The Midnight Man (The Mancer Trilogy Book 2)

by Alan Scott

  Looking further afield, he saw other squads lining up and preparing for battle. Dodging inbetween them, runners took last minute orders to officers and sergeants. Proud banners and flags started to sprout from the squads as they moved off to take their positions in the battle line.

  “Mmmm,” said Harry quietly to himself, as Sergeant Jolk and the drummer strode back to the squad.

  “Right, you ‘orrible lot,” bellowed Jolk, “form up!” Taking his position in the front of the squad, Jolk looked down at his ten-year-old drummer. “Remember, lad, a slow steady beat; keep them walking forward with a slow steady beat.”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” replied the boy with a broad grin.

  “Good lad. Good lad.”

  ***

  High on the hill, waiting in a small copse of trees, sat Dennis Dransfield astride his horse. With an expert eye, he watched the two armies form up. “If I still believed, I would pray for you,” he whispered to the men down the hill from him. With a sad shake of his head, Dennis continued to watch the build-up.

  ***

  Commander Saul Whitehand of the Midnight Guard sat on his horse, surrounded by his five bodyguards, and surveyed his troops. He had a single squad of the super-elite Midnight Guard and four squads of Night Guards. Those squads alone could wipe out the rabble in front of him, but, in addition, he had numerous other squads of cult members, mercenaries, and hangers-on.

  He gave a dismissive sneer as he watched the broken take their position on the right flank. These were the men and women who had survived the brutal sex games the Brethren enjoyed. They were naked, diseased, almost immune to pain, and mostly insane from the treatment they had received. Most armies would not touch them with a barge pole, but there was a place for everyone within the Brethren of the Night. You just fill them up with drugs and alcohol, arm them with swords and daggers, and point them at the enemy. Many would die, but the few that did make it through would cause havoc on the lighter armoured elements of an opponent’s army.

  A muted sound of drums and horns being played drifted across from his enemy’s side of the battlefield.

  “Ah, they want to play,” smiled Saul before bellowing, “For the glory of the Midnight Man!” The cry was taken up by those closest to him, then those closest to them, and, like a ripple in water, the chant swept out to the furthest reaches of the army.

  “For He lives in us and He cometh to slay those who dare stand against him!” added Saul Whitehand as he raised his warhammer high into the air.

  ***

  General Foxton looked over to his banner-bearer and nodded once. John Lodge raised the mighty banner up and down three times, and General Foxton’s army started to march forward to engage the enemy to the sound of the drums and horns.

  ***

  “You idiot,” said Dennis as he watched Foxton’s army move forward. “You should have gone defensive.”

  ***

  “Steady, lads, steady,” reassured Sergeant Jolk as the squad moved forward. “These cowards are no match for men like you. We will smash this army aside, clear up any stragglers, and be home for All Hallows' Eve in a month.”

  Harry Kaard looked across to his right and nudged Patrick Reynolds. “See? We will be home for All Hallows'.”

  “The Day of the Dead,” replied Patrick with a wary smile.

  “Them, not us,” replied Harry. “Anyway, out here on the flank, I doubt if we will see any action.”

  “Let’s hope so.” muttered Patrick.

  Then, from their left, the sounds of screaming could be heard drifting in on the wind.

  “Men of Milrock, stay firm!” bellowed Jolk. “Remember your loved ones and those that are counting on you to protect them!”

  Twenty-three pairs of hands gripped their spears and shouted back, “For Milrock!”

  Sergeant Jolk glanced across to the squad on his left. He could see how nervous they were and not unsurprisingly so as they, too, could hear the sounds of screaming, but not the sounds of battle. Something was not right. Something was definitely not right.

  ***

  Dennis Dransfield watched in cold clinical detachment as another five fire wagons smashed into the tightly arrayed centre of Foxton's army. They exploded in huge balls of fire as oil and other flammable cargo finally succumbed to the heat and flames.

  After the first wave of fire wagons, Foxton had tried to get his archers into position to destroy the remaining wagons before they reached his lines, but the chaos the deadly vehicles had caused and the suicidal wave of lightly armoured cultists that had followed them had stopped that plan.

  The sound of distant thunder interrupted Dennis’s thoughts and he move his gaze to the centre left of the battlefield in an attempt to discover the source. It took only a second for the cause to be found. The Brethren’s commander and his elite horsemen were charging into battle with the Night Guard infantry following along behind. “This is no longer a battle. This is going to be a massacre,” Dennis told the world, sadly.

  ***

  Sergeant Jolk looked over to the squad on his left. They had stopped and were beginning to take a defensive position. “SQUAD! Squad halt!” bellowed Jolk. “Make defensive position!”

  The men from Milrock did as they were ordered. For a few long seconds, silence reigned. Then laughter and whooping broke the precious moment, and scantily clad men and women danced into view. Upon seeing their enemy, the broken gave a gigantic scream and charged.

  “There is a topless woman there,” said Patrick Reynolds.

  “I know, Pat,” replied Harry.

  “Mum says I’m not to hit girls.”

  “What!” exclaimed Harry.

  “”Mum said...”,

  “Look, Pat, this is war. We kill the enemy, and if our enemy is female, we kill it, too.”

  “Harry?”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know if I could hurt a woman.”

  “We don’t have time for this. Set your spear and get ready.”

  “Right, lads!” shouted Jolk. “Get ready! Hold your lines! Hold! Hold! Here they come!”

  ***

  Dennis pulled back his gaze to look at the fighting, which was taking place near him. A loose rabble from the Brethren army was attacking a number of what looked like auxiliary squads. At first, it looked like the auxiliary squads might hold, but a number of the rabble charged with no regard to their own safety, tossing bottles of oil (which had burning rags stuffed into them) straight into the middle of the squads. As they died on the wall of spears, they would throw the bottles into the middle of the group of men. The bottles would then explode, showering those nearby with glass and burning oil.

  Despite the calls of their sergeants, the squad members quickly broke formation, allowing the broken nearby to sweep in and do what they did best: engage in fierce and chaotic hand-to-hand fighting.

  ***

  Patrick looked round in horror as a scene from his worst nightmare was played out in front of him. People were screaming and a number were on fire. A naked woman had her hand buried deep in a screaming man’s stomach and was playing with his guts. One of his fellow soldiers from another squad was staggering around, minus both his arms at the elbows. Unable to cope with the hellish views, Pat emptied his stomach.

  “Steady, boy,” said Harry.

  “It’s a nightmare!” muttered Pat.

  Taking a tighter grip on his spear, Harry answered, “It is.”

  “Here they come!” shouted a man to Patrick's left.

  Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Pat glanced up and saw a vision of madness as the broken smashed themselves against the spear wall.

  ***

  Dennis watched as the frenzied, scantily-clad broken impacted on the poorly prepared spear wall. For a moment, against all the odds, it seemed that the wall would hold, then it broke apart like branches in a storm.

  ***

  Patrick was sick again. On the end of his spear was a naked young man who had thrown himself upon it
, and was dragging himself up its shaft. He could not hear what he was shouting, but the glee on his face and bubbling laughter was at odds with the blood that was now pouring out of his mouth.

  Something warm and wet splatted against his left cheek and sprayed into his eye. Letting go of his spear, Patrick frantically wiped his face.

  “Pat, watch out!” called out Harry.

  “What?”

  “Watch out!”

  Pat felt someone push him hard and heard the word, “Run!”

  Patrick Reynolds hesitated, before a high-pitched scream startled him into action. Running, partially blind, he stumbled over the uneven ground, away from the sounds of death and destruction.

  ***

  An annoyed grimace flitted across Dennis’s face as he saw one of the soldiers was running blindly towards his hidden position. An older man was attempting to protect the retreating soldier, but was quickly cut down by three of the maniac enemy.

  “I am a fool,” whispered Dennis as he drew his sword from its sheath and rolled his shoulders. “If he makes the trees, I will help; if not, he dies.”

  ***

  With his eyes slowly clearing, Pat spotted a copse of trees on top of the small hill in front of him. It was no more than four hundred feet away. Shouts made him turn to see three of the enemy not far behind. With a surge of energy born of desperation, he raced towards the illusionary safety of the copse.

  ***

  “Run, boy!” snarled Dennis.

  ***

  Patrick stumbled and fell. As he quickly picked himself up, he felt a weight on his back. Arms wrapped round his neck and legs curled round his waist. “Die, little boy!” a female voice screamed in his ear.

  Patrick frantically tried to shake her loose and pry her arms away from his throat.

  “Oh, he is a fighter!” the female voice laughed. “I do like it when they struggle; it sweetens the final moments. Please, feel free to scream.”

  Managing to pry a few fingers loose, Pat broke the crushing pressure on his throat and, in a moment of fear and anger, desperately broke the woman’s fingers he was holding. Flinging himself backwards, he landed hard on top of the woman, knocking the wind out of her.

  Flailing wildly to break loose of her, he scrambled away on his knees towards the trees whilst feverishly praying, “Please, God, let me live. Please, God, let me live. Please, God, let me live.”

  A hand grabbed his ankle and pulled him back.

  “NO!” screamed Pat as he turned over onto his back to see the young woman gripping his ankle.

  “Oh, pretty boy, you won't escape that easily,” she mocked.

  Looking at the woman, Pat was nearly sick again. Her hair was long, greasy, and unkempt, but it was the scars and brands that covered her face, naked torso, and arms that really startled him.

  Seeing his shocked expression, the woman laughed. “My masters liked to cut me. They liked to brand me with their names to prove their ownership and their love for me. My masters loved me so much,” a sad look entered the woman’s eyes, “until I got old and my looks faded,” tears started to fall down her cheeks, “-until I was no longer worthy of my beautiful masters.”

  From the corner of his eye, Patrick spotted the other two pursuers nearing fast. “Get off me, you bitch!” he shouted as he lashed out again and again with his free foot.

  ***

  Dransfield watched as the boy struggled with the woman on the ground. “Fight, boy,” he muttered, just as the other two pursuers arrived. Dennis gave a tight smile as the boy gave a final bone-crushing stamp to the woman’s face and finally broke free. With one last glance behind him, the boy raced towards the trees, pursued by the two men.

  Slowly moving forward, Dennis waited until the boy was almost at the edge of the small wood before making himself known. “Boy, get behind me.”

  Pat nodded and did as he was told.

  “Credit to you, boy,” Dennis acknowledged, quietly. For all the fear and panic flowing through the boy’s body, he still had the wits to do the correct thing.

  ***

  Pat took ten more steps before collapsing on the ground. Breathing heavily, he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, and was promptly and violently sick. Inbetween the retching, he caught the sounds of battle nearby. He closed his eyes and concentrated on controlling his breathing. As it slowed, he wiped his sleeve across his mouth in an attempt to get rid of the pervasive bitter taste of bile, which currently filled all his senses.

  Sitting upright, eyes still closed, Patrick continued to calm himself. A thud sounded next to his right leg.

  “It's water.”

  Opening his eyes, Pat looked down at the canteen. Reaching out, he picked it up, slowly undid the cap, and took a small amount into his mouth. He quickly swilled the water around his mouth and spit it out. Next, he took a long deep drink of the lukewarm water. “Thank you.”

  “You're welcome,” came the reply from behind him.

  Patrick stood up, turned around, and made his way to stand next to the man who had just saved his life. “Patrick Reynolds.”

  “Dennis Dransfield.”

  “Are we losing?” asked Pat.

  “You have lost,” replied Dennis.

  “I… I… I had a friend down there.”

  “Then pray that he is dead.”

  “That is an awful thing to say.”

  “Trust me, you don’t want your friend to be taken alive by them.” Dennis turned his head to look at the young man standing next to him.

  Pat said nothing as he watched the Twin Kingdoms army die in a field full of fire, smoke, and the screams of the dying.

  ***

  With a mighty backhand from his warhammer, Commander Saul Whitehand of the Midnight Guard crushed General Foxton’s head like an egg. The general swayed in his saddle before dropping his sword and then collapsing from his horse onto the hard ground.

  Saul made his horse rear and stamp down hard on the general's body until only a bloody smear and bits of meat were left. Raising his warhammer high above his head, Saul screamed out, “The Midnight Man Cometh!”

  His army screamed back, “For He lives in each and every one of us!”

  ***

  Pat dropped to his knees as the evil words drifted up to the small copse on the hill. “How can we beat them?” he despaired.

  “Damned if I know,” replied Dennis as he turned away to make his way to his horse.

  Pushing himself upright, Pat trudged towards Dennis. “What are you going to do?”

  Holding his horse’s reins and stroking its neck, Dennis replied, “I am going home - a place I’ve not been for many years, and, once there, I will make peace with my past. Then I will most likely die.” Dennis Dransfield gripped his saddle and mounted up. Looking down at Pat, he said, “Do you have family?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then go home. Be with your family and, when the evil that is the Brethren comes, make a decision.”

  “What decision is that?”

  “Do you kill your family to prevent them falling into the enemy's hands, or do you run again and put off the inevitable?” With that, Dennis slowly started to ride away.

  “That is an awful choice.”

  “It is,” confirmed Dennis.

  “What has this world come to?” Pat called out.

  “Have you not been watching?” replied Dennis. “Evil has cometh and he brings hell-fire and brimstone.”

  ***

  Five hours later at the fortified monastery of the Cult of Mancer.

  High Commander Laura Artic stood at the far end of the Great Hall and stared up reverently at the marble statue of Lord Mancer. It depicted him standing over a young girl, his armour heavily dented, his shield held proudly before him. His sword was raised to strike down his enemies and his chiselled jaw was firm and defiant.

  Laura did not turn when she heard the twin footsteps approach from behind her.

  “It has started, ma’am,” said Peter Hazelgrove.
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  “The Midnight Man’s armies are starting to bring the Twin Kingdoms into darkness.” added Andrew Moore.

  “Are you sure?”

  “The messenger bird landed only ten minutes ago.”

  Laura Artic closed her eyes and smiled. “We will be tested, but, in his name, we shall be unflinching in our defence.”

  “That we will, ma’am,” answered Peter.

  An awkward moment passed before Andrew added, “The Mancer Prophecy?”

  High Commander Laura Artic spun on her heel. “The unfinished Mancer Prophecy, you mean,” she said, angrily.

  “Ma’am, with all due respect...” began Andrew.

  “That prophecy is incomplete! As it stands, it is an insult to our Lord Mancer.”

  “We were there when it first was given to the world,” interrupted Peter.

  Laura stared hard at the man. “Then you must have misheard. The Lord Mancer would never swear. He is the personification of a noble knight. Nobody within our cult would speak like a common street snipe.”

  “Maybe it’s not our Lord Mancer, nor a member of our cult, it's talking about?” said Peter.

  Both Andrew and Laura looked horrified at Peter. “What!” said both at the same time.