by Alan Scott
Nearby, Miriam Gregorious and Gideon Sandhu were tearing their way through the few remaining Craktoneon. The mortal Brethren weaved through the slaughterhouse that the tent had become, slitting the throats of the badly wounded and tying up those less injured before dragging them away for tonight’s victory celebrations. Joanna dropped the corpse and let out an evil laugh at the thought of the sweet entertainment their screaming bodies would produce. Suddenly, she stopped as she felt someone watching her intently.
Aaron Power looked on in awe at the woman he had fallen in love with, who was only standing ten feet away. She was perfect. She was beautiful. She was the living embodiment of death. He slowly started to move towards his vision of perfection just as she moved towards him.
Joanna moved towards the man whose dreams she and her master had haunted for so long - the man with the twisted mind and the love of death so rarely found in the living. Joanna bared her fangs as he approached.
“He cometh,” Aaron said.
“Who cometh?”
“The Midnight Man cometh, my love.” Joanna reached out and grabbed Aaron’s shoulders, holding the man firmly in place. “Our union shall forge a pathway for His return.”
Aaron slid his arms inside hers and pushed them away before taking Joanna’s head in his hands. “You are truly beautiful, and together we shall bring our Lord and Master back into this world.”
“His time cometh!” shouted Joanna, excitedly.
“The Midnight Man shall cometh again!” screamed Aaron Power before pulling Joanna’s head forward and kissing her bloody lips.
“THE MIDNIGHT MAN COMETH!” screamed the Brethren, both mortal and immortal.
Joanna broke the unholy kiss and looked deep into her soon-to-be husband’s eyes. “-and the world shall tremble at His touch.”
“-and the gods shall die,” replied Aaron.
***
As the midday sun shone down from the clear blue sky, Reif Rothgal sat on his horse and silently viewed the scene of destruction.
“Who could have done this?” asked Alex, his face ashen, as he stroked his horse’s neck.
Reif remained silent as he continued to take in every disturbing and grizzly detail.
“Have you seen what they did to that man there?” Alex pointed to a particularly gruesome sight. “Do you think he was still alive?”
“Yes,” Reif replied indifferently as he dismounted from his horse and calmed the jittery beast. Turning the creature around, he walked a few yards away and tethered the horse to a tree, before returning to stand beside Alex. “Go tether your horse near mine, Alex, and then follow me,” commanded Reif. Too stunned by the scene of slaughter, Alex obeyed Reif without question.
Reif walked through the ruined camp and the many cadavers that littered the ground towards the large tent, which was the only thing still standing. The sight he saw as he entered the tent caused the first flicker of emotion to appear on his face. First, he stared in disbelief, then horror, and finally, anger at the macabre scene that greeted him.
“They were massacred,” said Alex as he joined his friend. “How could so many trained and armed men be so easily kill…” Alex started to dry heave as he glimpsed the inside of the tent over Reif’s shoulder.
Ignoring him, Reif walked into a scene from any sane man’s blackest nightmare. Upon the poles holding the tent upright, all the leading Brothers from the Craktoneon delegation had been tied or nailed. They had been eviscerated and their insides placed as sickening decorations along the walls of the tent.
Other corpses had been set up to recreate bizarre and grotesque sexual acts around the centrepiece of the tent. Reif strode to the centre of the tent where a chair had been placed, and on that chair sat Brother Warsmith. Two long metal nails had been driven through him, pinning him to the seat to keep him upright. He had been positioned so that one hand was on his lap and in his other was a delicate cup. A piece of paper had been placed in his mouth.
Reif leaned over and looked in the cup. It was full of congealed blood. Reif wrinkled his nose in disgust before removing the piece of paper from the man’s mouth and reading the message written on it.
“What... what does it say?” Alex managed to stammer from the entrance.
Reif turned his head to face his friend. “It says ‘Take a drink and celebrate, for He will soon arrive upon this land and challenge the gods themselves. For He is the Midnight Man and He Cometh’.” Reif crumpled the paper and threw it to the floor.
Taking one last look round, he made his way to the exit and Alex. “Come. Let’s get out of here.”
“Agreed,” said Alex as he followed Reif to the horses. “The entire senior leaders of Craktoneon wiped out - I can’t believe it.”
Reif remained quiet. Shaking his head, Alex Weir continued, “Who could do this?”
Reif stopped before his horse. “The thrice-cursed shapeshifter, the deviant, and the depraved worshippers of the damned. That is who, Alex, that is who.”
“What are we going to do, Reif?”
Reif unfettered his horse and mounted up. Looking down at Alex, he said, “Deep Lake is full of corruption and deviants. The Queen is nothing but a whore to the shapeshifter. The Red Bank has been left to suck the life from everyone of noble birth. I shall not be returning to that place of filth.”
“We could try and find any surviving Craktoneons and join up with them.”
Reif surveyed the destruction. “No. The Craktoneons have been broken. There is no place for me there.”
“Then, where? Damn it, Reif.” Alex mounted his horse. “Tell me, where do you go?”
Reif stared into the middle distance for a moment before quietly declaring, “I shall go to our second city, Idris, up near the Granite Mountains.”
“Idris!”
“Yes, Idris.”
“Isn’t that where the legend of the tailor who held the wall single-handedly against the Brethren of the Night came from?”
“Yes.”
“And where C-Company is based?”
“Yes.”
Alex Weir looked at the carnage before him and sighed heavily. “Then I am coming with you.”
“You don’t have to. Something evil is coming and you might want to be with your family.”
“Reif, you know I am the youngest of five and my family doesn’t really care what I do. I was only tolerated because of my friendship with you and the influence that I might have on your family.”
“Family is family, Alex.”
“Friendship is friendship, Reif.”
“I say again, Alex - something evil is coming and we are going to be living through terrible and violent times.”
“All the more reason you need someone to watch your back.”
“Your mind is set?”
“It is.”
“Then let’s go from this place.”
“Can’t argue with that,” stated Alex as he and Reif rode away.
Chapter Eight
A Kingdom Falls
Eight days later, in the evening, within the private rooms of the Archbishop Frances Peak
Sitting in his comfortable chair behind his huge desk, Archbishop Frances Peak asked his question, “Are you sure?” before taking a sip of water from a glass.
“Positive,” replied Lady Amanda Rothgal – Ackroyd. “I vouch for them both. They are with us and ready to do what needs to be done.”
“Are you ready to do what needs to be done?” Archbishop Peak addressed two men standing to his left.
“We are ready, your Grace,” replied Captain John Philips and Chamberlain Marc Aslo together.
“It is not an easy thing to overthrow a queen,” continued Peak.
“Your Grace, I can no longer stand by and see our once great kingdom crumble because of the lies that werewolf whispers in her ears,” replied Captain Philips, passionately. “We must act before the Red Bank and the werewolves destroy us.”
“And you?” Peak asked of Chamberlain Aslo.
&nbs
p; “As the Queen always says, ‘Duty must always come first,’ and my duty is to the kingdom.”
“Well said, my Lord Chamberlain and Captain Philips.” Archbishop Peak nodded his head sagely whilst rubbing his chin. “It just surprises me that the two of you would betray her.”
Philips took a deep calming breath and composed himself. “Your Grace, this is no spur-of-the-moment decision. Aslo and I have had doubts for a while now. The Queen seems to have lost her way and sets more store by the words of Shadow Killer than her aides and advisers.”
“What of Rab Cregg?” asked Deacon Brown, who had been standing silently behind the Archbishop.
“She still listens to him, though not as much as before, hence, he is still loyal to her.”
“I see.”
“Look,” interjected the Chamberlain, “when we overheard the conversation between Lady Rothgal-Ackroyd’s man and one of the palace guards, we could have arrested him and Lady Rothgal-Ackroyd. Instead, we went to her and pledged our allegiance. I care deeply about this country, and I cannot stand by and watch it collapse as Queen Rebecca Rothgal sits and does nothing.”
Archbishop Peak leaned back in his chair. “Emotional words, Lord Chamberlain.”
“My apologies, your Grace. This does not sit easily upon my shoulders; however, the kingdom needs to be saved, and who better to save it in its hour of need and guide it to its rightful place among the countries within this great continent of Talocants than the Holy Church.”
Peak waved his hand, dismissively. “There is no need to apologise.”
“Thank you, your Grace.” Chamberlain Aslo gave a short bow of his head.
“Having the both of you on our side will certainly make the whole process easier.”
“So you agree they should be allowed to help us?” asked Lady Rothgal-Ackroyd.
“Yes,” nodded the Archbishop.
“Good.”
“However, as previously discussed, the Church cannot and will not be seen to actively overthrow a kingdom. It gives quite the wrong impression. Instead, after a few days of contemplation, we will declare that we fully support the new rulers and that we will work with them.”
“But first we must overthrow the Queen,” interjected Captain Philips.
“That, you can discuss outside my office. Now, please leave me and we shall not speak again until the deed has been done in three days’ time.” Archbishop Peak indicated the door with a flick of his wrist.
“Can I kindly ask that everyone leave?” fussed Deacon Brown, as he herded the unwanted people out to mutters of, “Yes, your Grace”, “As you wish, your Grace”, and “At your service, your Grace”.
As he shut the door firmly, Deacon Brown turned round and asked, “What the blazes is Lady Rothgal–Ackroyd thinking about, bringing those two here?”
“Damned if I know,” replied Archbishop Peak as he poured the water from his glass into a newly acquired plant pot, in which sat a fern. Opening his bottom drawer, he withdrew a bottle of brandy and poured a large measure into the now empty glass. “Nevertheless, her attitude to alcohol is starting to grate on my nerves. If God in his infinite wisdom did not want us to drink alcohol, then why would he create it?” Peak sank the brandy in one go. “Mmm, ggggooooood! That’s good stuff, Brown,” managed Peak as he convulsed, mildly.
“Glad you like it, your Grace,” replied Deacon Brown as he watched Peak pour another large glass. “I got it from the shop, Fruit of the Vine, a family run business.”
“Husband and wife?”
“An elderly couple and their four girls,” corrected Brown.
“My God, no wonder the man needs a room full of drink - five women!”
“In fact, I am led to believe there are eight females.”
“Eight?”
“The household’s two dogs and cat are also female.”
“I raise my glass to the man,” said the Archbishop before taking another drink. “Even so, we have become side-tracked.” Frances Peak leaned back in his chair and became serious. “You do realise that we will have to martyr both Philips and Aslo.”
“Yes, your Grace.”
“Once a turncoat, always a turncoat.” Frances rubbed his chin. “I am most surprised by Aslo. I thought he would have stayed loyal.”
“Just goes to show, you can never tell.”
Archbishop Peak turned his full attention on Deacon Brown. “You are loyal, aren’t you, Brown?”
There was something about the way the Archbishop said it, a hidden warning that caused Brown to hesitate for a second. “Of course, your Grace.”
“Good.”
Deacon Brown sat down on a moderately comfortable chair on the opposite side of the desk to the Archbishop and remained silent.
“Have our men inside the Castle keep an eye on Captain Philips and Chamberlain Aslo. If it looks like they have betrayed us, have them killed.” Peak took a drink from his glass. “If they don’t betray us, then have them martyred as soon as possible. You know the sort of thing – a rogue guard still loyal to the Queen, etc, etc.”
“I understand, your Grace,” confirmed Brown.
“Once Lady Amanda Rothgal-Ackroyd has succeeded in overthrowing Rebecca, we shall show our support of her cause after five days. Then, using the Church’s reserve of wealth, we shall pay off the loans to the Red Bank.” Frances looked thoughtful. “We really must get to the bottom of the Red Bank, once we have dealt with this small uprising.” Draining his glass, Frances continued, “Anyway, once we have this city and country back on its feet, we shall prepare for the dark times.”
“The coming of the Midnight Man,” stated Deacon Brown.
“Yes, the coming of the Midnight Man and the Brethren of the Night. All this business with who is on the throne and how much is owed to the Bank is nothing compared to what is to come, if that blasted Mancer Prophecy is true.” Frances Peak rubbed his brow.
“Dark times.”
“You have no idea, Brown.”
Brown narrowed his eyes and looked at the man he served, and suddenly he understood. “You are scared.”
Frances raised his gaze and snorted. “Why do you think I drink so much?”
“But we serve our Lord; we should not fear anything.”
“I wonder if that thought was in the heads of the Craktoneons as they were massacred last week.”
“Ah,” said Brown with sudden understanding, “you think the Midnight Man and his followers killed the Craktoneons and not werewolves, shapeshifters, and the living dead.”
“You read the reports.” Peak reached out for the bottle of brandy, and refilled his glass. “Since when did any of them use people’s insides as decorations, and since when did the shapeshifter and undead work together?”
“Never,” whispered Brown.
“It was a well-planned and coordinated attack. It took plenty of planning.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because it succeeded beyond anyone’s expectations. They wiped out the entire senior members of the Craktoneon movement - a movement, let me remind you, that was both heavily militarised and who specialised in fighting werewolves and undead.” Archbishop Peak drained his glass.
“That’s as may be, your Grace,” said Deacon Brown as he carefully watched the man opposite him, “however, there is something else, something... that... scares you even more.”
The Archbishop filled his glass and knocked back the contents quickly before saying, “There is, Brown, there is. Let me now ask you two questions. One - where were the enemy dead? Not one body from the attackers has been found. They must have lost someone in the battle. Two – where is this enemy army? No one has seen anything close to the number of men it would have taken to cause a massacre like that. Where are they?”
“I... I... I don’t know the answer to either question, your Grace,” admitted Deacon Brown.
Archbishop Peak smiled a humourless smile. “Somewhere out there is an army that has massacred a well-trained, motivated, and hig
hly focused group of men, and then disappeared without a trace. Imagine an army that can do that, Brown - an army that leaves neither survivors nor any of their dead and can move undetected.”
Deacon Brown stared into the middle distance, deep in thought. “That would be an army from hell. It would be almost impossible to stop.”
“I think you will find you need a drink now,” said Archbishop Frances Peak.
***
Lady Amanda Rothgal-Ackroyd walked with purpose as she made her way to her carriage, which awaited her within the walls of the Archbishop’s city residence. “It will soon begin,” she whispered to herself, “- the salvation of the Twin Kingdoms and my benevolent reign as Queen.” A few cold spots of rain fell upon her face and shoulders. Amanda looked up into the darkening sky and the thick large dark clouds that were filling it quickly. She paused six feet from her carriage, and with her head still tilted back, watched the brooding sky as the rain started to get heavier.
“My lady!” called Confessor Vember as he opened the carriage door. “Please get in and out of the rain.”
Lady Rothgal-Ackroyd remained statue still, staring skywards as the wind started to gain in strength.
“My lady!” called Confessor Vember again.
Lady Rothgal-Ackroyd held up her first finger for silence. It was then the distinctive sound of thunder was heard. The horses attached to the carriage neighed and pranced as the loud noise startled them. Then the lightning split the sky with its brilliant silvery light. Lady Rothgal-Ackroyd threw her arms wide and outstretched as she cried, “Praise be to our Lord!” She then finally crossed the remaining six feet and entered the carriage.
“My lady, you are soaked,” commented Confessor Vember.
