by Alan Scott
“Banker Stone, what is it you want?” asked Queen Rothgal-Ackroyd, slowly.
“To inform you of a second invading army, your assurance that the investments that the Red Bank has made will be properly defended, and, finally, to gently remind you that the Red Bank will still require you to make your repayments on the monies we have lent you.”
The stare from Amanda was glacial. “Never threaten me in my own castle, Banker Stone.”
“I was not threatening your Majesty and I humbly apologise if it came across that way. I was merely stating the facts.”
“Throw her in the dungeon,” said General Ramspike, “and damn her audacity.”
“If you throw me in your dungeon, General, then the full weight and power of the Red Bank will be thrown at this puny country. Can you really afford another enemy whilst you are fighting the Brethren of the Night?”
“I think everyone should calm down,” said Archbishop Peak. “This is a difficult time and we are dealing with complicated issues.” Standing, he continued, “Banker Stone, we thank you for your news, even though it is bad in its nature. We can now at least plan a response.”
Tania bowed her head in acknowledgement of Peak's words.
“Your Majesty,” continued Peak, “we must seek guidance from our Lord and not let our emotions get in the way. May I suggest that we allow Banker Stone to go on her way and then plan how we are to save our kingdom from this new threat?”
“Wise words, your Grace,” conceded Queen Rothgal-Ackroyd. “Banker Stone, please be assured that your repayments will be met and your investments properly protected.”
“Thank you, your Majesty. With your permission, I shall withdraw and give the good news to my colleagues.”
“Farewell, Banker Stone.”
Tania Stone bowed, turned, and made her way out of the room. “Come to my abode tonight and you shall be rewarded suitably,” she said to the male servant who had introduced her to the room.
“I live to serve,” he replied.
“I live to fuck,” she whispered in his ear before making her way down the long corridor and through the castle until she reached the gates. There, she entered a carriage which carried her to the Bank's townhouse.
Entering, she ignored the two servants who greeted her and walked upstairs to one of the master bedrooms. Outside the door was Tania’s new bodyguard, Narcous Black. “Has anyone been inside, Narcous?”
“No, my lady.”
“Excellent.”
A muffled cry of pain followed by a scream of pleasure drifted through the door. “So they are still at it?” Amanda asked.
“Yes.”
Tania opened the door and walked into the room. Chamberlain Aslo was tied naked to the bed as two naked women and a naked man performed sexual acts on and around him.
Walking over to a chest of drawers, Tania picked up the golden goblet which stood on top of it. She dipped her finger into the red wine and sucked the alcohol from her finger. She smiled as she tasted the sweet cloying narcotics within the wine. “Well, Aslo, I will give you credit for stamina.” Picking up the goblet, she drank deep of its contents before stripping naked and joining the orgy.
***
Later that night
Cyril Rainspout watched the sleeping children from the shadows, his face a mixture of disgust and pity. Concentrating on Billy, he watched his small twisted arms jerk and spasm, as if responding to an insane puppeteer, the drool flowing from his mouth. Unconsciously, Cyril’s hand stroked the pommel of his dagger. “You poor deformed bastards,” he whispered. “What sort of cruel twisted love thinks it’s better to keep you alive than give you the freedom of death?”
Looking at the girls, Apple and Marigold, he spat on the earth and shook his head. No man would ever want them, or if they did, he would be the type of man that they should stay far away from. A snarl escaped from Cyril's mouth as his hand clenched the handle of his dagger. “Death is all you need and deserve.”
Half-drawing his dagger from its sheath, Cyril’s glance caught the open eyes of the last child, Chaz, and he froze. Within the twitching head, two knowing and understanding eyes looked straight up into his. Chaz’s gaze then dropped down to where Cyril’s hand lay on his dagger. A muted noise, questioning and strangled, came from Chaz’s mouth.
Suddenly, Cyril’s eyes filled with tears and his chest felt like a club had smashed into it.
“Master Rainspout, what are you doing here?” a woman's voice queried.
Cyril spun quickly to view the new person. “Nothing, Sister Candle.”
“Are you quite sure?” asked Sister Jennifer Candle.
“Positive, just… just keep these freaks away from me.” With that, Cyril strode away.
Jennifer gave a confused glance to the departing Cyril before turning her attention to her four charges. “Chaz, are you still awake? I swear you enjoy watching the stars too much to sleep.”
A happy gurgle came from Chaz. “Now let’s tuck you in safe and make you a bit more comfortable. There, that is better?” Jennifer cocked her head and looked up at the heavens. It was a cloudy night and only a few stars could be seen. “I would love to know what you find so fascinating, Chaz, and maybe if Sister Josten is successful, I will know.” Leaning over, Jennifer kissed the top of Chaz’s head. “If we are successful, you will be a whole boy.”
***
Confessor Vember watched as Queen Amanda Rothgal-Ackroyd knelt deep in prayer in front of her private altar. Dressed in a simple white robe, she looked every part the humble servant of the Lord God.
However, no matter how hard she tried to be humble, her physical beauty always betrayed her. Amanda’s thin simple white robe clung alluringly to her womanly curves. The cold had made her rosebud nipples erect. The shadows cast by the fluttering candles only served to highlight her perfect cheekbones and mouth. Confessor Vember closed his eyes and mentally chastised himself.
“Amen,” said Amanda, slowly rising to her feet.
“Amen,” said Vember.
Amanda walked to the desk and poured herself a glass of water from the pitcher next to it. Taking a sip, she said, “I fear, Confessor.”
“Fear what, your Majesty?”
“That I shall fail Him.”
“Our Lord knows that you could never fail Him, your Majesty.”
“But the task He has given me seems beyond my capability.” Amanda looked up at the ceiling and closed her eyes. “My enemies surround me. My advisers desert me or vanish for days. The Red Bank crushes my spirit and soul.”
“Our Lord never gives anyone more than they can bear, your Majesty,” comforted Vember. “He has chosen you to bring the Twin Kingdoms back within His fold, to lead them on to ever greater glory.”
Amanda turned to face Vember. “Do you really think so?”
Confessor Vember could not help himself. His eyes flowed over Amanda’s curvaceous womanly body as her thin white robe teased him where it clung to her body. He could see Amanda’s hard erect nipples standing stiffly against the thin cloth. A gust of wind blew through the room from the open window. “Rip it from her body,” it seemed to say to Confessor Vember.
Vember shook his head.
“Are you alright?” queried Amanda.
“Em, what? Yes, your Majesty.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, your Majesty.”
“You want to see her naked,” the breeze whispered in Vember's ear.
“NO!” declared Vember.
“What?” asked Amanda.
“Sorry, your Majesty. I don’t know what is coming over me.”
“You want to cum all over her, don’t you?” the wind giggled. “Tell her to strip naked and grovel before your god. You could see her naked and on her knees then.”
Confessor Vember spun round three hundred and sixty degrees and flapped at the air near his face.
“Confessor Vember, what is wrong?” demanded Amanda as she grabbed his arm.
“Nothing, your Majes
ty.” Vember then stopped for a moment before continuing, “That is, in fact, a lie.” Confessor Vember raced to the altar and dropped to his knees. “My Lord, I beg that you give me the strength to deny the evil spirit that whispers temptation in my ear.“
For a moment, Amanda looked confused, then she strode to where Vember was kneeling and knelt beside him. Clasping her hands together, she joined Vember in prayer.
***
In the Archbishop's private study
“There are no such things as evil spirits,” joked Archbishop Frances Peak. “I will drink all of them.”
“Very droll, your Grace,” replied Deacon Brown as he handed over a large neat gin to Peak.
Peak drained the glass in a single gulp. “Another.”
Deacon Brown looked down at his friend and master with a sad smile. He said nothing and held out his hand for the glass.
“Here,” said Peak.
Moving to the hidden drinks cabinet, Deacon Brown poured another large gin and brought it back to the Archbishop. Frances took the glass and slowly twirled it in his hand. “We are going to lose this battle, Brown.”
“I know, your Grace.”
“I got it wrong.”
“You followed your heart.”
“That is as may be, Brown, but I got it wrong.” Frances drained the glass and held it out for a refill. With a disapproving look, Brown took the glass and headed back to the drinks cabinet.
“The world will become very dark and our people will suffer greatly,” whispered Frances as he stared up at ceiling.
“If that is His will,” replied Brown, handing over the full glass of gin.
“His will,” sneered Frances. “His bloody will.”
“Your Grace,” reprimanded Deacon Brown.
“What!”
“His master plan is not known to us. We must believe that everything that happens, happens for a reason and by His divine will.”
“I wish I could,” said Peak with a sad expression. “I wish I could.” Draining the glass, he held it loosely in his hand. “But thousands will die. Women and children will be savagely brutalised. The land will be burned and blackened,” a fierce look entered Frances Peak’s eyes, “and what shall our great and mighty Lord do? Eh? Nothing. He will simply look down on us all and smile.”
“Your Grace...”
“Don’t your Grace me, Brown. You know what I say is true. He,” Peak pointed to the ceiling, “the bastard will abandon us to our fate.” Frances turned his attention to the glass and stared deep inside it.
“Archbishop, you must keep the faith,” said a startled Deacon Brown. “You must stay strong for all our congregation. You must...”
“I must be the living figurehead of the Church.”
“Yes, yes. That is correct, your Grace.”
Frances Peak was quiet for a moment before saying, “Are you aware of the expression 'a forlorn hope'?”
“Isn’t it a military term, your Grace?”
“Yes. A forlorn hope is a band of soldiers or other combatants chosen to take the leading part in a military operation, such as an assault on a defended position, where the risk of casualties is high. It is formed from volunteers and generally led by a junior officer with hopes of personal advancement.
“If the soldiers survived and performed courageously, they would gain money, promotion, and glory. The commanding officer himself was almost guaranteed both a promotion and a long-term boost to his career prospects.” Peak sighed. “Why do I feel that our Lord has picked me to lead a forlorn hope against the mass ranks of the Brethren of the Night?”
“Maybe so that you can clear the way for another to kill the enemy?” answered Deacon Brown.
“Why me?”
Deacon Brown rushed to Peak’s side and knelt down next to his chair. “Because no one else could lead the charge.”
Peak raised his head and looked at Deacon Brown with tired, tear-filled eyes. “Who is there to step over my dead body and strike the final blow?”
“I… I… don’t know,” admitted Brown before a name suddenly sprang into his head. “No, your Grace, I do know.” Standing, Deacon Brown smiled and took the empty glass from Peak's hand. Moving quickly, he went to the gin bottle.
“Who?” asked Peak, weakly.
Pouring a triple, Brown walked back and handed the glass over.
“Who?” demanded Peak, taking the glass.
“Mancer.”
“Mancer?”
“Yes, Mancer of the Mancer Prophecy,” grinned Brown.
“You want me to lead the equivalent of a forlorn hope against the Brethren of the Night so that a prophecy - which the Church official denounces, by the way - may or may not come true - a prophecy about a dead man coming back from the dead to kill the Midnight Man?”
“Yup.”
Archbishop Peak roared with laughter and raised his glass. “A drink to blind faith and God.”
“Archbishop,” reprimanded Brown.
Peak’s face suddenly became very serious. “You overstep the mark, Deacon.”
“Sorry, your Grace.”
“I may waiver slightly, but please note - at the start, I said we have lost the battle. I did not say we have lost the war.”
“No, your Grace.”
“I am very much aware of what I am saying and with whom I am saying it. We have been friends for many years, Deacon, and I count you as one of my closest allies.”
“Which I am, your Grace,” Deacon Brown solemnly added.
“Then you should know I do not go down without a fight or an alternative plan.” Peak took a deep breath and took a sip of his gin. “We will lose to the Midnight Man; however, a powerful symbol of freedom is, as we speak, heading to the Cult of Mancer.”
“The Sword of Sorenson.”
“Precisely.”
“There is something happening in Idris, our second city. I see in my dreams a man wearing a crown made out of light, with a golden shield to his left and an iron sword to his right. He stands before the darkness and protects the city.”
“A vision!” said Brown in awe. “You have had a vision.”
“Maybe, Brown, maybe.” Peak finished his drink in a single go before continuing. “I have also dreamt of a scruffy man surrounded by shadows, who carries so much pain and anger inside that it makes my eyes hurt just to watch him. He is standing in the rain watching an urchin boy being bullied by a gang of eight thugs. No one is helping the boy. They turn their heads away or cross over.
“The urchin is being hit and hit again by these bullies, and falls to the mud one last time. I can see that the boy is near death and no one helps.” Peak closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose as he fought the growing emotions within. “No one helps the boy because they cannot - because they are afraid to act or they are friends of the bullies.”
“Your Grace, are you okay?” asked a concerned Brown as the Archbishop swayed slightly.
“I require just a moment, Brown.”
Frances breathed deeply for a second or two. “It is then that this savage of a man, his face a mask of hatred and rage, strides forward and starts to attack the bullies. Their friends join in, but, instead of running, this scruffy man laughs and shouts out, ‘Come on, you bastards, for I am legion!’ I always wake up at that point.”
“Please, your Grace, take your seat,” urged Brown.
“Don’t fuss over me, man,” said Peak whilst allowing himself to be led to the chair.
“Now, sit,” ordered Brown. Peak did as he was bid.
“I shall make you another large drink,” stated Brown as he walked back to the drinks cabinet.
“Our Lord has placed a heavy burden on me, Brown,” said Peak, “but He has also shown me that light will prevail in the end.”
Handing over the glass, Brown said, “I don’t know how you cope.”
“With this,” said Peak, raising his glass, “with faith, with hope, and, most importantly of all, a healthy dollop of gallows humour.”
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br /> “At which you are very good.”
“I know.” Peak raised the glass and took a deep drink. “I shall do my Lord's bidding and I shall carry out His will to the best of my abilities. I will lead the forlorn hope and fall before my enemies in the hope that my sacrifice shall enable the final victory over evil. All of this I shall do willingly, but I’ll be damned if I am not allowed to laugh whilst doing it.” Peak's eyes started to close, as his head slowly dropped forward.
Deacon Brown looked down at the man he served. “They do say laughter is the best medicine,” he said, quietly. “And I think our Lord approves of its use.”
Peak started to snore gently as the drink did its work and allowed him to sleep without the nightmares or visions.
Chapter Seven
Life is but a Number of Fleeting Precious Moments
Two days later, twenty-five miles outside of Safe Harbour
Harry Kaard looked up into the dull late morning sky.
“Do you think we can win?” asked Patrick Reynolds.
“What?”
“Do you think we can win?”
“Of course, lad,” replied Harry Kaard with a reassuring smile and a pat on the shoulder. “Is not General Foxton, himself, leading us?”
“He is, Master Kaard,” Patrick replied, eagerly.
“Harry, lad; my name is Harry.”
Patrick nodded and smiled. “Thank you… Harry.”
Harry looked at the young man standing next to him and gave him another reassuring smile. He had promised his mum he would look after him, and he would keep that promise. Clutching his cheaply made spear, Kaard looked round at the other twenty-one brave men from his village of Milrock who had volunteered to join Lord James Reeve’s army. Casting his gaze ten feet to his right, he saw Sergeant Jolk and the young drummer, who made up the rest of his squad, deep in conversation.
