violence, and fatigue, just to keep her family on a survival existence.
Simon moved away from the table with a sigh, a brittle sadness set in his face. Walking over to a chair near the stop sign and flopping himself into it, he rested his head in his hands. He was totally exhausted by hunger and the deep sorrow of the past few days of mourning for his mother. His loss was like a sharp pain running the entire length of his young body.
Clough gave out a chesty cough. “I’m hungry and want something to eat right now,” she exclaimed. Her eyes sparkled in the candlelight like sapphires, not deigning to disguise the fact that she was tired and in a bad mood.
“Ho, be quiet Clough, go and see if you can find anything in the pantry,” replied Tyersel.
Clough, without further ado, hopped off the stool on which she was standing and trotted off in the direction of the pantry, at the same time singing a song to herself. Sometimes skipping and sometimes walking, at the end of this modest journey would be a nice tasty potato to nibble upon.
The natural frankness of this little dirty-faced specimen of humanity belied the fact that subconsciously, the awareness and sadness of her mother’s death was all too imposing. A soundless calling in schools, church meetings, weddings, and funerals from the beginning of time had won, and had defeated the silent prohibitions: “I want to be a child again and I will be.”
Clough was dressed in the most appallingly dirty green dress and brown woollen jumper, now threadbare at the elbows. Her round, tear-stained face was covered in grime and topped with a mass of thick blond hair (like her brother’s), matted and knotted.
Her little cupid mouth set in a determined smile, arriving at the pantry and with a good tug of her little arms she managed to pull aside the sheet metal door. The only contents were an old damp hessian bag, smelling sour and mouldy. Upon fumbling around inside the bag with her nimble hands, Clough pulled out a small potato. Then, dropping back on her bottom in the doorway of the pantry, she began to eat it skin and all.
“Clough, stop, you know you should clean a potato before you eat it. There could be all manner of dirty things upon it,” declared Tyersel, kneeling down beside Clough and taking the potato from her young sister. She wiped it as clean as she could on her shawl and then gave it back to Clough.
Without too much communication and through overwhelming exhaustion, they all eventually started to fall into a light sleep. Simon lay on his piece of foam, which was in the corner of the second room of Neith’s shack, used mainly for her sewing when Neith was alive. With its bundles of rags and garments piled high at one end of the room, everything surrounded Neith’s most precious possession, which now stood idle: an old foot-powered sewing machine. The room was once bustling with a wonderful feminine industry that had time for laughter, children, cooking, mending, and making clothes, at the same time without conventions or time tables for completing the work in time for trading.
Simon slept in that deep sleep given only to small children, his little body covered by an old brown blanket. The living nightmare of the day had ended, and the illusions of sleep could now mend the hurt and somehow absolve him from the sorrow that he felt. He tucked his skinny legs tight to his chest in a pose of wanting and comfort. Simon’s sleeping subconscious mind sought healing rest, not finding that rest his imagination took over and framed the bizarre into reason, helping him cope with his loss. Outside the air vent at the side of Simon’s humble bed, a dog howled a short distance away, indifferent to the children’s sleep. A cool northeast wind started to whistle around the roof of the shack as the tapping of acid rain on corrugated iron set in for the night.
Tyersel was trying to fall asleep lying next to her younger sister in an old double bed in the main room, which belonged to their mother. She was falling in and out of an uneasy sleep, occasionally waking with a jump only to find Clough kicking and thrashing around in a bad dream. Tyersel would then hold Clough tight in her arms and sing her a lullaby, hoping by the sound of her voice she could calm the little girl from her nightmares to a peaceful sleep. After that, with a little luck she may be able to join her sleeping younger sister.
Chapter 2. The Bronze Uniform of the Dragon
A pair of stainless steel doors slid smoothly open on their linear pulse magnets at the end of the meeting hall of the Inner City Council. A smart-looking secretary named Seymour entered, dressed in a tight brown skirt, alert and professional in appearance. With her wide hips swaying, she made her way around an enormous oval, metallic meeting table. Clasped tightly in her right hand was a fully formatted authority diskette. She made her way towards the other end of the table and paused beside a middle-aged man, completely bald except for a mousy-brown rim of hair around his head. He looked up at the secretary with his beady blue eyes. A forced smile appeared across his clean-shaven face.
“Sorry to interrupt you, Supreme Councilor, but the information on the Outer Zone which you required has been compiled on this authority diskette.”
“Excellent, Seymour, place it in the primary control drive.”
Seymour, in her usual important manner, made her way over to a small glass cabinet on the wall on the right-hand side of the hall, just under a large solar tinted window. Placing her open right hand on the glass at the front of the cabinet and removing it caused a run of binary codes to flash across the glass screen. First in reds, then in purple and blue, a bizarre arrangement of numbers, letters, and characters flashed by. Her security code was given clearance, and the glass shield moved up. Seymour inserted the diskette into a small rectangular opening, at once energising the primary network system into action.
“Will that be all, Supreme Councilor?”
“That will be all for now, Seymour. You may go.”
“Thank you, Supreme Councilor.” Seymour bowed and backed away from the Supreme Councilor. Turning quickly on her heels, she made her way back to the main doors of the meeting hall.
The Supreme Councilor, not taking his eyes off the new information in front of him, mumbled words under his breath and chuckled to himself. “Fascinating, a dramatic increase in population… fascinating.” His sharp eyes did not miss any small or insignificant fragments of information placed before him on the computer monitor. Just as Seymour’s right hand touched the door’s security push release pad, the Supreme Councilor’s bald head raised itself from his computer screen and his baritone voice boomed across the meeting hall. “Ho, before you go, Seymour. I want to amend the council meeting time. I would like all the Inner City council seated by fifteen hundred hours this afternoon, and I mean all of them.”
Seymour paused. Turning to meet the Supreme Councilor’s arrogant gaze, her thin lips, thick with red lipstick, parted slightly and gave out an anxious gasp of breath. “I will have them all contacted as soon as possible on the secondary network, Supreme Councilor.” She sighed, knowing all too well that she would be lucky if she succeeded in confirming a full attendance.
“Ho yes, and have catering organise food. I think we will be running late. I don’t want them thinking of their stomachs. We’d better have chemcoffee, too. Also, issue a memo diskette; no more inflammatory speeches from those holy pious upstarts the Ancrum. Indicate that these could be interpreted as an incitement to treason.”
“Will that be all, Supreme Councilor?”
“Yes, that will do for the moment.”
Seymour bowed once more and retreated backward through the double doors, which hummed closed behind her.
At three o’clock the Inner City council hall was in a less than harmonious attendance. Shouting, loud laughter, humorous jokes, the dry conversations of councilors—the sound of juniors, seniors, and executives all acting out their parts in the great hall of policymaking. All the while they were checking the exchanges of information, filtering and panning out the key words like precious pieces of gold from the rocks and sand of the river of idle chitchat. Observing, they were always listening for the real sentence, the real message, the plans within plans, enhancing power to themselves. They were also finding and attacking those vulnerable spots which would destroy any advancement of their peers in that ultimate goal which occupied them all in both body and mind—the elevated position of Supreme Councilor.
The thirty councilors of the Inner City council were all seated around the large oval table, starting with the juniors seated near the main entrance door, then the seniors, then the executive councilors. Each section looked older as the two lines of councilors came to an abrupt end at the place of honour, homage, and respect. At the far end of the oval table, raised higher than all the rest, was the seat of the Dragon King. It was carved out of solid oak and cushioned in dark bronze velvet with dragon heads beautifully carved on each oak arm, rising high at the back and concluding at the top with a pair of dragons. Their heads bent back, chests touching, wings fully expanded and gaping jaws simultaneously ejecting fire made of oak.
The well-polished throne of the Dragon King made no apologies about its pompous and garish looks. Its official duty was to let everyone know who had the last word. It also carried the signs of authority. The emblem of the dragon was the name of the source codes (dragon codes) for the primary network, including self-diagnosis functions, the finance index, and the security codes. Only the Supreme Councilor could amend the source codes, although by way of hand print security, a selected number of personnel could remove and insert information after a clearance check. This technology, along with spies and cameras, gave the Dragon King up-to-date information at all times with which to rule the Inner City and Outer Zone.
The bronze velvet represented the Tee-tullary, or secret police, all owing allegiance to the Dragon King. This unit was most efficient at winding up the Dragon King’s unpleasant business. If a diskette had a declaration of death, and was sealed with the dragon’s stamp, then that person’s fate was sealed in some remote and silent place. Another victim would die and be erased from memory, a voice silenced in the dark. The system was secure. Like a hideous vine it bloomed with the most contemptible flowers of lies and deceit, smelling of the dead flesh of its victims and bringing forth darkness and fear as its fruit, supported by that loathsome latticework of a dictatorship, its secret police.
A sudden silence fell on all present in the Inner City hall. Quickly, all seated jumped to their feet as the double doors hummed open and the Dragon King Olis-Hakis entered with his second in command: Tah-klis, the Supreme Councilor and head of the Tee-tullary, the most hated man in the Inner City and Outer Zone.
Tah-klis looked like a member of the human race whose contempt for his fellow man had reached new depths. Like the inside of a black hole far off in the universe, where no light could be emitted from its darkness, Tah-klis’ heart was even darker, a void of endless malevolence.
Both leaders moved with an air of oppressive and arrogant intolerance. Both were dressed in the bronze uniform of the Tee-tullary, with its gold buttons shining brightly against the dark fabric of their tunics, together with their riding jodhpurs, highly polished boots, and riding crops in hand. Tah-klis tapped his crop against the side of his boot in an irritable manner.
The king and Tah-klis made their way past the councilors to the far end of the large oval table, followed by a cheerless entourage of Tee-tullary, secretaries, and concubines. This was the future repository of humanity, whose origins were derived from an office environment long before the atomic wars started the silent phase. During that silent time, an austere system of rule and rite was imposed stringently upon the Inner City. It was no wonder, then, that the office delineation of things evolved into a demeanour of religious pomp and ritual. A secretary in the Inner City bureaucracy had a higher status than that of a Tee-tullary centurion. She was celibate, forbidden to enter the matrimonial state or have children. She went through life like a kind of flesh-covered fax machine: half-computer, half-woman, her life totally dedicated to the guardianship of codes and information.
The secretaries were dressed in the dark bronze uniform of the dragon: a tight knee-length skirt and blazer with gold buttons, a black blouse, black tights, and flat black shoes. All the secretaries, who numbered four, carried diskette pads tightly tucked under their right arms. Each had short hair and wore the code spectacles, which served as display screens while they took the minutes of the meeting. The liquid crystal lenses reflected metallic from the bronze light which filtered in through the narrow solar shield windows along the sides of the council meeting hall, giving a less than human appearance to the women.
Next came the concubines of the Dragon King, who also numbered four, dressed in a completely different style—not the efficient, professional style of the secretaries, but a pretty, somewhat childishly whimsical style, which denoted a different purpose than guardianship of codes and information. They had one purpose, pleasure, and no other. The four concubines were dressed in long flowing dresses, again in a bronze material, tightly fitted around their shapely bodies with ruffled collars around the neck. Their hair was all about their faces, red lips thick with lipstick, and richly painted eyes, all graceful and gentle of foot. They made their way to the end of the oval table, paying little attention to the glances of the councilors.
All male eyes followed them along the way until they arrived at the padded bronze velvet chairs set out for them and the secretaries in an arc around the back of the Dragon King’s throne.
Two Tee-tullary guards in the same bronze uniform and each carrying a pike brought up the rear of the entourage. When all the Dragon King’s company were seated or standing, an eerie silence fell on the meeting hall. Tah-klis moved forward and abruptly smashed his riding crop down on a portion of the oval table, which was the opening sign to all assembled that the council meeting was now in session.
In Decede’s Dream, a group of children, victims of a ruined futuristic Earth and its despotic society, gain massive supernatural powers to defeat evil incarnate and prepare for the end of time.
Decede’s Dream offers a backdrop full of rich potential, incorporating science fiction, dystopian, apocalyptic, and high fantasy into its worldbuilding. The lore is rich and detailed, and much imagery is evocative.
Unfortunately, issues with the execution arise. The writing style is largely summarizing, telling the reader in statements rather than showing and immersing through details, which leads to a distancing effect. Often, information and exposition break up the narrative’s flow. Even so, however, the workings and intentions of the magic system and stakes can be hazy (such as if and why the children are intentionally ushering in and welcoming the end of time).
Regarding characterization, most players have little development. The allies are all transformed at a single point by the magic and remain in a celestial-like perfection from then on, and the antagonists are purely evil.
In a similar vein, the dialogue throughout often feels noticeably stilted and explanatory.
Changes in pacing would have also been beneficial. While the arc does rise in action and tension with the narrative's progression, several key moments would have been perfect for immersion but are instead summarized or mentioned in passing. Meanwhile, non-essential moments garner more time. Additionally, the transitions between those two occasionally happen abruptly.
The intended audience is unclear. The structure, major components, and characters suggest a middle grade audience; however, the grand, elevated-feeling style and mentions of subjects such as concubines, dark lust, and communal bathing (NOTE: these are NOT perseverated on in an explicit or obscene way at all; they are, though, described in more than a purely vague, uninvolved, or undetailed mention) suggest otherwise.
Limiting spoilers as much as possible, to many readers, the conclusion can likely be frustrating in that it upends expectations and investment up to that point.
In sum, while the premise is greatly interesting and there is significant intrigue in the setting and detailed world of Decede’s Dream, aspects of the execution unfortunately detract from the potential.