by R Mountebank
Chapter 21
Join the effort
In a fit of anger John burnt the parchment he had been writing on. The vellum flared in his hand one second and crumbled to the floor the next. John dropped the fountain pen before he burnt that too and rested his head against the desk he was sitting at. He was frustrated and depressed at his progress. It was only meant to be a simple letter of request. Every attempt had been thrown out so far. His wastebasket was overflowing with his drafts.
The problem was he didn’t know how to talk to his parents.
Should he be formal? Casual? Did they care about his goings on with the mortals?
The second glaring difficulty was how did he convince his parents, the Lords Regent, to come here and actively join in the war effort?
Hi Dad. Hi Mum. School is great! So many friends! By the by – could you come for a visit next week. And do bring the army with you.
Ta.
John could imagine Mary talking to them like that – straight to the point and with minimal fuss. Deep down, he knew his relationship with his parents was far more complex. If he wanted anything so important, he would need to form a strong case and petition them. He didn’t have the luxury of asking them for anything. Anything!
Mr Horn was right, however. This coming war affected everyone, not just the mortals.
John cast his mind back to the meeting several days ago.
Mr Horn and his grandson had argued in the hallway while he took a seat in the ‘sunroom’. It drew no comparisons with the sun, in his opinion. ‘Dark and musty book room’ was far more apt. Eventually Mr Horn, or Stephen as he insisted, entered the room with a greasy smile on his face. John knew him as a severe, serious man. To see him do anything but scowl was out of character.
“My grandson is bringing some refreshments, your Grace,” started Stephen. “Can we do anything for your wounds?”
“No, thank you. Njoddein, my guardian, can see to them when I return home,” replied John stiffly.
“Ah… yes… well, you wouldn’t have been hurt had you stayed away from my house as I had instructed,” said Stephen, as his jovial façade slipped slightly.
“I was concerned about Mary,” replied John. “I wasn’t prepared to post a letter and wait for an invitation. Where is she, by the way?”
The smile on Stephen’s face evaporated, replaced by a frown. “Yes… Well there’s no point in lying to you,” he said, rubbing his knuckles. “She has been taken from us.”
“Taken?!” exclaimed John. “What by the creator do you mean, taken?”
“She was stolen from us by The Old Man of London,” replied Stephen bitterly. “For what purpose, I do not know.”
“Good grief, man! What are you doing here then? We need to rescue her!” shouted John.
Mr Horn had looked rather sheepish at that point. Head bowed and shoulders slumped, he shook his head. “Impossible. It is all rather complicated, but, I owed him a debt. To my eternal shame, I never imagined he would dare take my own family,” sighed the older man. “We are working on other arrangements to guarantee her freedom, but there are other matters to see to. Matters which I’m sure are linked to Mary’s abduction.”
John paused. There was always a catch. And he could bet his immortal blood he knew what it was. “Tell me of these ‘other matters’,” he replied coldly.
Both men regarded the other for a time.
“Ragnarök,” urged Stephen, breaking the silence.
John shook his head. He knew it would come to this. “We will not bow to those who seek our destruction! Why should we fight for them! They do us, and all magic, a disservice!” spat John.
“But, your grace…” pleaded Stephen, hands raised.
“But nothing! We would give ourselves to the filthy Dökkálfar before we made peace with The New World Order!”
“What about us?” came another, calmer voice. “What of my sister, Mary?”
Remy had entered the room, carrying a laden tray with both hands. He carefully set the tray down on a coffee table and approached John. “Should we lie down and die too? Should we let the wolves win?” Remy stood a respectful distance away, measuring John with his gaze. “Should I kill my child now, before those horrors come to pass?”
John regarded the other man carefully. He was much older than Mary, his face hard and lean. The resemblance between siblings was striking, however.
John weakened under the other’s long scrutiny. He felt no love for the mortal races. That didn’t mean he wanted them dead. “No.”
“Then you will help?” asked Stephen.
“It’s of no use swaying me anyway,” replied John. “My parents hold all the power.”
“If you sent them a message…” started Stephen.
“They wanted me here, safe and sound from our fight with the Dökkálfar scourge. And without further correspondence with you,” warned John. “If somebody intercepted a letter and found I was here…”
“That would not happen,” said Stephen. “Just hear me out.” He indicated the seats and a bottle of wine sitting on the tray with a sweep of his hands.
John eased himself down and sat on the edge of a leather chair, careful not to smear his golden blood on the furniture. He looked about the room, particularly at the dark shadows for movement.
“She’s not here,” said Remy as he poured the wine into three glasses. “The filthy mud-dweller and my half-breed son are upstairs.”
Remy offered a glass to John, who accepted with a slight nod and a weak smile. Remy handed his grandfather a drink and sat down beside him with his own.
“What would you say if I told you that I am in negotiations with The New Order?” asked Stephen over his wineglass.
“Good for you,” shrugged John.
Both Horns looked at each other before Stephen continued. “What if I told you that I was working on a deal for all of the magical races? An amnesty, that is?”
John leaned forwards. “You have my attention.”
Stephen smiled. “In exchange for defending the Porta Caeli, all parties involved will be given licence to leave this realm, with their souls, or whatever similar essence, unbroken.”
John leaned back into the chair. “Wow. That is quite the offer. And they have agreed to this you say?”
“All I need is for Olde Rome’s guardian, Quirinus, to return through the gates with the signed contract,” said Stephen.
“I will need to see this contract, of course,” said John as he rubbed his chin. “If it exists…”
Stephen nodded his head.
“I’m sure my parents, The Lords Regent, will need proof as well…”
They had talked for a long time, discussing their future plans and what was required of whom. Mr Horn was gathering an army, if he could be believed, of the remaining ‘old blood’ mortals. He was also in the process of procuring some of the modern weapons the mortals liked to kill each other with – as soon as the necessary funds were acquired. Along with the majority of the magical races, they just might stand a chance against the Western Hordes. John noticed the strong emphasis on ‘might’. Where they would stage their battle was another matter.
Mr Horn had seemed giddy at the meeting – almost feverish. He promised much, but didn’t have any evidence to back his claims.
Did he dare trust the man?
He was deeply invested, that much was certain.
John had asked about Stephen’s plans for rescuing Mary several times too. The questions had been deflected to talk about the war. Everything hinged on the war, even Mary it seemed.
Johns thought’s turned to his own involvement. Did he want to be a part of this war?
He didn’t want to die. He was young, very young, for an immortal. Even so, he was attached to his essence. He didn’t want to be someone else, or changed into something else – something lesser. If Mr Horn was telling the truth he could save his people, and himself.
He just had to convince his parents to join the effort
.
John stared at the paper.
Inspiration deserted him.
