wine. He seemed unperturbed as he searched their faces. “Which of your rabble is Nicholas of Boramulla?” He said defiantly.
“I am Nicholas Day.” He moved forward into the room.
The Marshal raised his glass. “It pains me to, but I offer my congratulations. I wished you dead, it was not done and we underestimated you,” he said calmly “I truly did not expect you to have done so well, or live so long?”
“Neither did I if truth be known.”
The Marshal turned back away and stared out in silence.
Nicholas looked back to see Simeon and the others had followed him through. Simeon shook his head in confusion.
“We have the keep,” said Nicholas firmly.
The Marshal appeared not to have heard as he carried on. “This is my city, and all the lands governed from within these walls are mine. No one shall take it from me.” His voice was still calm, but had a bitterer ness that should have sent a shiver down Nicholas's spine. He turned abruptly and faced Nicholas; his voice composed once again. He spoke as if talking to his lowest servant. “You will surrender to my guard along with all your accomplices in the city, before dawn tomorrow.”
All in the room stood in silence, unable to believe what they had just heard. Simeon began to laugh nervously.
“Well… Is that understood? Speak man,” demanded the Marshal.
“May I point out,” said Simeon sneeringly “That we hold the keep, your guard; or a good part of it are in your own cells. I grant you that our foothold is but large enough for a toe, but all the same we have the advantage, and it will grow.”
“Fools, dammed fools.” The venom was back in his voice. “You have not won. You will never win. I grow sick and tired of your interference. You have my ultimatum: I want every single one of your rag tag band in my cells as I have ordered or I will render this city and all these lands to dust. I will leave such devastation that even the creatures from lands far away will not dwell here one second. You have my terms: do as I command.” He lifted his arm as if to drink, but instead spoke into a devise on his wrist. “Look and grovel in fear.” he said sweeping his free arm wide an arc towards the window, as he strode across the room.
Nicholas walked across to the window, until he came to an abrupt stop. In the courtyard, lit by the red dawn sky that bathed the city below in a pink glow, the air shimmered. It was as if in a mirage something was forming. Slowly it became a solid shape, the shape of the saucer, the Drakken.
Nicholas had almost forgotten about the Marshal. “We will not meet again before your executions.” The Marshal snarled.
Nicholas was mystified at his words until the Marshal was bathed in a blue light. Unbelievably he began to disappear. In an instant Nicholas had out the knife, and hurled it, it passed straight through where the man had been and dug itself into the wooden panels. Nicholas was still shaking off his incredulity when he heard Antony behind him.
“What in the name of all things sacred is that?” Gasped Antony, staring at the Drakken.
Nicholas looked about the room. Nobody had seen the Marshals escape: they were all staring at the spacecraft. “It is our nemesis,” replied Nicholas in hardly more than a whisper. “Have no doubt that he can do as he says.”
Facing him as he spoke, not a hundred meters away, although he could have been a thousand kilometers, a figure dressed in purple and black stared back at him from the spaceship.
“I fear the Marshal deals the last card in the pack.” Nicholas said solemnly.
More Quone-Loc-Sie, and other novels and stories by John Stevenson can be found by visiting
www.caelin-day.com
www.Australianstoryteller.com
www.Australianstorywriter.com
Success and Failure Page 4