by Alan Scott
The trio made their way through a door and into a large building. “I know where we are,” said Prue. “We are in Chestnuts, the building for street children and orphans.”
“Correct,” answered Brown.
“Where is everyone?” queried Cyril.
“Her Imperial Majesty does not believe in Chestnuts. She says it attracts the evil elements of society and is home to the insane, deviant, and morally corrupt,” replied Deacon Brown.
“That bloody woman!” declared Prue, angrily.
“So the staff are sending most of the kids back onto the street, and trying to get the rest out of the city and to one of the other Chestnuts, which are further away from the capitol,” finished Deacon Brown.
“So why are we here?” asked Cyril.
“Because you and Mistress Carnagie are going to smuggle yourself out of the city on one of the wagons leaving from here.”
“Won’t the city guards be checking the wagons?” asked Prue.
“No. Remember that Her Imperial Majesty wants rid of the kids. She has no desire to see them here,” answered Brown.
“Does she not remember what the Chestnut kids did at the Battle of Light? It was the women who tended the wounded in the field hospitals! It was the boys that became the stretcher-bearers and who suffered horrendous casualties carrying the wounded back to the field hospitals!” Cyril spat on the floor.
“What can I say, Master Rainspout? She and most of us have short memories,” said Deacon Brown.
“Or more like, just don’t care,” Cyril corrected.
“True,” acknowledged Brown.
Cyril looked round the large empty room. “Poor bastards,” he declared.
“Please follow me,” said Brown. He made his way to a door at the far side, which led into a small office. “Oh, good, you are here,” he said to the woman sitting behind the desk.
“You are late, Deacon,” she scolded.
“There are always delays,” countered Brown, before he turned to his two companions. “I need to go now, but I shall leave you in the good care of Sister Di Styde. I wish you a safe journey.” Having said his piece, Deacon Brown made his exit.
As he stepped out the door, Prue called out, “Deacon Brown!”
Stopping and turning, he answered, “Yes?”
“Thank you.”
“Safe journey, Mistress Carnagie.”
After Brown had closed the door, Sister Di Styde stood up. “We need to hurry to catch the wagon before it leaves. Follow me.” Leading them from the office, Sister Styde took Cyril and Prue back through the large deserted room, but led them to another door. Stepping through this door, she led them through a long corridor with many doors leading from it. “The old sleeping quarters,” she informed the group.
“Oh,” said Prue, feeling a need to reply.
Opening the door at the end of the corridor, Sister Styde walked out into a medium-sized courtyard in which stood an open-topped wagon attached to four large horses. Two armed men sat up front, one with the reins in his hands. In the back were three women who were tending four children.
“Come on,” said Sister Styde, “get on the back of the wagon and hide under the blankets near the children.”
“Oh, shit,” muttered Cyril as he looked at the kids.
“They are children of the damned,” said a shocked Prue.
“They are human beings,” said an angry Sister Styde. “You have a choice: either get on that wagon, or stay here and be caught.”
“Shit,” muttered Cyril again as he pulled himself carefully up on the wagon, trying not to touch the kids.
“What’s wrong?” accused one of the Sisters.
“Nothing,” said a wary Cyril.
“They have a condition. It’s a muscular disease called Krerts Syndrome,” continued the Sister.
“Right, Krerts Syndrome,” said Cyril, making himself as small as possible and ducking under the blankets. Prue followed close behind saying nothing, but her eyes betrayed her fear.
“Over there,” instructed another Sister, “and be quick.”
Prue did as she was bid.
A worried moan came from one of the children.
“No, don’t worry, Billy,” soothed a Sister. “You will be okay. We won’t let them hurt you. Now, rest. We are about to set off soon.”
A single moan.
“It’s okay. It’s okay, darling.”
Sister Styde pulled herself up onto the wagon. “Right, Bram, off we go.”
“Right you are,” the man called Bram replied as he snapped the reins to get the horses started.
***
In one of the guest rooms within the Castle of Deep Lake
A fully dressed Tania Stone passionately kissed an equally fully dressed Chamberlain Marc Aslo, whilst her right hand, which was down Aslo’s trousers, pulled and tugged on his hard cock.
“Shit,” gasped Aslo as his knees started to tremble.
Tania grabbed a handful of his hair with her free hand and pulled Marc’s head back. “Stay standing,” she commanded.
“I really need to go, Mistress,” begged Aslo. “I have to be at the execution. Her Imperial Majesty will notice... oh, shi...t!”
“Does Her Imperial Majesty do this to you?”
“No.”
Tania stood back and raised the simple plain dress she was wearing over her head to reveal her naked curvaceous body. “Does your precious queen allow you such views?”
“No, Mistress.”
“Does Amanda shave her loins for you? See?” Tania lay on the bed and spread her legs. “See how I prepared myself for you.”
“Oh, yes, I see,” said a trembling Marc.
“Then take me. Have me. Fuck me.”
“But the queen... I must be with the queen.”
Tania closed her legs. “Then go, you worthless man. I will find another.”
“NO!” screamed Aslo. “No, please, no, Mistress, I could not bear to think of you with another man.”
“Then be a man and take me.” Tania opened her legs again.
“I can’t,” replied a shame-faced Marc.
“Why? Oh, I see,” laughed Tania as she saw a wet patch beginning to form on the front of Chamberlain Aslo’s trousers. “You have sprayed your seeds early.”
“Don’t laugh at me,” said Aslo.
Tania laughed again.
“I said don’t laugh at me!” repeated Aslo.
“I always laugh at boys pretending to be men,” replied Tania.
Marc Aslo rushed to the bed. “I am a man!”
“A real man does not have to state that,” sneered Tania, closing her legs once again.
Marc grabbed both her ankles in either of his hands and pushed them apart as he fell to his knees. “A real man has many ways of satisfying a woman,” growled Marc as he ran his hands down Tania’s inner thighs, then round to grasp her firm arse. He buried his head between her freshly-shaven loins and put his tongue to work.
Tania smiled and gasped as Marc did his best to please her. “Men! They are so easy to manipulate,” she thought. “Oh yes, just there; keep it just there,” encouraged Tania. When Rebecca died, that would be the signal for the Brethren to march to war and throw the entire continent of Talocants into chaos. By keeping Chamberlain Aslo back, she was reasserting her power over him and, at the same time, causing friction between him and his queen. Tania’s eyes went wide as she shouted, “Oh, fuck, yes! Don’t you bloody move! Keep your tongue just there and just keep doing what you are doing.” By pure luck, the idiot had found the perfect spot. Grabbing his hair, she ground herself against his tongue and mouth. Today was a good day; she might as well celebrate.
***
In Rebecca’s cell under Deep Lake Castle
“Are you ready, Rebecca Rothgal?” asked Archbishop Francis Peak.
“I am,” replied Rebecca.
“Will your brother, Dark Storm, cause us any problems?”
Rebecca smiled. “Oh, I am sure he will.
He is very, very angry. However, he has promised me that he will not seek revenge for my death for at least twenty-five years.”
“By which time...” began Peak.
“By which time,” interrupted Rebecca, “you will be most likely dead.”
“Correct, Mistress Rothgal.”
“Tell me, your Grace, since I am so close to death, do you truly believe that you can beat the Midnight Man and the Brethren of the Night?”
Frances reached into his robes and pulled out a hip flask, unscrewed the top, and took a deep long drink. Wiping the rim, he handed the flask to Rebecca.
With a questioning look, Rebecca took the flask and sniffed the neck. “Bloody hell, Frances, this is strong stuff!”
“Take a drink.”
Rebecca took a deep breath before putting the flask to her lips and taking a moderate amount of alcohol. “Shit!” coughed Rebecca as she put her hand to her mouth. “What...” more coughing, “on earth have you...” more coughing, “have you got in there?”
Frances reached for the flask and took another shot before replacing the top and hiding the flask away within his robe. He waited until Rebecca had fully recovered before speaking. “To answer your question - I don’t know. I lie awake at night, going through each and every detail, trying to see where I can outwit him. I have even tried praying.” Frances gave a sad little laugh. “I am aware of things that you are not and they scare me. He scares me. The depths of depravity and evil that the Midnight Man is willing to go scares me.” Frances’s voice became harder and louder. “My inability to put a halt to him scares me. The thought of failing to protect my people against him scares me. It scares me so much that the only way I can get through the day and night is to drink. But do you know what scares me the most, Rebecca?”
“No,” asked a fascinated Rebecca.
“That no matter how much I drink, the fear never leaves me.” Frances laughed, quietly. “The fear never goes.”
“But you have plans, don’t you, Frances?” pushed Rebecca.
“Yes, Rebecca, I have plans.”
“Multiple plans?”
Frances Peak composed himself. “Let’s just say, Mistress Rothgal, that I am not a man to have all his eggs in one basket.”
A knock on the cell door interrupted the couple. “It is time!” a man’s voice boomed out.
“Are you ready, Mistress Rebecca Rothgal?” asked Archbishop Peak for a final time.
“I am, your Grace,” replied Rebecca.
“Then I shall go. I will send in the priest for your final confession.”
As Peak reached the cell door, Rebecca called out, “Don’t let my sacrifice be in vain!”
Peak knocked on the door, waited for it to open, and then stepped from the cell without a word or a backwards glance.
A few moments later, a priest walked in. “Mistress Rothgal.”
“Father.”
“Shall we sit?” asked the priest.
“Sorry, where are my manners? Please take a seat by the table.”
***
One hour later
The cell door opened and a man’s voice boomed out. “It’s time to go.”
“Are you ready, Mistress Rothgal?” asked the priest.
“Yes.”
“Then let’s not keep them waiting.”
“I shall show them how a Rothgal remains true to their duty, regardless of the sacrifice,” said Rebecca as she walked proudly towards the open cell door.
She was met by two masked men and they tied her hands behind her back. The priest led the small procession whilst chanting verses of forgiveness. They made their way slowly down the tunnel to exit the castle dungeons, then onto a waiting open-topped wagon.
Strong hands grasped Rebecca’s arms as she stumbled whilst getting onto the wagon. A familiar voice whispered in her ear, “Be strong. Don’t let the bastards get you down.”
“Corporal Caldecote?”
“Yup.”
“I had ordered you to safety.”
“Never very good with orders, ma’am.”
Caldecote held her upright as the cart jolted forward. “Be strong. The Rothgal Stars will look after you.”
“You don’t understand! I need to...”
“I know what is to happen, but we will make sure it is swift.”
Rebecca smiled her heartfelt thanks. “Thank you.”
“Just be strong. The ordeal starts now,” continued Caldecote as the cart left the castle gates.
A large crowd had lined the route from the castle gate to the main market square, and the booing started almost immediately as they spotted Rebecca.
“Be strong!” urged Caldecote.
“I never thought...” a piece of fruit narrowly missed Rebecca’s head, “I never thought the anger would be so great.”
“It’s mob rules. In your last moments on this land, you are going to see the worst of humanity.” Caldecote growled. “Just show them you are better and be strong.”
A tomato hit Rebecca on the back. “I will try.” Her voice held a shakiness and vulnerability, which had not been there before.
Caldecote gripped Rebecca’s arm. “Do not fear. Do not waver.”
“I am doing my best.” Rebecca turned as more rotten fruit struck her.
“Face the front,” commanded Caldecote.
Rebecca looked down the road and saw a group of soldiers standing next to three horses. Attached to one horse were ropes, which in turn were attached to a coffin lid. It took all of Rebecca’s will to stop her legs buckling. “Oh, no,” she whispered.
“Oh, yes,” said Caldecote. “The drawn bit of hung, drawn, and quartered. You will be tied to the coffin lid and dragged behind the horse the rest of the way to the gallows. They want you there alive and conscious, hence, the lid. If they did not care about you, there would be no lid.”
“Oh, shit! I don’t know if I can do this.”
“You would not be human if you were not scared,” replied Caldecote.
The wagon drew to halt with a shudder near the horses and group of men. The noise coming from the baying crowd got louder and more violent as Rebecca was helped off the cart. A group of nine men surrounded the trio, as Caldecote and the other guard guided Rebecca to the coffin lid.
Other guards held the crowd back as a fresh volley of obscenities, rotten fruit, and stones were flung towards the ex-queen.
“Keep those bloody horses under control!” bellowed Caldecote as he stood on the coffin lid to keep it still. Turning his attention to one of the guards, he ordered, “Syd, cut the rope binding her Majesty.”
“No problem.”
With her hands now free, Rebecca brought them in front of her and removed the rope loops from her wrists. She flinched as a few rotten fruit and a small stone bounced off her. “I’m not your Majesty any longer,” whispered Rebecca.
“Bollocks to that,” said Syd. “You shall always be ‘your Majesty’.”
Rebecca looked at Syd for the first time and gave a weak smile. “What happened to your leg?”
Syd used his crutch to bang against his wooden replacement leg. “It’s a long and boring story, ma’am.”
“Oh. Thank you, by the way,” said Rebecca in a small voice. “Thank you all.”
Syd smiled. “You’re welcome, ma’am.”
“Get down on the lid,” commanded Caldecote.
Rebecca numbly complied. She felt hands grasping her wrists and ankles as she was tied into place. Looking up into the clear blue sky, she tried to find the smallest crumb of comfort or joy. Tears fell as she found neither.
A heavily scarred and badly burned face suddenly popped into her field of vision. “Pardon, ma’am, did not mean to scare you. I’m Richard, more commonly known as Big Dick, because I have a…” the man paused for a moment, “well, you don’t need to know that. Anyway, open your mouth, ma’am.”
Rebecca looked up at the ugly man and her heart fluttered wildly as the fear she had been fighting for so long threatened to o
verwhelm her. That face had made the situation real and had released a deeply buried thought - she was going to die in the most horrible and painful way possible.
“Ma’am, it’s going to fucking kick off soon and I need you to open your mouth.”
Rebecca shook her head again.
“Damn it, woman, I am trying to help you.” Turning his head, Richard yelled, “Caldecote, the stupid bitch won’t open her mouth!”
“Well, fucking well make her!” came the rushed reply.
Richard glanced down at the terrified woman. “Sorry, ma’am, but this will help you.” His huge hand grasped her mouth and he squeezed, forcing her lips to open. He forced six leaves into her mouth. “Chew, ma’am; they are pain killers. They will take you away from all of this.”
Rebecca looked up in terror.
“They helped with...” Richard, with his free hand, pointed to his face. “Chew the leaves, ma’am; chew the leaves.”
Rebecca frantically chewed the leaves in the hope that the horrible ugly man would leave her alone. She just wanted to be left alone.
Richard watched Rebecca carefully to make sure that she would not spit. Once satisfied that she wouldn’t, he stood up and moved away.
Rebecca stared, unseeing, up into the blue sky and continued to chew. As the sap within the leaves mixed with her saliva, she began to feel light-headed and the noise of the crowd started to fade away. She barely felt the horse as it charged forward.
***
Her Imperial Majesty, Amanda Rothgal-Ackroyd, sat in the stands surrounded by guards, advisers, and dignitaries. “Has anyone seen Chamberlain Aslo?”
