by Andy Coffey
Chapter 16 – You allow them to enter if they pay a bond
Velvet the ferret had the mouse cornered in the throne room. She was looking at it with a sadistic smile and kept tapping at it with her paw, as the little thing trembled.
Velvet enjoyed torturing small creatures, and she considered herself to be quite adept at it. She also craved attention, sulked if she couldn’t have her own way and would do anything to get what she wanted, not caring how she did it or who got hurt in the process. If she were human, her ideal career would be a TV reality show contestant. She really wasn’t a very nice ferret at all.
‘Hmm,’ she said, ‘shall I kill you now, or wait for later?’
The little mouse cowered pitifully, holding its front legs across its face. ‘I’d rather you didn’t kill me at all,’ it said, with a quivering voice.
The door to the throne room opened and Baron Blacktie marched in, with Pimple in close attendance. His bodyguard, Grunt, followed, looking menacingly around the room. ‘Looks like it’s your lucky day,’ said Velvet, smacking the mouse with her paw, causing it to fall on its side. And then she ran off and sat in her basket next to the throne.
‘What did they say exactly?’ the Baron asked, as he sat down imperiously.
‘They left a message with Stacey on reception saying that they urgently needed to see you and that they’d be here in less than an hour,’ Pimple replied.
‘I hope for their sake that it’s good tidings,’ the Baron said, looking straight at Grunt. ‘Otherwise it may be necessary for chastisement of some description.’
‘Grunt crush?’ said Grunt.
‘Not yet,’ replied the Baron.
‘Grunt rip?’
‘No, not yet.’
Grunt smiled, raised his huge hands and made a snapping motion. ‘Grunt break?’ he said, somewhat hopefully.
‘Perhaps later,’ the Baron replied.
‘Oh, Grunt plop,’ said Grunt, looking a bit embarrassed and feeling the back of his tattered trousers.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, I’ve told you if you need to go to the toilet just go!’ the Baron yelled. ‘You don’t have to wait for permission. Do you want to be put back in nappies again?’
‘Grunt sorry,’ said Grunt, bowing his head.
‘Get him cleaned up, Pimple. If that smell gets out the throne room will be off limits for days.’
‘Do I have to, my Lord?’ the horrified Pimple said.
‘Yes, you do. Now get him out of here.’
‘Yes, my Lord,’ said Pimple, reluctantly taking hold of Grunt’s hand.
As Pimple and Grunt left the throne room General Darkblast entered, flanked by two of his imperial guard. ‘You summoned me, my Lord?’
‘Yes, General. It would appear our two spies are returning early on a matter of some urgency. I thought it best that you be in attendance when they arrive.’
The doors to the throne room swung open and Hob and Nob rushed in, unannounced. They were both breathing heavily and were drenched in sweat. After bowing courteously, Hob placed his briefcase on the floor. The Baron stood up in anticipation. ‘So, gentlemen, I believe you have news that demands my ear?’
‘We do, my Lord,’ said Hob.
‘Did you manage to obtain a sample of cheese, as agreed?’ the Baron questioned.
‘Not yet, my Lord,’ Nob said. ‘We encountered complications and thought it best to impart the news we have gleaned. You can rest assured we will return and acquire the sample of cheese you desire.’
The Baron’s mood darkened and his eyes became like slits. He walked around the throne, picked up his imperial mace and placed the tip into Hob’s left nostril. ‘You are lucky that my friend Grunt cannot control his bowels, otherwise your physical appearance would be altered quite radically.’
‘Please, hear us out, my Lord,’ Hob pleaded. ‘We know who owns the cheese mine that was once Hairy Growler’s, and we have a plan as to how you can make it yours.’
‘Go on’, said the Baron.
‘The mine is now in the possession of one Agnar the Hammered. He is a drummer in a band called “Sacred Wind”.’
‘My Lord, this is good news indeed,’ interrupted General Darkblast. ‘Given that he is a drummer, he would surely let you the have this mine for a bag of sweets or some shiny trinkets that would keep his small mind occupied. And if he were to refuse this legitimate route, why we can simply take it by force before he can get his drumsticks out.’
‘If only it were that simple, General,’ Nob said.
‘What do you mean?’ the Baron asked, removing the mace from Hob’s nostril and placing back behind the throne.
‘Although he owns the mine it was a gift from his cousin, who has bade him to take care of it,’ Hob said.
‘And this “cousin” may prove to be difficult if the mine were somehow spirited from this Agnar’s grasp. Is that what you are saying?’
‘Yes, my Lord. For the name of his cousin is Angus McSvensson.’
The Baron reeled backwards as if he’d been hit by something quite big that didn’t have protective padding. ‘He’s related to the McSvenssons! Yes, now I see what you meant about complications.’
General Darkblast stepped forward, putting his hand on his sword in a gesture that implied he wished to use it quite urgently. ‘Come, now, Baron, we should not be deterred by some cousin from a realm that is quite distant. Why, we could appropriate the mine with minimum effort before any word reached his tartan ears.’
‘General, am I right in thinking that your men have encountered the McSvenssons before?’ the Baron said, walking over to a filing cabinet and sifting through the contents of the top drawer. ‘Ah yes, I believe I have the report right here.’
The Baron removed the file and read the first page. ‘So, it was a reconnaissance mission to Arbroath, is that correct?’ he said, passing the file to the General.
‘It was, my Lord.’
‘And would you say it was in any way successful?’
‘Well, in the sense that the men performed reconnaissance, yes.’
‘But you didn’t get too much information, would that be correct?’
‘It’s true the information we received was not what we had hoped, my Lord.’
‘And in what form was this information?’
‘It was in the form of a letter from…’ the General opened the file and located the letter ‘… from a Morag McSvensson.’
‘And it said?’
‘It said “Go to hell ye Sassenach bastards. If ye send any more men up here ye’ll get them back as a collection of mini haggis without the trimmings”.’
The Baron dusted off one of his sleeves and sat back down on his throne. ‘And what would you say you learned from this information?’
‘That they’re not very keen on the English but they do like haggis,’ the General replied.
‘Indeed,’ said the Baron. ‘So, General, how many men did you send?’
‘Seventy-two were sent, my Lord.’
‘And how many returned?’
The General skipped through the report before replying. ‘Seventy-two returned, my Lord.’
‘Let me stop you there for a second and I’ll rephrase the question, so that we can perhaps get an answer that is both more specific and more accurate. How many men returned intact?’
‘Er, none, my Lord.’
Baron Blacktie rose, walked back over to the General and grabbed the file off him. He flicked to page six and passed it back ‘Could you please read out the inventory of what was actually returned?’
‘Of course, my Lord. It reads “Seventy-two men despatched, seventy-two parts returned as follows – twelve legs, nine arms, eight heads, ten hands, eleven toes, four thumbs, five testicles, three livers, seven ears, two fingers, one small penis and a bag of hair of indeterminate origin”, my Lord.’
‘Quite,’ said the Baron. ‘So, General, I wish my plans to be executed with the minimum of fuss. This has to be a low risk exercise and the last
thing I need are hordes of very angry, psychopathic, kilt-wearing maniacs ravaging through the palace looking to cause as much dismemberment to my person as is humanly possible. Do I make myself clear?!’
‘Yes, my Lord,’ the General replied, nodding frantically.
Hob put his hand to his mouth and cleared his throat. ‘My Lord, we believe we may have a solution to this dilemma, but we need some information first.’
‘What do you wish to know?’ the Baron said, his rage dissolving into curiosity.
‘The Cestrian Music Tournament takes place in three days, is that correct?’ asked Nob.
‘Correct,’ replied the Baron. ‘How is that relevant?’
‘Have the band Sacred Wind applied to be in this year’s competition?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ the Baron said. ‘This is the band you say Agnar the Hammered plays drums for?’
‘It is my Lord. If we could trouble you to find out if they have entered the tournament it would be appreciated.’
The Baron looked at Hob and Nob quizzically, before picking up the phone on the small table by the throne. He dialled a number and a polite lady answered. ‘Stacey, get the contestants for this year’s music tournament out for me and check to see if we have an entrant called “Sacred Wind”.’
Some seconds passed and the Baron drummed his fingers on the table impatiently. ‘A band called “Sacred Wind” did apply to enter the tournament, but they were rejected, my Lord,’ Stacey eventually said. ‘In fact, they’ve applied for the last four tournaments and have been rejected every time.’
‘Why is that?’ the Baron asked.
‘They are a heavy rock band, my Lord, and are therefore banned from playing in the city.’
‘Ah, of course,’ the Baron said, putting the phone down. ‘They have applied, gentlemen, but were rejected due to the fact they play heavy rock.’
‘That is excellent news,’ said Hob.
‘It is indeed,’ said the Baron. ‘I cannot bear to have my ears stained by that grotesque racket. Heavy rock has been banned for several years now and I have no intention of lifting the ban. General, what happened to the last heavy rock band that tried to play in the city?’
‘We informed them that if they continued to play then they would be decapitated. However, this threat was not successful.’
‘Why so?’ the Baron said, with incredulity.
‘I believe they said that it was a great idea and would provide an excellent addition to their stage show.’
‘How, then, did you make them see the error of their ways?’
‘Oh, we decapitated them anyway, my Lord. But this led to them getting an encore from the audience.’
‘How, pray, did they manage to play an encore with their heads separated from their bodies?’
‘Not too successfully, my Lord. The audience got restless after two minutes and began a slow handclap, until the lead singer’s body convulsed and sprayed blood into the crowd. This was very well received.’
Hob marched over to the Baron, intently. ‘You must let Sacred Wind enter the tournament, Baron.’
‘Are you insane, Hob? I cannot be seen to rescind this law. It could be construed as a weakness by any enemies I have left who are not in the canal. And anyway, how would this assist in gaining possession of the mine?’
‘You allow them to enter if they pay a bond, say £10,000,’ Hob said. ‘As it is extremely unlikely they could raise that kind of money, you ask for collateral instead; for example, property… or a cheese mine.’
The Baron smiled and patted Hob on the shoulder. Hob visibly winced from his touch. ‘Interesting, very interesting. Go on.’
‘You say that the mine will still be theirs if they win the tournament, but if they lose then the mine is forfeit. And this applies not only if they do not win, but also if they fail to participate in the tournament… for example if some mishap should occur which would lead to them being unable to reach the city in time.’
The Baron’s chilling smile grew wider.
‘You could spin the fact that you were letting them enter as a sign of your great benevolence and your wish to expand horizons and create equality,’ added Hob. ‘The people would not only believe this, but your popularity would soar.’
‘Yes, yes!’ the Baron said, walking over to the large bookcase and, again, stroking one book in particular. ‘Obviously, we ensure that this Sacred Wind do not get to the city, and that should be easy to arrange. And as the agreement between Agnar and I will be a legitimate transaction, Angus McSvensson would direct any wrath at the loss of the mine to his cousin and not towards me.’
‘Exactly,’ said Nob.
‘You have done well, gentlemen,’ the Baron said. ‘I fear Grunt will have to wait a while for his exercise.’
Hob and Nob exchanged glances and looked visibly relieved.
‘We will need to speak to the band to initiate this most excellent plan. Who is their contact?’ the Baron asked.
‘They are managed by a man called Oldfart Olafson,’ Hob said.
Baron Blacktie twirled dramatically, his leather cape sweeping out in an arcing motion before settling back into place. He placed one foot on the throne and stood flamboyantly with his hands on his hips. ‘General, let it be known that I wish to speak to this Oldfart. We will travel to Llangollen tomorrow. Prepare your men.’
Sacred Wind: Book 2 – Preview
* You’ll gasp as Baron Blacktie’s dastardly scheme starts to fall into place…
* You’ll gasp again as a horrible kidnap is perpetrated…
* You’ll nod knowingly as the Prophecy is revealed…
* You’ll cheer and put out bunting as our heroes set sail for Chester…
* You’ll be terrified as we delve into the depths of the mine of Hairy Growler…
* You’ll hide behind the sofa as the Battle of the Pig’s Trotters begins…
* You’ll do some more gasping as the Baron reveals his secret…
* You’ll smile winsomely when an unexpected companion appears…
* You’ll have a great desire to learn Ancient Welsh Witchenese…
* And you’ll be very concerned about the Tan-Y-Lan Tuffies skill at charades…
All this and more awaits you in… Sacred Wind: Book 2.
Thank you for reading my book. If you enjoyed it, please take a moment to leave me a review at your favorite retailer?
May Odin bless your wind!
Andy Coffey
About the Author – by Oldfart Olafson
Andy Coffey has been called many things; short, bald, barking mad, cute, a creative genius (… actually, I think he calls himself that). But, it is true to say that without Andy, Sacred Wind may never have made it into your particular reality. And we thank him for that.
After a brief foray into music journalism, and an attempt at rock superstardom in the late eighties, Andy eventually carved out a successful career in something called 'IT' for the best part of twenty years, attaining a Senior Management position in a company dealing with software production and IT service management. He tells me that he was a bit of a guru, by all accounts.
However, the music bug never really left him, and in fact he recorded two albums with his band, 'The Quest', in the nineties (he tells me that the second one was really good). Oh, he plays drums, and apparently his drum kit is nearly as big as Agnar's.
He also developed an interest in music technology and composition. This initially caused him some confusion as he had to learn to play keyboards, discovering that hitting them with drumsticks didn't really achieve the desired results… and was more expensive.
We first managed to cross the dimensional barrier to communicate with Andy about Sacred Wind in late 2010 (your time). Having voices in his head was a bit of a shock for him at first, but he soon got used to it. So, after working with him closely for over two years, he's now produced the Sacred Wind books and debut album, for reading and listening pleasure in your reality.
He lives with his p
artner, Jo, and their cat (Theo) in a little town called Frodsham, in the UK. Apparently they can fart whenever and wherever they like. He has a son, Adam; a step-daughter, Zoë, and a step-son, Johnny.
He's a good lad but he needs a bigger weapon… (that pocket knife will never do).
Yours fartily,
Oldfart Olafson (Manager - Sacred Wind)
Other books by Andy Coffey
Sacred Wind: Book 2
Sacred Wind: Book 3
Sacred Wind: The Complete Trilogy
Sacred Wind: The Appendices
Sacred Wind: Songbook
Sacred Wind – The Album
Possibly the finest debut album by a Welsh Viking Flatulence Rock band from an alternative reality… Available at all good download stores!
www.sacredwind.co.uk
Contact Sacred Wind
Web: https://www.sacredwind.co.uk/
Email: [email protected]
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Sacred-Wind/136135083263791
Twitter: https://twitter.com/SacredWindBand
Soundcloud: https://soundcloud/sacredwind