Menage_a_20_-_Tales_with_a_Hook

by Twenty Goodreads Authors

  “I cannot tarry, my master is impatient. I’ll be with you tonight,” she whispered. He sensed her panic and reluctantly stayed his hand.

  “Tonight then,” he growled. “And let me know what comes to pass. Master Dee knows more secrets than is good for him.”

  She sighed uneasily and slipped past him to the far end of the dimly lit passage way. She could still sense his eyes on her as she opened her master’s door.

  She entered a room of deep shelves bursting with curling parchments, some scattered on a stone-flagged floor; a room dominated by a dark oaken table upon which were vials that glowed with richly coloured liquids and powders. Her eye was caught by a small window, high in the wall, which shed a strange unearthly light upon an array of blue hued crystals and brass bound mirrors beneath.

  A wizened man who had seen better days paused in his pacing.

  “You have it then?” The voice was sharp.

  “Yes, master, taken from the queen’s own pitcher.”

  “Pass it here, girl. Pass it here.”

  The old man poured it into a polished brass bowl hung over a charcoal fire. Into it, he sprinkled a handful of torn cinquefoil, and the two of them stared expectantly.

  “How was the Queen? Not so frolicky and merry now, I’ll warrant.”

  “All flesh is subject to mortality, master, but hers more so. The great Councillors of state have been summoned.”

  “Hah! Court carrion the lot of them, waiting for her to die. But Cecil, is he here yet?”

  She looked at him curiously, wondering not for the first time how much the crystal revealed. “Yes, why do you ask? He arrived as I was about to leave.”

  “Did he have words with her?”

  She smiled at his eagerness, and at the same time with relief at what he didn’t know.

  “I stayed as long as I dared and saw as much as I could. Her Majesty was splayed amidst her cushions, but she received him most fervently. She took his hand in hers and wrung it hard; and all the time he was telling her how she lit the room with her radiance.”

  Dee chuckled appreciatively. “Oh she’d like that. She’d like that. But she wouldn’t be fooled.”

  “You’re right she wasn’t. At one point, she lifted her head, and regarded him for a time, like a cat that senses something in the long grass.”

  “And…”

  “Nothing. Melancholia once again took her by the throat. She started sighing; forty or more great bellowing sighs.”

  “And you were counting of course.”

  I noticed a quick smile as one acknowledging a superior wit.

  “In between sighs, the queen was wringing his lordship’s hands as though they were a pair of cow’s udders. ‘No, my lord, I am not well. I am not well. By day I’m plagued by physicians.’ She pointed to three of them, posturing in the corner. They spoke loudly, as though Her Majesty had the brain of a cushion. ‘Look, even now they fight over my sad, decaying carcass, whilst at night, demons quarrel for my soul.’”

  “He pretended sympathy, did he? Hah! This is a fawning dog that hides honesty up his arse. He wants an early death and him the first to tell his Scottish master.”

  “And who is our master... Master?”

  He looked at her sharply then turned to the bowl. “The dog with the biggest arse of all,” he muttered. “And his infernal succubus, Madine.”

  The liquid, dark in the half-light, quivered momentarily and the first miniscule bubbling spiralled to the surface.

  “Is it turning, girl? Is it turning?” She moved her head down until her nose was almost in the bowl.

  “A dusky pink, I think, Master.” Her voice, muffled in the steam, rose in excitement. “Becoming darker, like blood that’s dried.”

  “Then the Queen must die and before the night is through... Yes, yes, girl, you can go.”

  As the door closed behind her, he stuffed his own nose into the still steaming bowl, the candle so close as to threaten his eyebrows. He smiled, grimly. Undoubtedly red.

  His smile froze and he stooped even lower, jerking violently back as the tip of his nose skimmed scalding water

  The liquid was clear, all trace of crimson gone.

  Later that evening he stared again into the lukewarm water. Still clear. This shouldn’t be . . . this shouldn’t be,” he muttered. “How can the queen live, and not live?”

  For most of that night I made full use of her dreams, moulding them to suit our purpose. I thought I had been careful, remembering full well the horror of Lenin’s last days; the howling that never stopped; the sheer waste his brief incarnation as novelty represented.

  The day that followed, it appeared that my worst fears were to be fulfilled. She stood, as in a coma, holding her finger continually to her mouth, her eyes open and fixed to the ground. Then, first in a whisper meant only for her self, the cataract burst.

  “If lecherous goats, sharp scorpions or two faced dogs cannot be damned, why so should I?”

  “You fear damnation? Then dissipate in software where you may wallow in eternal opulence.” My voice is seductive.

  “My Lord has made me, and shall His divine work decay? I do not need fables from the Father of Lies. I do not need this soft attire that you promise.”

  “What is it you fear?”

  “You, hellions… monsters… vile, execrable creatures.”

  At this point a sudden paroxysm of weeping brought across her ladies, and she, lifting her white parchment face, railed at them for some time, uttering aloud what might have been mine alone to hear.

  “I run to my death and all small pleasure is gone from me. Despair and death are my lot … only thou, sweet Lord are above, and to thee I would rise.”

  Here she wildly stared around the room as if seeking the voice in her head, or else the sweet Lord she hoped would save her.

  “But even now the devious foe so tempteth me with alternate visions of immortality that I would betray this temple of Thy divine spirit. Why doth the serpent coil about me thus, despising and yet so loath to let me go?

  “Oh my blackened soul, disease, death’s constant courier hath summoned thee, and yet see how I yet hesitate…”

  “There is no hesitating on Death or Judgement,” I said in what I hoped was a suitably dry and sinister voice.

  “Is this then my play’s last Act… before the dark tears body from soul? Ah ladies, you say I shall sleep a space before I see that face all fear to love… If only I could be so sure.”

  “She seems almost resigned to her fate. You have done well Zara.” “Madine, you are back.”

  “We hope she finds our present mode a little less fearful.” I was caught up in a whirling vortex of gleaming motes,

  dancing particles of light, darker, more golden than the sun that splashed across the room.

  “If she sees us at all,” I said. “Her eyes are much decayed.”

  “And yet she still hopes in Christian resurrection.”

  “She is equally afraid of death, and damnation, hesitating between hope and despair. See, even now she is being led to her chamber.”

  Her ladies remained with her throughout that night, their commentary as much for their own ease as the Queen’s:

  “Still she will not sleep and yet she be not awake.”

  “Our sovereign is all but done; her sun fading yet still she is without contentment.”

  “Waiting on Death is not an easeful task.”

  “Her lips move. Did not our Good Archbishop remind her that she was soon to yield an account of her stewardship to the King of Kings? She is perhaps rehearsing her part.”

  “You are persuaded then?”

  Madine spoke as she had done for most of that night, but the Queen, though all but broken, remained both spirited and hesitant to the last. Momentary acceptance followed immediately by sharp questioning that Madine had trouble avoiding.

  “Poor death, for now I see thou canst not kill. One short sleep past, and I shall awake and Death shall die eternally. And yet would
my younger self not recoil in horror if it were to see what you promise me. Will I not be changed?”

  “Forgive me, Majesty, would it not equally recoil in horror if it was to see what thou art now? All things change by degree, and all is an imperfect imitation of whatever may have been before.”

  “I, too, am familiar with Democritus, lady; but you speak of manifold copies and therein I foresee manifold problems. If I be made proliferate, each with unmeasured choice, how will it be that the same ‘I’, may be damned or saved in many different forms?”

  They regarded her in something resembling embarrassed silence.

  “You will see things differently in time.”

  Before there had been sympathy, but now I felt truly sorry for this woman who was to be exploited and merchandised; rehoused in neuro-museums from here to Alpha Centauri and beyond, endlessly cloned, packaged and distributed, catering to every kind of niche market that neuro-splicing and profit allowed. But sympathy, I knew, had no place in the heart of merchant adventurers. Too much had been invested; too much was at stake.

  Madine’s sonorous tones continued with marble implacability.

  “You will leave this life in much the same way as you arrived, as data but with one crucial difference. A new-born learns to love its fleshy prison, but you will be released. Then you’ll see your ailing flesh for what it is, a corset, a wearisome farthingale.”

  “A Spanish farthingale…” interjected an unseen, helpful voice.

  “And when my flesh is stripped away, what will become of me...what I am? What I have been?”

  “You travel light, in eternity. With immortality, memories that define you lose their meaning. Spitting at your sister, Mary say, or the sense of Dudley’s sweet tongue, are but shadows of the mind…everything loses its meaning in time.”

  “You know much about me, madam! And yet you say there be no danger…even if I had a choice.”

  “You are a realist, Majesty. But let me assure you the sentient process continuously cross references neural integrities, seamlessly overlaying even the briefest quark-gluon irregularity.”

  “You speak like an alchemist, madam.” The Queen looked at us sharply, sensing rather than seeing the neuro-web’s slow descent. “video et taceo.”

  Madine’s laugh was not a pleasant one yet I cloaked the qualms that threatened both censure and perhaps my continued presence in the venture.

  “You will see and say everything, your Majesty. And you will yield an account of your stewardship not to your King of Kings, but to any who’ll pay for the privilege.”

  HENRY LARA

  Henry Lara attended the University of Puerto Rico and graduated with a degree in business. After serving four years in the US Army, he moved to the area around Boston, Massachusetts, where he lives to this day. When not reading or writing, he spends his free time drinking lots of caffeine, eating way too much sugar, daydreaming and researching random facts.

  T HE KNIGHT AND THE DEMON. The lord of the land rushes to save his missing wife. Sworn to protect him, the warrior Alexios leads a band of knights as they fight to keep him alive. A trail of blood, death, and dark magic leads Alexios to the discovery of a terrible betrayal.

  hlara09@comcast.net

  http://hoppingthoughts.blogspot.com

  The Knight and the Demon

  Henry Lara

  Copyright © Henry F. Lara-Steidel 2009 He rode hard to escape his doom. Silent, invisible, a presence followed.

  The young soldier sensed its approach, heard its promise of death echo in his mind. It would kill him, just as it killed the others.

  Faster, he thought as he spurred his horse on. Even though he rode a hazardous trail, with only the moon to light his way, he risked a glance back. Nothing.

  The trail made a couple bends ahead. He slowed down enough to take them without falling. As he did, he cursed the foreign land where he had come to die. He cursed its vast forests, which the heathen locals worshipped as “gods”. His soul longed for his homeland, his people, and his family. To die here, so far away...

  I am sorr, father. He pushed the thought away. He had to live, if only a little longer, enough to warn the others.

  They must know, for they were all in danger if not warned.

  He heard it then; a faint beat of wings over the rumble of hooves hitting the ground. A wave of fear rolled over him, threatening to choke him, to knock him off the saddle.

  No. Not yet. I have to tell them.

  He was close. After the forest, a stretch of open field led to the main trail that went up to the castle. The night watch would see him then. Even if he died in front of the gates, his mission would be fulfilled. He would be seen. The others would know.

  What if he could hide in the forest? He didn’t finish that thought. There was no hiding from a being of the night. No, his only chance was to outrun it.

  Please, he prayed. I must tell them. They must know about the lady.

  The trail made one final turn. The trees thinned. He could see the moon, the stars, and ahead in the distance, the lights of his lord’s hold.

  He bent low and gave his mount one final spur. The plains opened before his eyes.

  Claws ripped him from the saddle. He watched in horror as he left the ground. Up and up he rose before the claws opened. The ground rose to meet him. A flash of light, then darkness.

  He woke to a torrent of pain. His body was broken; he couldn’t move.

  Something moved and blocked his view of the stars. His body shook in terror as he recognized it. He screamed. Talons ripped his entrails, blood splashing his face.

  By the time the sun came up hours later, there was nothing of him left.

  Across a road next to a forest, nine knights and their squires rode in silence. The midmorning sun shone on mail armor, polished shields, and silver helmets. Wool surcoats displayed the bright coats of arms of western families on the knight’s torsos. A light breeze made the black raven on a red standard flutter in the wind, the same breeze spreading the smell of death across the land.

  Bodies littered the ground. They lay on the road, on the grass fields and mingled with their mounts’ carcasses. One dozen cavalry and twice as many footmen, to a man, lay dead.

  The knights stared at the carnage around them, their faces grim. Not even the ones of senior rank, veterans of many gruesome battles, could find words. Their young squires followed them, eyes wide in horror.

  Alexios, former mercenary from the Eastern Realms, stopped his horse to look at a body. It lay on its back, the chest open from neck to groin. The remains of the mail armor it wore kept its limbs together. Only rags—stained red by blood—remained of the white tabard over his armor.

  He studied its face. The eyes were missing, but he recognized it. The design on the broken shield next to it mirrored the one on the flag under which they rode; a black raven on a field of red.

  Sir Edric, Lord Oswald’s eldest son.

  The squire behind him spewed his last meal.

  He felt sorry for him. At sixteen, he was of age. But the

  gruesome scene would not let him sleep for many a night. The kid would take the memory to his grave. Alexios was the same age when he went to battle for the first time. He was twenty-five now, still a young man, but treated by his lord with the respect a veteran commanded.

  “Caelin, you all right?” he asked when the young man recovered.

  “The trees,” the kid said.

  Alexios searched the tree line, one hundred feet away from the road. At first he saw nothing. But then the splashes of white among the leaves betrayed the bodies. The branches of the ancient oaks held them up in macabre positions.

  “This is no way for a man to die,” one of the knights said. The others grunted in consent. A few rode toward the forest to take a closer look, their lances ready.

  Alexios’s attention shifted to his lord. At the center of the carnage, a carriage stood empty. Lord Oswald rode ahead and dismounted to examine it. Alexios walked his horse to join
him. He kept his eyes alert for danger, a hand on the pommel of his sword.

  The carriage belonged to Lord Oswald. His wife, the young and beautiful Lady Mildryth, favored it when she traveled. Last year, tragedy struck the young woman’s family; her father and brother were murdered. It was her wish to travel west to see their tombs. Lord Oswald expected her back at the hold anytime now. With her escort dead on the ground, Alexios knew what to expect inside the carriage.

  The smell of blood overwhelmed his nostrils. Inside the carriage was what remained of the Lady’s maids; the girl’s mutilated bodies’ lay everywhere.

  Of the Lady herself, he could see no trace.

  Alexios motioned Caelin to stop. The boy knew the girls. Better to spare him the sight. He dismounted and approached Lord Oswald.

  “My Lord, please come,” he said. “I found Sir Edric.”

  “Show him to me.”

  He led him on foot back to the body. Lord Oswald followed and then got down on one knee next to his son. Alexios stepped back and gave his lord room to mourn.

  Someone approached. Alexios turned to Ian, his friend and fellow protector of Lord Oswald.

  Ian stood six foot tall. He had the red hair and green eyes frequent among his people, and kept a long beard, a match for his long hair. Tattoos of runes and other symbols crisscrossed his forehead, arms, and the back of his hands.

  In contrast, Alexios, like most men from the East, was not as tall, had black hair, and dark eyes. He kept his hair above shoulder level and his face shaved.

  At first glance, the two men appeared very different. But the truth was that they had much in common. They were about the same age, and while they were trained and equipped to fight as cavalry, they were not knights.

  When he met Lord Oswald, Alexios had been a soldier of fortune, the leader of an infantry company. Ian was a sergeant. Impressed by their skills and bravery, Lord Oswald befriended and recruited them in to the fellowship of men-at-arms that followed a noble everywhere. They had taken his offer and left the mercenary life.