Free The Bell Between Worlds by Ian Johnstone

Sylas, still poised to run.
    The man seemed to consider this for a moment.
    “Call me Espen,” he said. He lifted his hands to his hood and pulled it back.
    Sylas took a step back. The stranger’s youthful features were terribly disfigured. His burnished mahogany skin was riven by a cruel tear that ran from just below his hairline, over the bridge of his nose and cheek to his neck, where it disappeared under the folds of his coat. The wound was still red and inflamed and he winced slightly as he attempted a smile.
    “Take this as the mark of a friend,” he said, waving his hand towards his face. “I’ve already met the abomination that chases you.”
    Sylas was suddenly struck by the stranger’s voice. He had heard it before. It was the voice from the back of the Shop of Things. Mr Zhi’s assistant!
    His panic began to subside. “Are you... do you know Mr Zhi?” The stranger smiled briefly. “Yes.”
    Sylas felt a wave of relief. He glanced in the direction of the estate. “So you know what that thing is? The thing that’s chasing me?”
    “Answers breed questions, Sylas,” said Espen, “and we’re already out of time. I don’t wish to meet that thing twice in one day. We must go.”
    “Where?”
    The man was looking back towards Gabblety Row. “You know where,” he replied in a vacant voice, still looking away. “To the bell.”
    “Can you hear—”
    Suddenly a mournful howl rose from somewhere on the housing estate, in precisely the direction Espen had been looking. The soulless baying hung in the air, echoing from walls, trees and rooftops. The lights of the estate began to flare into life.
    “It’s already close,” said Espen. “How fast can you run?”
    “Pretty fast,” said Sylas. He knew he was quick – it was the one compliment his uncle ever paid him. “Follow me.”
    He turned and sprinted to the end of the bridge, leaping down the steps in threes, disappearing in a trice.
    A smile passed over Espen’s face as he set out in pursuit.
    As they ran across the town square, the walls and windows about them echoed their steps and Sylas glanced nervously in all directions. But as quickly as they had entered the square they left it behind, charging into another darkened lane. They ran along overgrown alleys and behind shops, down lanes, over walls and into parks. They charged through a skate park, under a railway bridge and across a builders’ yard, never once pausing for breath. The bell chimed several more times as they ran, battering Sylas’s ears, urging them on, challenging them to run faster.
    Finally they found themselves in a small street bordered on both sides by the low, huddling houses of factory workers. Sweating and panting, they came to the end, where a great chimney stack loomed above them.
    Espen slowed to a walk and called ahead: “Stop! Let’s rest for a moment.”
    Sylas slapped his feet down on the tarmac and leaned his weight on his knees while he caught his breath.
    “See!” he panted with a grin. “Pretty fast!”
    Espen raised an eyebrow.
    “I don’t know why you’re doing this,” said Sylas, “but thank you.”
    “Maybe someday you’ll return the favour,” said Espen with a brief smile, but then the levity left his face. “Your shoulders bear us all, Sylas.” The stranger spoke under his breath, almost as though he didn’t want to be heard.
    Sylas frowned quizzically and there was an awkward silence.
    Espen shook his head as if annoyed with himself. “Give me the book,” he said, holding out his hand.
    Sylas instinctively took a step backwards, surprised to hear the stranger speak of it.
    “The Samarok?”
    Espen nodded and turned his palm up expectantly.
    “What do you want it for?”
    “Give it to me, Sylas,” demanded the man impatiently. “I’ll give it back, but I must show you something.”
    Sylas eyed him carefully. He didn’t want to show the Samarok to anybody, let alone to someone he had just met. But then again Mr Zhi had