Darren Craske - The Eleventh Plague

In perfect symmetry, they turned their heads to look at each other.

'Trap,' said Faroud.

'I should say so,' replied Quaint.

The words had not even left his lips before he darted towards the open doors, but he was too late. Joyce was not as incapacitated as he had made out – and he was a lot closer to the doors than Quaint was. He slammed the cell block doors shut. The sound of the key being turned in the lock echoed around the basement before mocking laughter resonated through the thick iron.

'How trusting of you gentlemen,' cackled Joyce, 'and how stupid. Now you are my prisoners, just as your companions were before you. It's such a shame. You missed them by a matter of minutes. If you're lucky, the benches might still be warm.'

On the other side of the fortified doors, Quaint cursed.

He looked around the prison feverishly. Although he and the Aksak were not imprisoned within one of the cells, they might just as well have been. The room was bereft of anything. There was no trap door, nothing to use as a battering ram, no windows large enough. No way out.

'Now what?' asked Faroud.

'We wait for our luck to change, my friend,' answered Quaint.

An hour later, they were still waiting.

Sitting with his back against the wall, Quaint glanced up at Faroud, who had not stopped pacing back and forth ever since Joyce had turned the key in the lock.

'Are you attempting to burrow out of this place?' Quaint asked him.

'What else is there to do? I thought you were supposed to be a conjuror – can you not pick the lock, or make us disappear in a puff of smoke or something like that?' the Scarab asked.

'That only works on doves,' quipped Quaint. 'And that lock is far too fortified for my meagre knowledge of escapology. Don't worry, we won't be here long. Joyce is not just going to leave us to rot…not when he can hand us over to the Consortium. This is all part of my plan…although I admit, it is not without its complications.'

'And what happens if Joyce decides to kill us himself and deliver our corpses to his masters?' asked Faroud, finally ceasing his pacing.

'Ah…yes, that's one of those complications that I mentioned,' said Quaint.

Just then, the lock snapped in the door and it swung wide open, revealing Joyce's pet assassins, their dark red hoods shielding their faces in shadow like executioners of old. They produced lethal swords from scabbards at their backs and brandished them menacingly towards the Scarab and the conjuror.

Quaint looked at Faroud. 'Friends of yours?'

'They are Hades Consortium foot soldiers,' answered Faroud. 'I have seen them before. Do not expect much in the way of polite conversation, my friend. They have their tongues removed upon joining the Consortium's ranks…it helps keep them subordinate.'

'I know a couple of clowns who could do with that treatment,' said Quaint.

Joyce then stepped into view between the two assassins. 'Your time has come, gentlemen. Guards, bind their wrists together so they can't escape,' he said, tapping one of his silent guards on the shoulder. 'Bind them like the cattle they are.'

Quaint recalled a similar predicament from the previous night. 'Let's hope you don't talk as much as my last partner,' he said.

'Did you two really expect me to betray the Hades Consortium?' laughed Joyce, satisfied that he had Quaint right where he wanted him. 'I knew that you and Faroud were en route, my source within the Clan Scarabs informed me before you even left Bara Mephista.' Joyce was noticeably more confident now that he was flanked by two Hades Consortium assassins.

'Source? Within my camp?' Faroud yelled. 'Nonsense! None of my men would ever dare betray me.'

Joyce grinned. 'Oh, they would if they had something to gain, Aksak. In your absence, there is much in Bara Mephista for an ambitious sort to get his hands on, were he that way inclined.'

'Where is Madame Destine?' sought Quaint. 'What have you done with her?'

Joyce laughed a throaty chuckle. 'Your French companion, as charming as she was, is now in the hands of the Hades Consortium.'

'And my brother? Where is Rakmun?' asked Faroud.

'At a location of my choosing,' said Joyce. 'Until you get to Fantoma, I need you compliant…and his life will be dramatically cut short should you or your friend Mr Quaint decide to make things difficult. If you abide by my commands, both of your companions will be set free. They are useless to the Hades Consortium. But if not, they will die – and not at all pleasantly.'

'You filthy-' Quaint lunged, just as one of the Consortium assassins stepped into his path and brought the handle of his sword down hard onto the back of the conjuror's neck. He crashed to the floor.

'What spirit you have, Mr Quaint…Lady Jocasta will no doubt enjoy breaking that for you,' said Joyce. 'Men, escort these two out to the stable yard. We ride to Fantoma!'

The Shot in the Dark

QUAINT AND FAROUD were led outside into the Embassy's yard and seated upon a horse. Quaint was at the front with Faroud behind him, their bound wrists linking them to one another. They rode steadily through the desert land for some time, following the lantern from Joyce's horse-drawn cart ahead, with the Consortium guards at their backs. The opportunity for escape was not forthcoming and Quaint grew restless as his limbs went numb. Every impatient inch of him wanted to get to Fantoma as quickly as possible, and it was agonising in every sense – not assisted by Aksak Faroud falling asleep on him an hour and a half into the journey.

'Hold here!' said Godfrey Joyce, pulling his cart to a stop.

Quaint heard a groan from the Scarab leader behind him, and he craned his neck as far as he could. 'You can wake up now, Aksak.'

'Where are we?' asked Faroud, blinking life back into his eyes.

'In trouble,' said Quaint.

'Still?'

'It's normal for me, I'm afraid,' said Quaint.

Faroud peered through the darkness, assaying their position. A large mountain range was silhouetted against the night sky less than a mile away. 'This is not Fantoma, Cornelius,' he whispered in Quaint's ear. 'Is that a good thing, or not?'

'Probably not,' said Quaint. 'But all we can do is watch how this unfolds and make our move when we can.'

'I've got to rendezvous with my contact,' said Joyce to the mute Consortium assassins. 'Get these two dogs off their mount and onto their knees where they can't cause you any bother.' With that, he whipped the reins and his cart rode off into the darkness.

Quaint and Faroud were pulled unceremoniously onto the hardened ground. The assassins drew their swords and towered over them.

'Any ideas how we can get out of this?' Faroud asked quietly.

'I don't exactly work at my best under pressure,' Quaint replied.

'What is Joyce waiting for? Why not just kill us now and be done with it?'

'Don't knock it, Aksak. Everything is working out just fine so far.'

'You are still clinging to your plan?'

'Absolutely!' confirmed Quaint.

'Our plan is sunk, my friend. Soon Joyce will return and we shall die on our knees…most undignified for an Aksak,' Faroud said grimly.

'And for a Quaint,' added the conjuror. 'And speaking of the good Mr Joyce…'

Accompanied by a cloaking trail of dust, Joyce emerged from the pitch darkness. He was not alone – there was a single passenger bound and gagged in the rear of the cart. Quaint and Faroud tried to battle the darkness to identify the passenger, and the cart was feet away when Faroud's heart rose. It was Rakmun. His brother's face was bloodied and bruised, and his swollen lips tried to speak through the gag taut between his teeth, but it was nothing but an inaudible garble.

'Rakmun?' said Faroud. 'My brother. He is safe, Cornelius!'