A Kingdom Falls (The Mancer Trilogy Book 1)

by Alan Scott

  ***

  The Midnight Man looked out the window as the first rays of the new sun broke through the night’s dark veil. “Nathaniel West, dead,” thought the Midnight Man. “Red Claw, dead. Jennifer, dead. Solomon Pace, dead. Shadow Killer, dead. Yet I live.” A short harsh laugh exploded from the Midnight Man.

  “My son?” queried Joanna.

  “It’s nothing,” the Midnight Man brushed away her concern.

  “There is nothing alive on this continent or even this world that can stop me,” he finished musing, before slowly turning around. “Mother.”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “I have decided that I am going to conquer this continent, and then I am going to kill the gods and replace them with myself.”

  “That is good, dear,” replied Joanna Harris.

  “Yes, it is, Mother,” smiled the Midnight Man, “for I am the Midnight Man and no one can stand before me.”

  Epilogue

  The Painted Man

  Sitting in the corner of the tavern, the Painted Man nursed his pint of water. Both hands visibly shook as he picked up the drinking vessel. Taking a deep drink, he ignored the stares and sly comments coming from the other customers, who were frequenting the tavern.

  “...water, did you say? Fucking queer...”

  “...have you seen his skin? It’s like someone has drawn on him...”

  “...freak...”

  “...Oh, the poor thing is scared! Look at him shake...”

  The Painted Man sighed lightly, carefully placed his pint down, and scratched his chin. He should have known the problems entering the inn would have caused, but he was fed up sleeping under the sky. He just wanted one night in a warm soft bed and have someone else cook a meal. Watching the young pretty barmaid make her way towards him carrying his bowl of stew, he smiled a rue smile to himself - if only he had been... what? -ten years younger, then he might have tried bedding her.

  “Your stew,” she said.

  “Thank you.” The Painted Man picked up a spoon and tasted the stew. “It’s good.”

  “Thank you,” smiled the barmaid.

  He took two more mouthfuls before placing the spoon down and looking up at the girl, who had not moved.

  “Did they hurt?”

  The Painted Man closed his eyes for a moment before opening them and smiling broadly. “Some did, some did not.”

  “What are they for?” queried the barmaid.

  “Well, this one,” said the Painted Man, rolling up his right sleeve to reveal a naked woman with large breasts, “she was called Shelia, and we enjoyed a couple of night of fun,” the Painted Man laughed loudly and honestly, “whilst this star on my wrist - this one was done to celebrate being alive.”

  “Alive?”

  “Yes, alive.”

  “Oh.” The girl smiled and walked away to continue her duties.

  The Painted Man’s eyes followed her well-formed arse and he chuckled to himself, “If only I was ten years younger,” before lifting his pint of water with his shaking hands.

  ***

  It was two hours later when the two men sat down opposite the Painted Man. “Are you fucking gay?” one asked.

  “No. Why?”

  “Well, you are only drinking water.”

  “Have you noticed how he shakes?” commented the second one, “- just like a coward.”

  “Well?” asked the first man.

  “Well, what?” asked the Painted Man.

  “Are you a fucking gay coward? Because we don’t like gay cowards not drinking in our inn.”

  “Look, I just want to be left alone. Is that too much to ask?”

  “That is easy - just have a drink with us and we shall be on our way,” replied the man. “Rhona! Rhona, three beers for this table.”

  “Eh, no,” said the Painted Man as his shaking got worse.

  “Eh, no, what?” said the second man.

  “Will be there in a mo, Stewart!” called back the barmaid known as Rhona.

  “Excellent,” said Stewart before turning to his friend. “Hear that, Chaz? We are going to have a pint soon with our newfound friend. He would not refuse a drink, would he?” Stewart turned to the Painted Man. “You would not refuse a drink, would you?”

  The Painted Man’s eyes hardened as he tried to keep his voice level and light. “I do not drink beer...”

  “Wine, then,” interrupted Chaz.

  “...nor wine. I only drink water.”

  “We will become deeply offended, if you don’t drink with us.” Stewart’s voice held tones of violence.

  “Here you go, lads,” said Rhona as she turned up with three pints. As she placed one by the Painted Man, she whispered, “Just drink it, sir. What harm can one pint do?”

  “Well,” demanded Stewart as he lifted his pint, “a toast to alcohol.”

  “To alcohol!” repeated Chaz.

  The Painted Man’s hand started to reach out for the pint of beer.

  “Come on; prove that you are a man - not a fucking gay poof!” declared Chaz.

  “Prove that I am a fucking man, eh?” The Painted Man, with a great deal of will power, pushed the pint of beer away. “All I fucking wanted was a hot fucking meal, and to sleep in a soft fucking bed. Then you fucking tossers turned up.”

  Chaz looked at Stewart in shock at the sudden change in their victim.

  “And now,” continued the Painted Man as he rose ferociously from his chair, “I am going to have to kill you pricks.”

  Chaz and Stewart quickly rose from their chairs.

  “Do any other of you tossers want to join in?” challenged the Painted Man to the rest of the tavern.

  A mass shake of head and murmurs of “No,” was the response.

  “Right, you two, you are fucking claimed.” With that, the Painted Man gripped the edge of the table and threw it to one side, whilst reaching for his hand axe at his belt.

  Chaz and Stewart hurriedly reached for their daggers on their belts, but neither of them made it. The Painted Man lashed out with the axe, slicing through Chaz’s throat before shoulder-charging Stewart, knocking him to the floor. As Stewart lay face down, the Painted Man placed his boot on Stewart’s neck and pressed slowly down as he addressed the room. “All I wanted was to be left alone. Was that too much to ask? Was it really too much to ask? And now two men are dead!”

  “You could let Stewart live,” said Rhona, timidly.

  “Aye, I could lass, but he was the one that started it and I know his type. He will pick on someone weaker than him to try to feel important. Am I right, lass?”

  “Yes,” agreed Rhona, unhappily, as she watched the struggling Stewart flail around on the floor, “but doesn’t everyone have the right to change? To overcome their demons?”

  The Painted Man nodded his head. “Aye, you are right, lass. Every man should have a chance to become a better man.” He lifted his weight slightly from Stewart’s neck. He continued, “You are a lucky man.”

  The tension eased in the tavern as the Painted Man let the axe drop to his side and smiled. “Yes, you are a very lucky man, but you still tried to make me drink alcohol.” A long steel blade dropped into his left hand. As he stepped off Stewart’s neck, the Painted Man swiftly dropped to one knee and drove his blade through Stewart’s lower spine, severing the cord.

  Stewart cried out in pain as blood started to seep out over his back.

  “No!” screamed a shocked Rhona.

  “Oh, yes,” grinned the Painted Man, as he wiped his blade clean on his trouser leg. He then made his way back to the corner where he had been sitting, where he attached his hand axe to his belt. Resetting his knife up his sleeve and picking up his backpack, he strode through the silent tavern and made his way out of the front door.

  As soon as he was gone, the tavern exploded into life. Men and Rhona raced towards the wounded Stewart, others to the window of the tavern to watch the man walk away.

  At the bar, the barman and another man were deep in conversa
tion.

  “Did you recognise the accent?”

  “Yes. It was a bit faded, but I recognised it - the Star Mountains.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “How about the tattoos?”

  “I did not see it, but from the description Rhona gave and what I saw here tonight, I would say it must have been the Lamroste Star.”

  “I agree.”

  “Is that why you did not interfere?”

  “Yup, and the fact that Chaz and Stewart were a couple of idiots who had it coming to them.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Oh, yes - did you notice he stopped shaking when the fighting began?”

  “Yup.”

  ***

  “Foolish idiot. Foolish idiot,” the Painted Man cursed himself as he trudged down the road in pitch darkness. “Why did you have to go and lose your fucking temper? You could have been in a soft bed right now.”

  The Painted Man stopped and looked up as he felt the first spots of rain. “Bollocks,” he commented as he trudged towards the shelter of the trees.

  Here ends A Kingdom Falls

  The following is the Prelude from Book two, “The Midnight Man”.

  Prelude

  Alone in the Dark

  The man walked along the forest path as the wind and driving rain ripped the leaves from the tallest trees. He pulled the collar of his coat further up around his neck and carried on walking, his cane held by his side.

  As the wind and rain grew heavier, he looked around with professional interest. He knew that everything around him was not reality. It had, in fact, been created by the person he was going to visit. It was a make-believe landscape created to fulfil a deep-seated need. Some people created beautiful beaches, wonderful mountain views, or eternal sunsets or rises, but not him. No, the cold and rain was more his style.

  The man continued walking for another five minutes until he reached a cave entrance. Taking a deep breath, he entered the pitch-black cave. The lack of light was not a problem for him and it would certainly not be a problem for the person he was visiting. Looking around he caught sight of his objective.

  He was sitting on the floor of the cave, leaning against the wall with one leg stretched out and the other bent at the knee. A blanket was wrapped round his shoulders. His head was bowed and his eyes closed.

  “The weather - very impressive, by the way,” commented the visitor.

  “Do I know you?”

  “We had a mutual acquaintance,” replied the visitor as he leaned on his cane.

  “Why have you come to disturb my sleep?”

  “Your help is required.”

  The man raised his gaze and looked at his visitor with piercing blue eyes. “My help?”

  “Yes, there is this prophecy...”

  “There is always a prophecy.”

  “Ah, yes, that is very true, but there is a problem with this one.”

  “What sort of problem?”

  “Mancer’s in it.”

  The man let out a laugh. “Well, you are in trouble, then. Mancer is dead.”

  “As are you, but that does not stop us from talking.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Have you heard of the Mancer Prophecy?”

  “No, and I don’t want to. All I want is to be left alone.”

  “Ah, I see; then you will not care that the Midnight Man has returned.”

  Silence.

  “You will not care, then,” continued the visitor, “that the Midnight Man has returned and he is stronger than ever. He will destroy Talocants and every living thing that dwells upon it. You will not care that the only person that can stop him, according to the prophecy, is Hubert Mancer, whom, as you quite correctly said, is dead; although, as I said, being dead may not be that much of a hindrance, in the right circumstances. No, the problem is Mancer himself.” The visitor took another deep breath and looked at the nails of his right hand. “Let’s face it - Mancer is, well ...an extremely quotidian type of person, and a complete and utter imbecile. How can he stop the Midnight Man?” Straightening and tucking his cane under his left arm, he said, “Think on that,” before turning round and leaving the cave.

  The seated man remained unmoving for an hour as the wind howled outside and the driving rain beat down upon the forest floor. Slowly but surely, a mocking smile started to spread across his lips. “Bollocks, if I know what quotidian means.”

  Standing, the man walked with a slight limp to the entrance of the cave and looked out at the storm. “Are we not all but echoes of a storm? Maybe it’s time for one last rumble of thunder.” With that, he left his cave and once more entered the world of men.

  If you enjoyed “A Kingdom Falls,” you might like the book that started it all - “Echoes of a Storm”, which is the first book in the Storm Series Trilogy. The following is the prelude from “Echoes of a Storm”.

  Prelude

  Rain

  Her softly falling tears echoed the rain as she watched him walk away. He did not cry, but then, his life had made him forget how. So, in the gentle rain, just past midnight, she found herself crying for a man - a fool - who could not.

  - a fool with that deeply irritating and mocking smile. “But then,” she thought sadly, “who was he mocking? Himself? The world? Both?” Even after all these years, she could never quite work out which. She continued to watch him, his slight limp giving him a very distinctive walk, as he finished crossing the courtyard and exited through the open gate. He was, in many ways, a nondescript man. He was average height, average weight, looked to be aged anywhere between thirty and forty with short brown hair. His clothes were as plain as he was.

  An involuntary shudder ran through her body. He may seem plain and nondescript, but she knew what lurked within him, what hid beneath that façade he presented to the world.

  As she thought about him, the events of this terrible evening arose in her mind. One moment, she was entertaining her guests; the next, men with swords had come crashing in. There had been screaming and shouting, fire and smoke, running, and, of course, death. Somehow, her daughter - carried in her maid’s arms - a wounded guard, and herself had made it to the walled courtyard with the assassins close behind. She remembered her hope of escape turning to ash upon seeing the courtyard gates locked and barred. Hence, filled with growing despair, she had turned to face her attackers as they circled in for the kill.

  Then, from the dark shadows that surrounded the walls of the courtyard, he had appeared as if from nowhere. All eyes had turned to him and there was a moment of perfect silence, which was violently broken as a primeval growl, which could have never come from a human throat, sounded out and echoed throughout the courtyard.

  Moments later, all her attackers were dead, and then... and then the rain had gently started to fall.

  Afterwards, they had talked. Apparently, the plot had only been discovered in the early evening. One of her cousins had hired the men and bribed one of the guards to let them in. Her cousin’s plan was not a simple one, though, as there had been a nasty twist - a twist that forced a bitter choice.

  Fresh tears mixed with the rain as she remembered asking her saviour why he had made the choice he did. She had watched the softness in his deep blue eyes that had slowly crept in over the last two years, wither and die, to be replaced by the familiar harshness from years long past.

  “Duty,” was his single word reply.

  Then she had made plans, hasty plans.

  Now, in the early hours of a new day, in the gentle rain, something dangerous had left the country house. He had names - Red Claw, Midnight Man, and more; however, she knew him as Nathanial West, her bodyguard.

  By sending her bodyguard out into the night, those hastily drawn plans were being put into action. Her foolish cousin, Fredrick, had started it, but others would follow. Others would now enter the game. Why did people always call it a game? Well, it was more than a game to her. It was the life of her daughter. It was the future of her realm. It was f
riends lying dead in the house behind her, friends who had been alive only hours earlier. She would show them all. There was NOTHING she would not sacrifice to protect her daughter and the realm. Let them play their little games. Tonight, she would show them how the great game was truly meant to be played.

  Nathanial had vanished from sight by now, so Queen Alexandra turned to face the only other survivors - her maid, Mary, who was walking toward her with a cloak, and the wounded guard who held her daughter, Kathleen, in his arms.

  As Mary wrapped the cloak around the Queen’s shoulders, she whispered, “He is gone, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “So it has started?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he ...it ...back?”

  Alexandra looked into Mary’s quizzical face and slowly nodded. Turning her eyes to the guard, she asked, “His name?”

  “Jack Sorensen.”

  Moving past Mary, wiping tears from her eyes, Queen Alexandra headed toward Jack Sorensen so that she could take her daughter in her arms.

  Mary looked out into the dark beyond the country house walls. He would be walking, running, heading toward his goal and, with each step, he would be reverting back to what he was. The last two years would be wiped out before dawn. Mary stifled a sob and closed her eyes. Turning her head toward the sky, she let the rain wash across her face. The rain always hid her tears so well.