by Alan Scott
The men watched, mesmerised despite themselves, as Prue dressed and sashayed towards them. Kissing Reif on the cheek, she said, “I had better go and play the dutiful wife. I’ll leave you boys to play your politics.”
“Goodbye, Prue,” said Alex.
“Later,” said Reif.
“Goodbye, boys.” With that, Lady Prue Carnagie opened the door and left the room.
“You know you are playing with fire, Reif,” said Alex.
“I can handle her husband.”
“It’s not her husband I am talking about.”
“I can handle Lady Carnagie.”
“Really?”
“As well as any man.”
“No man can handle her. She burns too bright.”
“But what a way to go,” smiled Reif.
“Right. Anyway, Reif, the news...”
“So what is this important news, then?” asked Reif, walking towards a table with a wine bottle on it.
“There has been an assassination attempt on the Queen.”
“Successful?”
“No.”
Reif picked up the bottle and shook it. It was empty. “Do we know who attempted the assassination?”
“Farah Sharpe.”
“Farah!” Reif placed the bottle down and made his way to a bell pull next to his bed. Pulling the cord, he said, “Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Why would Farah be stupid enough to attempt to kill the Queen? She has nothing to gain.”
“That is what our fellow Craktoneons are trying to figure out.”
There was a knock at the door.
“Enter!” boomed out Reif.
A male servant entered. “You rang, my lord?”
“Yes, bring me my breakfast.” Reif half-turned to Alex. “Do you want anything?”
“Please.”
Returning his attention to the servant, he said, “Bring me enough breakfast for me and my friend.”
“Yes, my lord,” bowed the servant and left.
Reif Rothgal remained silent until the servant had closed the door. “Do my parents know yet?”
“I have sent a messenger to them.”
“Good. My father and his men will be able to get to the bottom of the matter,” said Reif, moving with Alex following, to a table next to the wall. Both men sat down before Reif continued, “I never took Farah as either ambitious or stupid.”
“No one did.”
“What has been the Queen’s reaction?”
“To do nothing.”
“That is interesting.”
“It is.”
Reif slowly ran his hand back and forth over the tabletop. “She will know that everyone knows Farah tried to kill her, yet she does nothing. That is either very brave or very stupid.”
“I would say – very stupid,” stated Alex. “If she does not retaliate, people will see her as weak and it will only encourage further attempts.”
“Or,” said Reif, “she is saying that the attempt is beneath her and that Farah is irrelevant.”
“That would be very foolish.”
“Yes, it would,” mused Reif. “Damn it, Alex!” Reif balled his hand into a fist. “I wish we could strike now and remove that deviant-lover from the throne!”
“’Suffer not the deviant, impure, or unclean to live...’” quoted Alex Weir.
“’-for they are an affront to our Lord God’s eyes.’”
“For God and the return of Mortonland!” Alex vowed.
“For God and the return of Mortonland,” finished Reif, placing his hand on the cross branded on his chest.
“One day, Reif, you shall sit on the throne, return the kingdom of our fathers, Mortonland, from the past and back to its rightful place, and cleanse it of the deviants.”
“That I shall, Alex, with the support of the Craktoneons, the will of God, and you by my side.”
Both men bowed their heads, closed their eyes, and took a moment to be alone with their thoughts.
Opening his eyes and taking a deep breath, Reif asked, “Any news on how the frigid Amanda Rothgal-Ackroyd has reacted to the attempt?”
“No, but I would imagine the same as us – send a message to the palace saying that we are pleased to hear that the Queen was unharmed, whilst at the same time, trying to work out who forced Farah into action,” replied Alex before, with a smile, adding, “I believe she prefers pious to frigid.”
“Nope, definitely frigid. Have we sent a letter?”
“I took the liberty of sending one on your behalf.”
“Thank you.”
Alex gave a short bow of his head in acknowledgement.
“Anyway, so you think Farah’s hand was forced?”
“Yes, why else would she...”
A sharp knock at the door.
“Enter!” boomed Reif.
In walked the male servant, followed by two maids. “Your breakfast, my lord.”
“Excellent; place it down here.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Let’s leave this weighty matter until after we have broken our fast,” said Reif to Alex as he eyed the still-warm bread being placed before him.
“Agreed,” replied Alex as a plate of cold meat was put on the table.
***
The Rothgal-Ackroyd Estate
Dressed only in a simple and unadorned cloth robe, Amanda Rothgal-Ackroyd rose up from her knees and gave a slight stretch. She had been in her private chapel, deep in prayer, since before dawn, and the cold had sunk into her muscles and bones. Walking barefoot, she left the chapel and made her way through a well-maintained but plain garden, to a set of double doors that allowed her access to her private quarters within the large country house she called home. Opening one of the doors, she entered a sparse wood-panelled room. The room had only two noticeable objects in it – a wooden bath and a wooden table with a single chair.
Four maids stood by the bath, each with two buckets of cold water next to them. Ignoring her staff, Amanda walked to the tub. Removing her robe, she stepped into the bath and sat down on the wooden stool that had been placed inside it. “Begin.”
The first maid picked up one of her buckets and poured the freezing cold water over her mistress’ head, before picking up the second bucket and repeating the process. Once finished, the maid picked up both empty buckets and silently left the room.
The next maid took the place of the first and repeated the process, as did the third, and, finally, the fourth. As the fourth maid left the room, another entered with a large towel and slippers, and walked over to the shivering Amanda.
Amanda sat in the freezing water for a further five minutes before finally standing and shakily exiting the bath. The maid placed the slippers on the floor. Amanda stepped into them and the maid wrapped the towel around her mistress. Amanda made her way to the table and sat down, as her maid withdrew a comb from her pocket and began running it through Amanda’s long jet-black hair.
A few moments later, the door opened again and the four original maids came back in. Three went to stand at the back wall, whilst the fourth placed a tray on the table. The tray held a wooden beaker full of cold water, a slab of bread, and a small piece of cheese. Having completed her task, the maid made her way to join her companions by the far wall.
Amanda looked at her meal and bowed her head. “Lord, I am thankful for Thy bountiful gifts.” She then picked up the bread and nibbled the edge. Silence reigned for twenty minutes as Amanda ate her frugal breakfast.
After finishing breakfast, Amanda stood up, adjusted her towel, making sure it would stay firmly attached, and made her way to the door her maid has used. Walking through the door, she entered a medium-sized room containing a dressing table, complete with a large mirror and chair, a number of large wardrobes, and a door in the opposite wall. Amanda made her way to the middle of the room with her four maids following her. “It is a dark blue day today,” Amanda stated. The maids curtsied and made their way to the wardrobes.
<
br /> It took half-an-hour for the servants to dress their mistress. When they were finished, Amanda Rothgal-Ackroyd stood before her dressing table, staring into the mirror. She was a beautiful woman. The plain deep-blue dress, adorned only with the small brooch of a silver sword, merely enhanced her beauty, rather than making her seem pious. Her long raven hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing her pale face to perfection. “I am truly cursed,” Amanda whispered, sadly. “I only wish to serve my Lord. Why did He curse me to look as I do?”
“My lady?” one of the maids said.
“Speak.”
“Confessor Vember awaits you in the reception room. He says he has news that you must know.”
Straightening her back, Amanda turned on her heel and headed to the final door. As she neared, one of her maids opened the door and Amanda stepped through.
She entered a well-furnished and decorated reception room, in which stood a middle-aged man dressed in a simple brown robe. “Ah, my Lady Rothgal-Ackroyd.”
“Confessor Vember,” said Amanda, with a slight bow of her head.
“I hope your morning commune with our Lord was rewarding.”
“It was, Confessor.”
“That is good news, Lady Rothgal-Ackroyd,” smiled Confessor Vember.
“Talking about news, Confessor, what news do you have for me today?”
The pair made their way to a solid but elegant table and sat down.
“There has been an attempt on the life of the Queen.”
“Was she hurt?”
“No.”
“That is good.”
“It is.”
“Do you know who attempted this evil deed?” asked Amanda.
“The Lady Farah Sharpe.”
Amanda arched an eyebrow in disbelief. “Farah! I am surprised.”
“As are all of us,” admitted Vember.
“What does Archbishop Peak think?”
“He thinks that something or someone is trying to cause tension here in the Twin Kingdoms.”
“Reif,” stated Amanda, her voice full of disdain.
“No. Neither he nor the Craktoneons are ready for a civil war, yet; nor do they have the ability to force Farah Sharpe to do anything this extreme.”
“Now that I ponder on it, I think you are correct, Confessor,” admitted Amanda. “I should not be swayed by my dislike for that excuse of a man.”
“Something to pray on tonight, perhaps? – that our Lord grants you the ability to look at situations without being blinded by emotions?”
“Thank you, Confessor. I shall be led by your wise words.” Amanda Rothgal-Ackroyd bowed her head for a moment before continuing, “I shall write dear Rebecca a letter saying that I am glad that the assassination attempt failed and she remains in excellent health.”
“A very noble thought, my lady.”
“Thank you, Confessor. Is there anything else?”
“No.”
“Then I thank you for your news and guidance, Vember. Please send in my secretary, so I may review my appointments for the day.”
“Certainly, my lady,” replied Confessor Vember with a bow before turning and heading for the door.
***
The following day on the grounds of the Sharpe estate
“I have failed,” stated Farah Sharpe.
“Yes, you have,” replied Alicia Saunt, “and my associates do not like failure.”
“What I cannot understand, though, is why she has not sent her guards to arrest me.”
“She has not sent her guards for one very good reason.”
“Which is?”
“She has sent something more dangerous.”
“What?”
“She has sent spies.”
Farah Sharpe reached out, plucked a flower from a nearby bush, and held it to her nose. “Oh.”
“She must, of course, learn nothing.” Alicia examined a leaf on the bush.
Farah gently twirled the flower in her hand before looking her guest in the eye. “I understand.”
“Good.”
Holding her flower to her nose again, Farah asked, “Do you wish some wine?”
“No, I must go.”
“I understand.”
“It must be tonight, Farah.”
Farah nodded her understanding. “He cometh,” she said in a hushed whisper.
“He cometh,” repeated Alicia.
***
The next morning – the Royal Palace at Deep Lake
Queen Rebecca Rothgal sat on her balcony, enjoying the view across the lake, whilst having her breakfast. “What is wrong, William?” she asked. “I know that look and you only wear it when you are worried.”
William remained quiet. Rebecca waited, watching her bodyguard, patiently.
“My spy at Farah Sharpe’s residence has not reported in yet,” relented William.
“Is that a problem?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he is never late reporting.”
“Maybe he has been wounded or has been incapacitated.”
“He is one of my strongest spies. It would take a mighty enemy to wound or incapacitate him,” stated William.
“Go,” commanded Rebecca.
William looked quizzically at her.
“I said go. If he is dead, then you need to know about it. We need to know what is happening.”
William nodded and a shadow-door sprung into life behind him. Turning, William stepped through.
Rebecca watched as the shadow-door disappeared. “Ease of dressing, the ability to travel anywhere quickly, the lack of aging. God, I hate bloody werewolves. They have an easy life.” Rebecca placed a slice of toast with marmalade on it in her mouth. “Typical men - bastards!”
***
William stepped out of the shadow-door and into a small copse of trees that hid him from the Sharpe residence. Instantly, he smelled the smoke and the hint of cooked flesh. Looking through the branches, he saw the smouldering ruins that once were Farah Sharpe’s abode.
Quickly, William left the copse and, whilst checking left and right, made his way to the gate in the outer walls. The scene inside was like one from a madman’s nightmare. Bodies of the staff were ripped apart and used to decorate the walls of the courtyard. Here and there, couples – man and woman, man and man, woman and woman – had been positioned to make them look like they were making twisted and brutal love. Most of them had had their heads chopped off and then switched with their gruesome partners. William’s lip curled in disgust at the message the grotesque scene was sending.
However, it was the centrepiece that grabbed William’s attention. There, in the very centre of the courtyard, was his spy, the Dev’ver Black Fear, on his back, his arms out wide, stakes driven through the palms of his hands. Another much larger stake had been driven through his groin, and upon that stake, a naked Lady Farah Sharpe had been impaled.
William walked over to the grisly sight. The stake had exited through the back of the neck of Farah, leaving her face untouched, and on that face was a smile of pure joy. William cast his eyes down to Black Fear who met his gaze with pain-filled eyes.
“Who?” demanded William, speaking straight into the mind of Black Fear.
“PAIN!” screamed Black Fear, directly into William’s mind. William instantly cut the link. Grabbing the stake that Lady Sharpe was attached to with his one good hand, William tried to pull it free. It barely moved. Letting out a cry of frustration, William contemplated calling in more Dev’ver to assist, but instantly thought better of it. This was not a clean kill. This was very intentional. This was a direct message to him.
Very deliberately, William transformed into Shadow Killer. As the cries of pain became howls of triumph, Shadow Killer looked down at the crippled Black Fear and thrust his clawed hand into Black Fear’s chest, ripping out the creature’s heart and dropping it on the floor. Moments later, what looked like smoke drifted out of the heart and into the compacted ground.
> Shadow Killer prowled round the remains of the estate. All was in a state of destruction. Every person was dead and were either heavily mutilated, or their faces showed nothing but pleasure, regardless of the amount of pain they must have suffered before death.
Making his way out of the large garden at the back of the house and back into the cool of the building, Shadow Killer heard voices. Quickly and quietly, he made his way towards them.
***
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” a heavily built man said as he slowly turned full circle in the courtyard.
“Nev, how could anyone...” said another man as he stared in disbelief at the sight before him. A third person, a boy of about eleven, was on his knees, throwing up.
“Shit!” Nev suddenly stated.
“What?”
“Maggie, Ron.”
Ron’s eyes suddenly showed understanding. “Shit, Nev, you’re right; she cannot be allowed to see this.”
“Go and stop her, Ron,” stated Nev. “I’ll get poor Paul and drag him out of here.” Ron nodded and ran for the gate.
Nev moved towards the boy. “Come on, Paul. Stand up and I’ll lead you out.” Paul staggered to his feet, keeping his eyes firmly on the ground, and allowed himself to be led away.
***
Shadow Killer watched them leave from his hiding spot, before turning and making his way to the garden. Once there, he opened a shadow-door and was just about to step through, when something caught his eye. The tall bushes to his right had been damaged, branches broken and flattened. They were covering a wall and Shadow Killer’s keen eyes could see something red on the wall.
Letting the shadow-door dissipate, Shadow Killer moved to the bushes and brushed them aside to reveal a message written in blood on the stone wall.
He Cometh... Again!
