by Alan Scott
“Yes, my lady,” answered Maria.
“Who is this person and who is coming?” demanded Charles Rothgal as he manoeuvred himself and his wife towards the door.
“This, Lord Rothgal, is the Lady Joanna Harris, and she is talking about our Lord and Master, her son-to-be. My lady is talking about the Midnight Man.”
“Oh my lord,” whispered Beth.
Standing, Maria said, “He will be of no help to you now.”
At that moment, the door opened and two guardsmen entered. “Kill them!” shouted Charles Rothgal.
“Now the fun begins,” purred Maria.
***
An hour later
Maria stood in the smashed remains of the drawing room. Blood covered her face, arms, and body; however, none of it was hers. It was the blood of the servants, whom she had tracked down and slaughtered, as well as the blood of Lady Beth Rothgal.
In one hand, Maria held the precious yellow roses to her nose as she gently inhaled their delicate fragrance. The other hand still had the glove attached and on the end of two claws were Lady Rothgal’s eyes. “You really do have the most wonderful eyes, Beth,” Maria said to the two orbs.
“My lady,” a strong male voice said.
“What is it, Guard?” Maria turned her head to look at her bodyguard, who had just entered the room.
“The last few servants have been caught and killed by our men who were in position outside the estate.”
“Excellent news.”
“Yes, it is,” said Joanna Harris as she entered the room.
“My lady.” Maria bowed her head.
Joanna walked purposefully towards Maria. “Nice eyes.”
Maria raised her glove higher to give Joanna a better look. “Yes, they are.”
“May I?”
“I would be honoured, my lady.”
Joanna reached out and removed the two eyeballs, before popping them in her mouth and chewing.
Maria watched, fascinated, as various fluids and bits of eyeball fell from the vampyre’s mouth.
“They say that the eyes are the window to a person’s soul and, within them, a part of the soul resides. Her soul was delicious. I thank you, Maria.”
“It was a pleasure, my lady.”
Joanna reached out with a pale hand and grasped Maria’s jaw. “My son shall be returning to this world shortly.”
“The Midnight Man cometh,” whispered Maria.
“Yes, the Midnight Man cometh, and you shall be there when He does.”
“My lady...” The grip tightened on Maria’s jaw.
“Do not interrupt me, girl.”
Maria shook her head.
“As I said, you shall be there to bear witness.” Joanna’s cold dead eyes stared deep into Maria’s and, finding no fear, Joanna smiled. “You have pleased us, Maria, and with the successful conclusion of this mission, you shall be one of the few that will be tasked with spreading the word of His glorious return. You shall be a Dark Herald.”
Maria’s eyes burned bright with devotion.
“And if you do well at that, then who knows? Maybe even entry into the Brethren of the Night.”
“My lady!” gasped Maria.
“Until then,” Joanna looked across to the man known as Guard, “you should have some fun.” Letting go of Maria, Joanna slit the palm of her hand with one of her own fingernails. As dark blood oozed out of the open wound, she held it against Maria’s mouth, allowing a few drops of her blood to enter. Maria’s body tingled as the tainted blood fell on her tongue. Speaking to Guard, Joanna said, “I hope you are feeling fit.” Guard nodded his head.
“Good.” As Maria fell to the floor, Joanna opened a shadow-door and stepped through.
Guard looked down at Maria, who was slowly getting to her feet. A feral grin spread across his face when he saw the lust that burned in Maria’s eyes as she made her way towards him.
***
The next morning
Reif Rothgal stretched in his bed and yawned, before scratching his chest hair. “Time to get up,” he said to himself.
Just then, the door to his bedroom burst open and Alex Weir rushed in, breathless. “Reif!”
“What the fucking hell is it?”
“Reif...”
“What?”
“There has been a werewolf attack.”
“Where?”
“At your parent’s estate.”
“My parents?”
“I’m sorry, Reif. I really am.”
Chapter Seven
Betrayal
One week later at the Craktoneon camp
Sergeant Guardian Aaron Power’s face was unreadable as he stood in the huge meeting tent watching Bruce Warsmith study the Holy Book of Crakton. Aaron noted the drool running down from the corner of Warsmith’s mouth as the once mighty and powerful man mouthed the words he read.
In the last year, the old man’s condition had gotten a lot worse. His memory was fading and he was living more in the past than the present. A flicker of a snide smile stole across Aaron’s face for a fleeting moment. Once, he had revered the man in front of him; now, he just pitied and loathed him. He was weak.
“Boy! Boy!” called Warsmith, eagerly.
“Yes, Brother Warsmith,” replied Aaron.
“Come here, come here!”
Aaron walked slowly to the man.
“Look here, Andrew...”
“Aaron,” said Aaron, quietly.
“I have found the secret passage!”
Aaron looked down at the page and quickly read. It was the same passage the old man had shown him repeatedly the last few months. “Brother Warsmith, that is not the secret passage within the Holy Book of Crakton. That is simply part of the Tale of the Obedient Man.”
“Oh.”
“I think you need a drink.”
“No, look; there is a secret message. Look! It’s here!” insisted Brother Warsmith.
“Read it again,” said Aaron as he walked to the side of the tent nearest him.
“I will! I will show you.” As Warsmith read, a confused look began to appear on his face. “It was here, Alfred.”
“Aaron,” whispered Aaron, as he neared a table upon which stood a bottle of wine and two glasses.
“It was here!” insisted Warsmith. “Maybe it slipped between the pages.”
“What?”
“Maybe the words slipped between the pages,” answered Warsmith.
Aaron shook his head as he poured a large glass of wine.
“Ah yes, between the pages,” muttered Warsmith.
Aaron removed a folded slip of paper from his trouser pocket and carefully unwrapped it, to reveal a white powder, which he then poured into the wine. Picking up the glass, he swilled the liquid around, making sure all trace of the compound was gone.
“No, it’s not between the pages.” Bruce Warsmith scratched his head.
“Here, drink this,” said Aaron Power, as he handed the glass of wine to Warsmith.
“Mmmm, what?”
“Drink, Brother Warsmith.”
“Why?”
“To our Lord and those that have died in His service.”
“Yes, that is a good toast.”
“Drink it all, Brother,” insisted Aaron.
Bruce picked up the glass with both hands and started to drink.
“Remember, all of it,” reminded Aaron as he watched the old man drink.
Placing the glass down, Bruce Warsmith wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “To those who have fallen.”
“To those who have fallen,” repeated Aaron.
“Did I ever tell you about the time we held the town of Safe Harbour from the Walking Dead?”
“Yes, frequently.”
“Well, the town was a sorry place and the local priest was lacking in faith and conviction...”
Aaron ignored the ramblings of Brother Warsmith as he watched the man, intently waiting for the powder to do its work. It did not take long to start ha
ving an effect.
“...So with a sword in one hand and the Holy Book in the other, I... I... I...” Bruce closed his eyes and placed a hand on his stomach.
“Are you ok, Brother Warsmith?”
“I think... I think the fever is upon me again, Aaron,” Warsmith’s once powerful and strong voice was now weak and almost childlike.
“Are you sure, Brother?”
“Yes.” A hint of fear entered Warsmith’s voice. “Please, Aaron; help me.”
Aaron took a step back as he watched the old man grasp his stomach with both hands.
“The headache is starting, and I feel that... I feel that I am going to be sick. Aaron, please help.”
Aaron stayed where he was and watched, as Bruce was violently sick.
“Please,” begged Warsmith, holding out his hand, “Please, get me to the latrine before it happens.” Tears of humiliation filled Bruce’s eyes. “Please grant me some pride.”
“I shall go and get someone,” answered Aaron Power, standing still.
“Please.” Bruce Warsmith dragged himself off his seat, slowly and painfully trying to make his way to the rear of the tent. “Aaron, please!”
Aaron said nothing and just watched as the frail man tottered slowly towards his goal.
Just as he reached halfway across the tent, Bruce Warsmith was sick again, and as he doubled over, his bowels opened up. The once dominant and sturdy man slowly crumpled on the floor, covered in vomit and lying in a growing pool of his own shit.
Sergeant Aaron Power looked down at the man he once idolised and spat on the floor. “I will go and get help.” Soft weeping was the only reply from Warsmith.
Walking out the front of the tent, Aaron Power saw Brothers Spear and Ending not far away. “Brothers Spear and Ending - to me!”
Both men quickly made their way to Aaron. “Yes, Sergeant Guardian Power?” said Spear.
“Quickly, Brothers! The fever is on Brother Warsmith. He requires your help!”
“Where is he?” asked Guardian Spear.
“In the tent.”
“Come, Guardian Ending,” said Spear. “We must assist Brother Warsmith!”
The mute nodded his agreement and followed Guardian Spear into the tent.
Sergeant Guardian Aaron Power watched the men enter the tent. “The plan is coming together nicely,” he thought to himself. “Soon it shall be the time of the Brethren.” Bowing his head, Aaron whispered, “He cometh.”
***
Sergeant Guardian Dennis Dransfield sat on a felled tree trunk as he ran his sharpening stone down the length of his sword for the fiftieth time whilst staring into the campfire, lost deep in thought.
“A copper for them,” said Brother Kirsop.
“Mmm, what?”
“I said a copper for them.”
“I don’t think they are worth that, Brother Kirsop,” replied Dennis.
Brother Kirsop sat down next to Dennis. “Are you worried about Brother Warsmith?”
“No. I mean, yes! Of course, I worry about Brother Warsmith and his condition, but it is not what is preying on my mind.”
“And what is preying on your mind, Guardian?”
“The past.”
Brother Kirsop scratched his neck. “Ah, the past - an interesting place to visit.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I don’t suppose this has anything to do with your worsening relationship with Sergeant Guardian Black, has it?”
Dransfield stopped mid-stroke. “Is it that obvious?”
“Yes, my son, it is.”
Dennis let out a long sigh. “I just don’t understand it, Brother Kirsop. We were close friends once and now we can barely stand the sight of each other.”
“And you think the answer lies in the past?” Dennis shrugged his shoulders.
Brother Kirsop nodded. “Have you tried talking to him, asking him straight what the matter is?”
“Of course I have.”
“And?”
“And it just makes matters worse. He seems to think that I know what has caused the problem and I’m just rubbing his face in it.”
“So you look backwards into the past to see if you can understand why.”
“Once, but as of now, no longer,” stated Dennis.
“Really?”
“Yes, I no longer care about what slight Luke Black thinks I may have done him. That’s his problem, not mine. I now look to the past to remember my family, especially my Gran. It was she who set me upon this path.”
“How did she do that?”
Dennis placed his sharpening stone down and propped his sword against the trunk he was sitting on. “She asked me to save her soul.”
“I was not expecting that,” admitted Brother Kirsop.
“At the time, neither was I.”
“Why did she need her soul saved?”
“Because her husband was a werewolf.”
Brother Kirsop eyes opened wide. “Your grandfather was a werewolf?”
“Yes. Brother Warsmith told my Gran that, to save her soul, a sacrifice to God had to be made, and that sacrifice was me. I was to join the good fight and battle the evils of this world.”
“So you became a Guardian.”
“Yes. Brother Warsmith branded me himself, keeping the white-hot brand over my heart for ten seconds longer than necessary to ensure all evil was purged from my body.”
“The pain must have been...”
“It was, Brother Kirsop, it was.”
“Does Sergeant Guardian Black know about this?”
“Yes, he was there.”
“So what are you going to do now?” asked Kirsop.
“I am thinking of joining one of the other Craktoneon groups further north. I hear that the Restless Dead are causing problems.”
“That is one solution.”
“No, Brother Kirsop; that is the only solution. The rift between Luke and me is starting to affect the entire camp. I will not allow that.” Dennis took a deep breath. “I just need Brother Warsmith to be well enough to write me a letter of introduction and I shall be on my way.”
Brother Kirsop patted Dennis on the back. “Hopefully he will be well soon.”
***
“There you are, Brother Warsmith - all nice and clean again,” soothed Guardian Spear as he and Guardian Ending helped Bruce Warsmith to his travel cot, which was situated in the far back of the huge tent.
“Thank you, Guardian Spear.”
Guardian Spear looked down at the frail, tired, and weak old man. “It’s the least we could do, Brother. Now sit down on the cot - that’s right - and swing your feet up. Just lie back and I’ll place the blanket over you. Now, that’s better, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is, Guardian Spear. Thank you.”
“Like I said, not a problem. Now we will go...”
Bruce Warsmith feebly grasped Spear’s arm “No. Stay.”
“You need your rest, Brother.”
“I need your help, Guardians. Will you help me?”
Spear looked at Guardian Ending, who frowned for a moment before nodding solemnly.
“You need to get your rest, Brother Warsmith; however, if you really do require our help, we happily give it. How may we assist you?”
Brother Warsmith closed his eyes and smiled. “Thank you.” Opening them, he looked round the tent, making sure that they were alone before beginning. “First of all, I ask you not to say a thing until I have finished. Do you both agree?”
“Yes,” said Guardian Spear.
Guardian Ending nodded.
“Good.” Bruce let go of Spear’s arm and sunk back into his bed. “Guardians, I am but a shadow of the man I once was. There is no greater humiliation for a man than to become a small child once more, and I now know that humiliation. I have soiled myself. I have covered myself in my own vomit. My mind roams and I can barely look after myself.”
Tears welled in Warsmith’s eyes. “I don’t know why our Lord has inflicted this curse on me,
why He has burdened me with this awful curse... maybe it’s to teach me humility in my final days? If it is, then I have learned my lesson well. Luckily, in my times of need, you two have treated me with respect, kindness, and understanding. For that, I thank you. Others would not have been so kind. However, lately I have started to suspect that my rapid decline in health and well-being is not all natural. I believe it has been aided by those that hate and loath our Church.”
Guardian Spear cast a quizzical glance at Guardian Ending, who returned the look.
“Yes, I believe that there is an agent of evil within our ranks. I cannot prove it and who would believe a man in my condition, but I know it to be true, and I know it is he who is killing me in this most vile and degrading manner.”
Brother Warsmith took a deep breath and wiped his eyes before continuing. “Our Lord has come to me and demanded one last task of me - a task I am passing on to the pair of you. Our Lord sent me a dream of Rose in a garden. You must take my original version of the Holy Book of Craktoneon to that garden. It’s just north of the Granite Mountains. Will you do that for me, Guardians?”
“Yes,” said Guardian Spear.
Guardian Ending nodded.
“Good. Thank you.” Brother Warsmith smiled, contentedly. “Take the Holy Book now, for the end will be coming swiftly.”
“As you wish.”
Guardian Spear glanced over to the table where Warsmith’s copy of the Holy Book was laying open. “I will take it to the garden, Brother Warsmith.”
“No, not that copy. Under my cot there is a medium-sized travel trunk.”
Guardian Spear knelt on the ground, looked under the bed and pulled out the trunk. “This trunk, Brother Warsmith?”
“Yes,” confirmed Warsmith. “Give it to me.” Warsmith weakly pushed himself into a sitting position. Guardian Spear handed over the trunk. Warsmith ran his hand slowly over the lid of the wooden trunk before opening it and removing a couple of travelling cloaks. “Your dagger, Guardian Ending.” Ending handed over his dagger.
