Darren Craske - The Eleventh Plague

Overhearing the command, Quaint's mind worked quickly. He looked around for a weapon of some sort and snatched the absinthe bottle from the table. Unnoticed by his two fat-handed foes as they arrived, he thrust it behind his back, tucking it into his trouser waistband. The Scarabs grabbed him by each shoulder, and steered him roughly into the small room. With a painful jolt between his shoulder blades, he was cast unceremoniously onto the floor at Polly North's feet.

'Who's this, someone else you're trying to scare?' asked Polly.

'We've not been formally introduced,' said Quaint, jovially. 'My name is Quaint…Cornelius Quaint, and I am quite an admirer of your work, Professor.'

She looked different to how he had imagined her – not quite pretty, but not ugly by any standard. He noticed her high cheekbones, firm lips and determined jaw. Younger than he had thought too. No wonder she had spent half her life in foreign countries. Quaint assumed that London's scientific community would hardly approve of such a distraction in their midst.

'Are you all right?' he asked her.

'Why is that any of your concern?' Polly yapped back, causing Quaint to flinch.

'I'm merely asking after your well-being, Professor,' he replied. 'We seem to have something in common.'

'You're an archaeologist too?' asked Polly.

'Actually I was referring to our present state of captivity. I'm no archaeologist, ma'am…merely a circus conjuror,' said Quaint.

'In a place like this?' asked Polly.

'I go where the work takes me,' Quaint said.

'From the looks of it, your show didn't go down too well,' Polly said, with a flick of her eyes towards Faroud and his two cohorts. 'A tough audience, eh?'

'I've had worse,' said Quaint. 'It seems that I'm an unwilling visitor just as you are, Professor.'

'Considering the fact that I'm tied to a chair and bleeding, I hardly think you're quite as unwilling as I am,' said Polly, as she stared at the well-built, middle-aged man at her feet with a shock of silver-white curls and charming glint in the corner of his dark eyes. Was he really all he claimed to be, or was it a ruse? If so, why was he antagonising the Scarab leader in such a reckless manner? Whatever the reason, he was doing a fantastic job of occupying the Scarab's attention, giving her time to work at the ropes binding her to the chair…

Quaint rose slowly to his feet as Faroud and his two Scarab guards watched his every move. 'Answer me this, Aksak – if you really are working for the Hades Consortium, why are they so interested in a British archaeologist? What's it got to do with their plot?'

'I do not know what you are talking about,' Faroud replied.

'Oh, really? I don't believe you,' snapped Quaint. 'Whatever deal they've offered you, it's not worth selling your soul for! Bargains with the Hades Consortium tend to be a little one-sided. Once they've finished poisoning the Nile, they'll simply divide whatever's left between them. You and your Scarabs will be fed to the lions!'

Faroud clearly found the very idea amusing, for his grin spread thinly and quickly across his mouth. 'Mr Quaint, I do not believe a word of what you say. The Hades Consortium has power, this is true…but how could they possibly poison a body of water the size of the Nile? They would need more poison than a hundred camels could carry! I am no fool. I know your plan. Did you honestly think you could just walk into my camp and rescue Miss North on your own? I think she would do better choosing her friends more carefully in future.'

'Friends?' asked Polly, scornfully.

'Rescue?' asked Quaint, with an equal amount of derision.

Polly and Quaint exchanged swift glances and then glared at Faroud.

'Wait, you don't think he's-'

'She's not my-'

'But I'm not with him!'

'I'm not with her!'

'We're not together!' Quaint and Polly chorused in unison.

Faroud smiled. 'Two troublesome Englanders in my camp at the same time…and you expect me to believe that it is just a coincidence?'

'That's exactly what it is!' snapped Quaint, pushing his intense disbelief in coincidences aside. 'Do you honestly think that I would risk my life to save her?'

Polly shot him a look of pure spite. 'What's that supposed to mean?'

'No offence, Professor,' Quaint said, with mock cheerfulness. 'I'm just trying to keep things light and upbeat. It's incredibly important in life-threatening situations to maintain a positive mental attitude. Would you not agree, Aksak?'

Faroud found himself nodding in agreement – and stopped it immediately. 'Mr Quaint, I am finding your frequent attempts at humour most tiresome,' he growled.

'For once we agree on something,' chimed in Polly.

'Enough of this!' said Faroud, slicing his hand through the air. 'Whether you admit it or not, it is of no consequence! I am Aksak here…I am in charge, and I will not permit this pointless discussion any longer. I was hired to procure you, Professor North, and that is exactly what I have done.' He turned to Quaint. 'But you, Mr Quaint, are an irritating distraction that I have no time for. I do not care why you came here. Whether you truly do seek information about this supposed plot or whether you have come in some vain attempt to save the Professor – I do not care! Your time here is at an end.' He clicked his fingers, and the two broad-built Clan Scarab guards approached Quaint menacingly.

The conjuror ached for the presence of Prometheus at his right arm. Not all the bravado in his arsenal could get him out of this one. 'Listen to me, Faroud, this is important!' he said, edging away from the advancing Scarabs. 'I just need to know all I can about the Consortium's plot before it's too late!'

Faroud raised an eyebrow. 'And what then? Let us suppose that what you say is true…what could one man such as you possibly do to stop it?'

'Anything within my power,' replied the conjuror wilfully.

'Then it is a shame that no one will witness your courage,' said Faroud. 'Nasbek! Arus! Kill this English dog.'

Just then, Polly saw her chance and made her move.

It all happened so quickly – far too quickly for Aksak Faroud or anyone else to stop her. With the Scarabs' attention fixed firmly on Quaint, Polly slipped her slender wrists free from her ropes and, without a moment's hesitation, she leapt through the open window.

Faroud watched it happen, although he could not quite believe his eyes. It seemed to take an extraordinary amount of time for the sight to register before he turned slowly to Cornelius Quaint – who shrugged, innocently.

'Don't look at me,' he said.

'Scarabs, assemble outside!' Faroud yelled at the top of his lungs. 'The female has escaped! Hunt her down. She will not go far on foot. Go!' Hordes of heavy feet thundered from all directions at his command. 'And you, Quaint – what is your next move to be? Thinking of fleeing after your friend perhaps?'

'I wouldn't dream of it,' Quaint said. 'But considering that you're not allowed to actually hurt her, what are you going to do to when you catch up with her? Give her a stern telling off?'

'Perhaps that rule is no longer to be complied with,' Faroud said bluntly. He clamped his long sinewy arms onto Quaint's shoulders, squeezing so hard that the conjuror winced in pain. 'If I were you, I would worry for my own neck! Clan brothers, ensure this prisoner is made uncomfortable. Do not kill him until I return…but beyond that, you are free to do as your whim takes you. Just make sure that the dog can still talk…I have a lot of questions to ask him.'

With that, Faroud turned and exited the room, inflamed by the thrill of the hunt.

Within moments, Quaint heard a loud cacophony of neighing horses outside, and he turned to see Aksak Faroud and a gathering of Scarabs on horseback speeding past the open window. If he were to give chase (which, of course, he was considering) he would need to move fast. He turned as he heard a snigger behind him, and his heart began pumping a familiar blaze of energy around his body. He had no time for subtlety – ferocity was his weapon of choice.