The Early Ascension of the 23rd King of Shambhala
(01)

In a Standard Twelve 4-Door Saloon on a gravelly road from Scotland to England. Midgard, the land of the humans. August, 1941.

Raymond fidgeted nervously with the radio dial in the dark, keeping his eyes on the road.

“Where’s the pickup point?” yawned Cyan in the passenger seat, scratching the stubble on his chin, before brushing a hand casually through his curly blond hair.

Raymond flicked a glance to the rear vision mirror, then back to the road.  Then back to the mirror.

“See that car behind us?” whispered Raymond, readjusting his mirror.

Cyan swivelled in his seat.

Two hundred metres back, just coming down the hill behind them, was a set of headlights.

“We’re being followed,” Raymond muttered, grabbing Cyan's shoulder and jerking him around to face forwards.

Cyan opened the glove box and pulled out a brown paper bag.  From the bag, he pulled a shiny silver pistol.  He wiped it down with a cloth.

“Are you sure?” asked Cyan. “I thought it only turned on to this road half a mile back.”

“That’s the thing,” started Raymond as he turned the headlights off and pulled up beside a farm fence.

“What’s the thing?” Cyan persisted.

“We’ve had a car following us since we left Duncansby Head.  And every ten miles or so, they turn off and another turns on to the road where they left off.  And the cars keep getting closer and closer...”

Quietly, Cyan and Raymond slid out of their car, and hid behind it.

“What are you doing?” Raymond asked, his sharp features now accentuated in the eerie moonlight. 

Cyan was screwing a silencer piece to the end of his gun.

“Taking precautions,” said Cyan, with a crooked smile.

Before Raymond could ask more questions, there was a‘ping’ and he dropped neatly onto the gravelly road.

“I’m sorry, Raymond,” Cyan whispered to Raymond’s body. “May God take care of you now, good friend.”

Suddenly, Cyan clasped at his own che