The Watchers Trilogy
Omnibus Edition
William Meikle
The long awaited night has come. It is 1745, and the BloodKing calls his army to battle and will bring them South to claim his birthright; the throne of Britain.
Only the Watchers on the old wall stand in his way.
This omnibus collection includes the complete Watchers trilogy!
The Coming of the King
The Bloodking comes!
The old wall is a border: England and Scotland, South and North, light and darkness.
It is 1745, and the long-awaited night as come. The Bloodking calls his army to battle, and armed with the powers of the undead and the damned, he will bring them South to claim his birthright: The throne of Britain.
Only the old Watchers on the wall stand in his way. They, their swords, and their faith. But too much time has passed and the Watch has grown slack and ill-prepared for the coming war. Only Martin and Sean have seen the horrors that lie ahead for humankind. Only they have the power to stop it.
Now, two young officers of the Watch have a duty to perform:
Stop the Bloodking.
Or die trying.
The Battle for the Throne
Battle is joined...
It is 1745. The forces of the Boy-King have decimated Milecastle. The Thane is dead, another chosen, and Mary Campbell has been taken by the Boy-King as his unholy bride.
The town is a scene of carnage and the Watchers have failed...but they may yet have a chance at redemption. Can Martin be a leader to his people in their time of need?
And can Sean fulfill his oath without losing his soul?
Neither have much time to consider, for the Boy King is on the rampage...and his heir is waiting to be born in the Blood Chapel of Ross-Lynn.
Culloden
A great victory has been won, but the war is far from over.
The Boy-King now needs his bride…and his heir.
Only the young officers of the Watch can stop him. But they have their own battles to face and their own demons to fight. And those inner demons are not proving so easy to control as they are lured to the blood-soaked moors of Culloden for the final confrontation.
The dead are rising. A new darkness is fast approaching. Victory is close…but will the hands of Martin and Sean be too bloodied for them to grasp it?
The conclusion of the critically-acclaimed Watchers series!
Praise for the Watchers Trilogy!
"...horrifying Highland vampires from the bloodline of the diabolical Stuarts. This first novel...offers excitement that never slackens." -- Margaret L. Carter, author of the Eppie Award-winning vampire novel DARK CHANGELING
"...superb story. Thoroughly enjoyable from the first word to the last. William Meikle has a wonderfully unique style..." -- The Eternal Night Science Fiction, Fantasy and Horror
"Breathtaking, Scary and Original. A must read. An impressive blend of horror, history and imagination." -- Dave Dreher, Horror News Network
"I was captivated from the very first scene...Very well written." -- Patricia Altner, author of Vampire Readings: An Annotated Bibliography
"I'm always impressed when anyone can add a new twist to the venerable vampire canon. Hugely enjoyable fun to read." -- Joe Gordon, The Alien Online
"It is refreshing to read a story where the triumph of good over evil is far from definite..." -- The Eternal Night Science Fiction, Fantasy and Horror
"Meikle blends reality and fantasy so well that the reader believes that it could have happened." -- Kelly Rothenberg, author of Hitler in Progress
"Meikle...can grace the page with words of beauty whilst twisting a nightmare into grotesque shapes before your eyes." -- Len Maynard and Mick Sims, author of The Secret Geography of Nightare and Incantations
The Coming of the King
Copyright 2016 by William Meikle
The Battle for the Throne
Copyright 2016 by William Meikle
Culloden!
Copyright 2016 by William Meikle
All Rights Reserved
Published by Gryphonwood Press
www.gryphonwoodpress.com
These books are works of fiction. All characters and situations are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons and events is entirely coincidental.
THE COMING OF THE KING
Book One of the Watchers Trilogy
By William Meikle
Chapter 1
JANUARY, 1649 THE TOWER OF LONDON
They waited until just before dawn before they came for him. Even though the sky was becoming light, still they carried flaming torches they were careful to keep between themselves and the doorway to his cell.
He was dreaming but not asleep. He had not slept for a very long time, but the dreams came anyway, with more regularity as his confinement grew ever longer.
His cell was no more than a five-foot cube—too short for either standing upright or lying out straight. It was made even more confined by the thick iron chains they used to bind him. Many times since they put him here he had tested their strength, but they were secure and solid, like the old tower itself, and as he grew weaker there was less and less chance of him breaking free.
Stagnant water ran down the walls, and occasionally, when the river flooded, he found himself almost knee-deep in raw sewage. The straw at his feet had not been changed for over a month, and the smell as it rotted suffused his clothes, his hair, even—he began to suspect—his skin.
He had not fed for a long time, except for the occasional rat that wandered into the cell by mistake, and he didn’t count that as feeding. He was aware that he had lost a lot of weight, and must look gaunt and haggard, but that suited his captor’s purpose—they would want him looking pale and wasted for the show to come.
“It is today?” he asked, as the guards opened the cell door. They muttered prayers under their breath, and one made a stabbing motion with his fingers to ward off the evil eye before motioning that he come out.
“Ironhead has finally made up his mind,” he said. It wasn’t a question, and they didn’t contradict him. One of them nodded, but didn’t speak. They eyed him warily as he shuffled from the cell.
He could smell them from here, the stink of the bulb overpowering everything, even their sweat. Even now, when he had fallen as far as it was possible to fall, they still feared him.
And so they should. Once he had held not one but two countries in the palm of his hand and the whole of Europe trembled. Now he was reduced to this.
They washed him, none too gently, taking care to keep away from the reach of his teeth, and they didn’t remove the chains. He hissed, and thrashed his head, but the heavy chains stopped him from getting close to them, and his heart wasn’t really in it. All that was left was to die a good death and spit in the face of the Ironhead.
He asked for his best finery, and was surprised that he was allowed it. They put him back in the cell, unlocked the chains, and passed him the clothes he was to die in.
The feel of the dark silk against his skin was welcome after the years of coarse sackcloth, and having the weight of the chains taken away lifted his spirits. He thought once more of escape, but he knew that to try it would be futile at this late stage. He was too weak, and he had waited too long. When they told him it was time he held out his arms and allowed the chains to be locked in place for one last time.
“Do you wish a man of the cloth?” the largest of his guards asked. They were the first words that had been spoken to him since his so-called trial.
In return he merely laughed in their faces.
“Why, does he taste good?”
He saw the disgust in their faces. Once there had been love in faces like these—once he had commanded the respect of the country. He had miscalculated the timing of showing them his true face, and that was what had brought him to this pass—the country wasn’t yet ready to be ruled by the likes of him. Even then he might have prevailed, given time, but Ironhead had thwarted him, both here in London, and again in Edinburgh. And when he was brought through the country in his chains the crowds that had once cheered came out in their thousands to mock, even though the journey by necessity took place after sunset.
With the silks on he felt more like his old self. He had been worried that he did not have the strength for what was to come, but now, in his finery, he would show the mundane masses how a real aristocrat dies.
After all, he had died once before, and it had only made him stronger. The bloodline was secure and safe, his claim to the throne had been legitimized, and one day his son would take this land for his own.
In the meantime, he would die like the king he was.
They took him out of his cell and down the short steps of the tower stairs. He did not fight them as they tied his hair back, only insisting that they used silk for the purpose. He stood tall as the guards checked his chains for one last time before leading him out to face the crowd.
It seemed as if all of London was here, a throng jostling and pushing as they forced their way in to the tower grounds. Hawkers in the crowd were selling corn dolls made in his image, and he saw several of them being burnt and stamped on. There were bakers selling their wares, and beggars scrambling around in the mud for scraps. Around the perimeter, on the old citadel walls, the Protector’s personal guard stood watch, looking outwards. The prisoner wondered if his son would come, but one glance at the sky told him it was too late.
Children held tightly to the hands of their parents, and wives clung to husbands, and none would meet him in the eye.
He cursed them for their drabness, their grey and black clothing and their sterile religion. In turn they spat at him, and poked their fingers to ward off the evil eye. But all the time he simply smiled, showing his teeth.
The only bare spot in the crowd was out in the middle, a simple bench atop a plinth, the rough wood partially covered by a clean white cloth.
“A sacrifice at the altar—the end of all true kings,” he said, shouting to make himself heard, and, smiling still, he showed the crowd his teeth again.
They parted for him, as if afraid to be too close. There was no shouting, no insults, merely silence, until someone started up a drumbeat, deep and sonorous, matching time with his paces.
“May you rot in hell,” a voice shouted to his left, and he turned to find himself facing a young girl. She was quite pretty, in a peasant sort of way. So he put the charm in his eyes forcing his last strength into it, and she came to him, and, before his guards comprehended what was happening, he kissed her, just once, on the mouth, drawing a little blood and leaving a smear on the corner of her lip as the guards dragged her off. She looked back at him over her shoulder, her eyes glazed, the charm still working.
“Anyone else want the last gift of the King?” he shouted. “I can mend all your ills and you will never die, never grow old. Join me and I will make you a Lord.”
But no one came forward. All who would have followed him had long since been weeded out by the Ironhead and the charm was used up—he was too weak.
Time was when he had entranced whole armies, and now he was trembling after using just one girl. He had truly fallen far.
As he approached the plinth he could see his old adversary waiting for him.
The drumbeat stopped and the crowd fell silent as his enemy began to speak.
“You have been tried and convicted of crimes against Parliament and humanity. Today, we the people judge you, and find you wanting.”
The voice echoed around the tower grounds, and only the cawing of ravens broke the silence before the old man continued.
“Here, in the sight of God, I ask you to repent your deeds. He will surely not admit you to Paradise, but He may spare you the tortures of Hell.”
The prisoner rattled his chains.
“Hell cannot be worse than this, old man. I repent nothing. My god made me what I am, and I am king by right and by justice. I say to you that you are the one who should repent, for surely vengeance shall be mine.”
The old man stepped up to him, and spoke in a low voice, so that the crowd could not hear.
“Your kind will never have the throne again—I will see to that.”
The prisoner smiled again, and bared his teeth.
“Come closer brother. I would kiss you one last time.”
The old man kept his distance, and motioned to the guards. The prisoner was led up to the table, and forced to lie on top of it, face upwards, his wrists and ankles manacled to its corners.
Clouds scudded overhead—the only thing he could see. The sky was beginning to lighten, and he felt a tingling on his skin, but there was plenty of time for what was to unfold. He wondered if he would be given leave to look at the sun for one last time.
The drum began pounding again, and the crowd cheered as a figure dressed all in black ascended the plinth. A hood covered his head, with only small slits for the eyes. The prisoner did not know him.
“Strike hard and firm,” he said. “The sun is bad for my complexion.”
The hooded man smiled, a thin thing that didn’t reach his eyes, but he didn’t speak.
“Do you have any last words?” the Ironhead said, and the prisoner smiled once more, before shouting, loud enough for all to hear.
“Forgive them father, for they know not what they do.”
The hooded man’s arm went up, and came down, and a wooden stake was pounded straight through the heart of the prisoner and down into the table, pinning him there. The crowd, as one, gave out a sigh, but there was no other noise as time seemed to stand still for a long moment.
Blood burst from the body, a raging torrent that sprayed the nearer crowd and bubbled and seethed in a pool under the bench. There was a scream, so loud that the ravens jumped into jerky flight and the watching crowd shivered, as if a sudden chill wind had passed through them.
The sun came up over the rim of the tower wall, and the body began to burn, slowly at first, then with a white flame that threatened to sear the eyes of the onlookers.
Within the fire something squirmed, and although the flame was so hot that the onlookers had to stand back, still it screamed and flailed. Those close to the inferno would later swear that, at the last, even as the screaming went on and on, the heat was such that the iron of the chains was beginning to melt and run.
And then it was over. There was one final flash of white heat, then there was only a vague shape on the bench where the body had been. Small flickers of orange flame ran over the surface, but it was the old wood that was burning now.
When the fire finally stopped the old man known as Ironhead took the ashes and scattered them to the wind.
“Let this be the last!” he shouted. “No more will England suffer itself to be ruled by an Other. We stand, united, as one. One nation under God.”
Several of the larger ashes fell to the ground and the crowd dispersed, leaving the ravens to pick among the small bones that were all that was left of Charles Stuart, King of England and Scotland.
Chapter 2
26th OCTOBER, 1745 HADRIAN’S WALL
The watch bell tolled twice as Martin went through the postern gate, and it was a full minute later before he heard the rushed footsteps behind him as Sean caught him up.
“The Thane will be having your guts for gaiters if he finds out.” Martin said, having to shout to make himself heard above the rushing of the wind as they left the relative shelter of Milecastle and headed out onto the wall. “I hope she was worth it.”
“Every minute and some more besides,” the younger man said with a smile and a lascivious rub of his groin. “I’m su
rprised that I’m even able to walk.”
Martin often wondered how Sean managed it. At nearly twenty Martin was two years older, but so far his only conquests had been on the training fields for battle. Whereas Sean already seemed to have worked his way through all the available women in the village—and some of the not so available ones.
“Besides,” Sean continued, “The old man will be tucked up in his bed with the Good Book by now—it is only lost sinners like you and I who would be out and about on such a night. And I have no intention of telling anyone else how the Fisherman’s wife spends her nights. Not even your father.”
Sean waved a hand expansively and, as if on cue, the wind raised itself up a notch and the rain splattered more heavily against their faces.
“You wouldn’t go telling the old man on me. Would you?” Sean said, and the ever-present smile was on his face. “After all, telling tales is a sin.”
“My only sin was to stop you getting yourself killed by Edward Shoreman” Martin replied. “If I hadn’t come into that byre when I did he would have found you and his wife instead of me.”
“Aye, there’s truth in that I suppose,” said Sean. “But at least I didn’t try to burn down the barn to hide the evidence.”
Martin’s ears burned. It was two weeks ago now. He’d only gone into the barn to check on a pregnant heifer. The surprise he’d got when he found Sean and the fisherman’s wife together had made him drop the torch he was carrying, and the resultant flames had almost reached the barn roof before he and Sean managed to subdue them. They’d been found by the watch, smoke blackened and charred, standing in the ruins of the fire and laughing at the top of their voices.
It was probably the laughing that had caused the Thane to award them penal watch duty—the Keeper of Milecastle was not keen on any personal enjoyment getting in the way of duty.
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