King's Army

by Mark Huckerby

  She looked up at him with tears in her eyes. “Your father and I spoke so often about how to protect you – we just felt like we’d landed you with this curse from the moment you were born and there were all these vultures circling, waiting to pick you off. First the politicians and the press, and now Lock and his evil. And even if he doesn’t get what he wants from Richard…”

  Alfie realized with horror what she meant.

  “Ellie … he has Ellie too.”

  Ellie had never liked being alone. As a young child she would spend her days chasing her big brothers, Alfie and Richard, through the endless hallways and grand ballrooms of Buckingham Palace. Sometimes they would get fed up with her and tell her to “go and play with her dolls”, but Ellie was not a “dolls” kind of girl. If she wasn’t harassing her brothers, then she was tugging at her father’s arm, demanding to be spun round in the air again, or swinging from the branches of an oak tree while her mother lay reading in the shade. At school, the boisterous, red-headed princess had eventually found “her gang” – the rough-and-tumble sporty crowd who were all business on the hockey pitch and all play off it. She drew energy from being surrounded by others, and if she was honest it also helped take her mind off the car crash that her family had become – Mum gone AWOL, Dad dead and buried, Richard a moody recluse, and Alfie unreliable as ever, despite the fact he was now the king. If there was one thing Ellie was not designed to handle well it was being kidnapped by a giant, undead Viking and thrown into solitary confinement in the Tower of London’s dungeons for weeks on end.

  Aside from that rather startling turn of events, Ellie knew nothing about what had happened to the country since Lock had seized control. She had spent the first couple of days shivering in the bleak confines of her small stone cell, cold and in shock, trying to process the impossibility of what she’d witnessed at Wimbledon. The only light came from a small bulb near the ceiling that would sometimes go off without warning, plunging her into pitch darkness. Twice a day the Yeoman Jailor would open a hatch in her door and slide through a meal – soup and stale bread usually, a dried chicken leg if she was lucky.

  At first she had thrown her food back at him and screamed, “Why am I in here? Where are my brothers? What’s HAPPENING?!”

  But he never replied, or even looked her in the eye. After a while she gave up and took the food without a word. One morning she woke up with a searing headache to find that someone had been in her cell. Her supper must have been drugged. She was lying on a fresh mattress in a proper iron bed. Soap, a towel and a bucket of water were arranged next to her. The water was icy cold, but she used every drop to try to wash the dead Viking stench from her skin. There were new clothes too – an awful flowery dress she never would have chosen for herself – and a book, some romantic rubbish, which she could only enjoy by adding in car chases and ninja fights in her head as she read it. But she was pleased to be reasonably clean and comfortable for the first time in weeks. Had the Jailor taken pity on her at last? Or was there someone more powerful looking out for her?

  Late one night, desperate to talk to someone, she uncovered the small grate through which she had heard the strange whispers from the next cell during her first hours in the dungeons. The odd voice of the prisoner next door with his old-fashioned words had made her feel woozy, like he was putting her under a trance, so she had stuffed a blanket over the grate to drown him out. Talking to him again was a risk, but if she was careful perhaps she could get some useful information.

  “We meet again, Princess,” came his hushed greeting, before she had even uttered a word.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “My name is Colonel Thomas Blood, loyal subject of King Charles. Or ‘Father of all Treasons’, depending on who you ask.”

  “Treason? Is that why they locked you up? What did you do?”

  “Nothing improper, my fair young maid, I assure you! Although I may have vexed my sovereign when I purloined his regalia.”

  “You mean you stole the Crown Jewels?!”

  “Borrowed, if you please. His Majesty’s jewels were in a state of utmost poverty; it was a veritable stain on the nation’s honour. My scheme was in truth merely to melt them down and refashion them into treasures that would befit the glory of a monarch! But alas, matters went awry in the process. A curious magic of which I was unaware resided in the regalia and as they were disassembled it had a most intense and permanent effect on me.”

  “What did it do to you?”

  “Something unspeakable. The point of the matter is that I would not have you think me a common thief. Nay, I am a master in the finest art of all – the art of deception!”

  Ellie thought Blood’s voice carried a slight Irish lilt to it – was that what made it so mesmerizing? He had only spoken for a minute and yet she could feel herself falling under his spell already, like she could listen to him for ever, do anything he asked. She shook her head and focused.

  “Do you know what’s going on out there? Why have they put me in here?”

  “Alas, I regret that I have been alone in the dark longer than Your Highness. But I do know that one’s circumstances can change in the blink of an eye.” His voice was suddenly dark and spiteful. “One moment you are a princess, the next a lowly prisoner, left to rot like so much spoiled meat…”

  Ellie grabbed the blanket and began to stuff it back over the grate.

  “Forgive me!” cried the voice, making her head swim again. “I shall bother you no further, except to say this. All is not forsaken. Not every cell need be a tomb.”

  Ellie sat poised with the blanket, ready to muffle him if she felt herself being hypnotized again. But here was where she did learn something that could be of use to her, as Blood regaled her with stories of all the prisoners who had escaped from the Tower of London over the centuries. From the bishop who shimmied down the walls on a rope smuggled inside in a wine barrel, to the priest who had written notes to fellow conspirators in invisible ink made from orange juice. From the earl who slipped past the guards dressed as a woman, to the traitorous Earl Roger Mortimer, who escaped on a ladder held by supporters on the other side of the moat. The Tower of London might be a fortress that many had failed to break into over the centuries, but plenty of people had succeeded in busting out.

  Ellie did not sleep that night. Instead she pulled the mattress off her bed and prised several of the iron bedsprings loose. Using all her strength she bent and twisted the springs until she had moulded them into a rudimentary knife. It would take time to sharpen it. But then time was the one thing she had plenty of these days. Her bed would never be as comfortable again, but that didn’t matter, because she wasn’t staying. She was going to escape from the Tower of London.

  Ten days later, Ellie lay curled up on her bed when the door hatch opened and a small tray slid inside. A bowl of thin, grey soup and a hunk of rock-hard bread. Perfect. She tipped the soup on to the floor, leaving the bowl on its side, and tore the bread in half.

  Reaching under her mattress, she retrieved the now scalpel-sharp knife and slid it up her sleeve. She lay down on the cold floor, turned her head away from the door and waited. An hour later she heard the hatch slide open again. She knew that the Jailor would be able to see her lying there. But would he fall for it? Would he think she had choked on the bread?

  Clunk. Bolts being opened, a key in the lock! Ellie slid the knife down her sleeve into her hand. Footsteps – one, two, three – he was right by her. He was bending down, a hand on her shoulder, rolling her over. NOW! Ellie sprang up, knife aimed at the Jailor’s throat.

  Except it wasn’t the Jailor. A strong hand batted the knife from her grasp, sending it spinning on to the floor. Ellie looked up into the face of the person standing over her. It was Richard! She jumped up and hugged him.

  “Rich! How did you find me? Come on!”

  She grabbed his hand and tried to pull him towards the door, but the Jailor was standing just outside. Scowling, he slammed the door in her fac
e. Puzzled, she looked up at Richard. His face was pale and drawn in the dim light from the bulb. His hand was cold and clammy. He pulled away from her.

  “What’s going on? Are you a prisoner too?” asked Ellie.

  “No,” replied Richard.

  He wouldn’t meet her gaze, instead darting his bloodshot eyes across the paltry collection of possessions in the cell.

  “I wanted to come and see you sooner, but things have been … difficult.”

  Ellie laughed in disbelief and grabbed his arm, forcing him to look at her.

  “Difficult? I’ve been locked up in here for MONTHS! What’s going on out there? Where did those monsters come from?”

  “It’s complicated, but we can’t do anything about it now; we just have to get along with them as best we can. It’s better that way.”

  “Better? Better for who? How come I’m banged up in here and you’re not?”

  “It’s for your own safety. I have to keep you safe. I have responsibilities now that I’m king—”

  “King? What are you talking about? Alfie’s king.”

  Richard shuffled uneasily from foot to foot.

  “No. He’s gone.”

  “Gone? What do you mean? Richard, tell me.”

  “Alfie’s dead.”

  He felt bad lying to her, but their brother would be dead soon enough anyway, so there was no point getting her hopes up.

  Ellie felt her knees give way. She gripped on to the bed, eyes searching Richard’s face for some sign that this was just a sick joke.

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. It happened in the fighting. I’m sorry, I thought they would have told you by now.”

  Ellie couldn’t think straight. Tears blurred her vision. Her head was pounding.

  “Why would someone do that to Alfie? He wasn’t a threat to anyone, he was just … our stupid brother. What happened?”

  “There was nothing I could do. I couldn’t stop it.”

  Ellie stared at him, confused.

  “You were there, weren’t you? Why didn’t you do something?”

  She could see an odd look in Richard’s eyes – not sadness or regret. Guilt. She gasped.

  “You wanted to be king! Alfie humiliated you at the coronation and you wanted to get your own back.”

  “No, it wasn’t like that, Ellie, I swear.”

  He backed off, but she flew at him, furious, fists pummeling his chest.

  “They killed Alfie and you let them do it! How could you?”

  She struck him across the cheek, disturbing the thick make-up that covered his scaly skin.

  “NO!”

  Richard clutched his face and lashed out at Ellie, throwing her against the wall. She held her side where he had hit her, weeping. A red fire burned in Richard’s eyes. His voice was low and rasping.

  “Don’t you see, I’m trying to protect you?”

  Richard was standing at the cell door. It was open again. It occurred to Ellie that he looked stooped and grey, much older than his years.

  “I’m sorry. I’ll come back when I can,” he said.

  Before she could say anything, he had gone and Ellie was alone again.

  Richard pushed past the Jailor and made for the staircase. He’d done what he needed to do. Ellie knew that Alfie was history. There was nothing more he could say that would make her feel any better. All he wanted to do now was get out of the dungeons. A shadow filled the staircase ahead of him and Lock descended, barring his exit.

  “The princess is comfortable enough, I hope,” said Lock.

  “What do you care?” sneered Richard.

  “You’re right, I don’t, especially. But I admire your brotherly loyalty.”

  The eavesdropping Jailor grinned at Lock’s dig.

  “I was just checking on her. Now I have to find my brother…” said Richard.

  Lock held up a hand, stopping him from passing.

  “No need.”

  He circled the large globe of long, glowing keys that hung at the centre of the chamber, studying them. The Jailor eyed him nervously.

  “Please don’t touch them, my lord. They are a devil to untangle.”

  “No doubt,” replied Lock with a wry smile. “Nevertheless, I need to speak with Colonel Blood. Release him.”

  The Jailor looked at Lock like he’d spat in his porridge. “Impossible! You’d never catch him again, he’s the worst kind of—”

  “I know what he is,” snapped Lock, gripping the Jailor by the scruff of his neck and pushing him towards the key bundle. “Now unless you’d like to live out your days in one of your own cells, do as I say and let the colonel out.”

  Trembling, the Jailor ran his fingers over the keys and pulled one out from deep inside the bunch. He pushed it through the cobwebs that coated the lock of Colonel Blood’s cell and, using all his strength, turned it to the side. There was a heavy click and the sound of rushing air, as if from the seal on some long unopened tomb. The door swung open. Richard stepped back, eyeing Lock. He hoped the professor knew what he was doing. The prisoner emerged. But what came out of the dark cell was not a man, but a cloud of red mist that flew around the chamber like a swarm of bees. Startled, Richard thought he could smell copper as the red cloud settled before them, hovering in mid-air.

  “I am much obliged to you, my liege,” came the colonel’s voice from the red mist itself.

  “Lord Protector Cameron Lock, pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “That stuff is Colonel Blood?” asked Richard.

  “Indeed, yes,” replied the red mist, “Though I am less than half the man I used to be.”

  He tittered with laughter, sending the blood mist twirling round like a miniature tornado.

  “I hear,” continued Lock, “that you are capable of occupying another's body. A demonstration, perhaps?”

  “It has been a while, but very well,” said Blood with glee.

  The Jailor, realizing what was coming, bolted for the stairs, but the blood mist shot after him, spiralling round his body.

  “No! Get off me!” cried the old Yeoman.

  Richard watched with horror as the red mist blasted into the Jailor’s ears and up his nose and disappeared. The Jailor suddenly stood upright and returned to them, inspecting his own arms and feeling his own beard.

  “Oh no, no, this won’t do at all, such a crabby old fellow,” came the colonel’s singsong voice from the Jailor’s mouth.

  “I’m sure you’ll find better vessels on your journey,” said Lock, with a sly smile.

  The possessed Jailor peered at him, eyes alive with intrigue.

  “And where might I be going, pray tell?”

  “I have a task for you. An assassination.”

  “Not really my expertise, though I have slain my fair share on the battlefield,” replied Blood. “But what would I have to gain from this bargain?”

  “It is my understanding that you can only inhabit a host body for a short period of time before you must move on,” said Lock. “Do this for me and my mistress will give you a permanent solution to your … situation.”

  The possessed Jailor scratched his chin and smiled.

  “Very well. Who is the unfortunate target?”

  Lock reached into his jacket and pulled out the Orb – part of the regalia that the Defender used to scout out the land ahead of him. The Jailor’s eyes lit up as he took the precious object in his hands.

  “The Orb has an urge to find its master,” said Lock. “Once you are close enough, it will lead you to him. You’re to set off at once for America.”

  Blood gasped with delight. “The New World! I have heard wondrous things. I accept your proposal!”

  And with that, the rest mist exited its host body the same way it had entered. The Jailor shook his head and swatted at the air, groaning. Colonel Blood’s mist caught the Orb before it hit the ground and drifted away up the stairs, through a window and across the moat. On the street, a dim-witted berserker watched as the Orb floated t
owards him and rested in his hands, before the red mist carrying it flew up his nose and into his ears.

  “Ye gads, I do hope they have more agreeable bodies where I am going,” said Blood as his host body set off at a gallop, bound for the airport.

  Britain looked dead.

  From the snowy roof of the tower block, Hayley had a good view across night-time Watford. What was once a sparkling, vibrant universe of street lights and car headlamps was now dark and empty. The electricity supply, patchy during the day at best, was totally out by night. Occasionally, someone with a candle or a torch would pass by a distant window, a mum tucking her cold children into bed maybe, or scavengers checking abandoned flats for something they could trade for food.

  Hayley pulled her coat hood tighter against the icy wind and looked to the south, towards the centre of London. There was light in the sky over that way all right, but it wasn’t natural. The clouds pulsed blood red, lit up from below. She couldn’t see Big Ben or the Houses of Parliament from here of course, but she knew somewhere beneath that horrible red glow was the Raven Banner, pumping its dark curse out along the ley lines of Britain like a diseased heart. Its magic had created the berserkers and now controlled them, as well as keeping the snowstorms blowing and the foul fog bank wrapped around the coastline.

  Hayley’s eyes narrowed and she could feel her heart racing as anger surged through her. This was her country, her home. Look what they’ve done to it. She couldn’t stand it any more. Gran had always said count to ten when she felt like lashing out, and Hayley got to six before she kicked an air vent as hard as she could and stomped towards the stairs.

  “LC. We’ve got to do something.”

  The old man was attempting to make tea by candlelight when Hayley stormed into the kitchen. He looked ridiculous wearing an old bobble hat and two jumpers over his dressing gown, but then, it was bitterly cold in the flat.

  “Your resistance activities have made you the most wanted person in this once great country.” LC sounded tired. He barely looked up and continued to dunk the teabag up and down in the cup methodically. “I’d say you were doing enough.”