Darren Craske - The Eleventh Plague

This other prisoner was struck. Destine heard the victim gasp for breath, before retching. She heard three whispered words, more than enough to recognise the speaker.

'Go to hell,' snarled Cornelius Quaint.

Destine rested her head against the cell wall and muttered a silent prayer. Now came the hard part…how was she to get him out of that place? Charming a guard was one thing – but charming a whole platoon of them? A faint, melodic whistle wafted down the corridor behind her. Someone was coming! She squashed herself against the wall behind the cell's iron door, hearing the jangle of keys and heavy footsteps. Moments later, a broad-shouldered guard strode down the hallway and into the cell next door to hers.

'Sir George has sent an urgent command!' said the booming voice of the head jailer. 'He wants the white-haired one to be taken to the audience chamber immediately! Hang on…what is this?' He stopped and Destine's heart missed a beat. 'Look at him! The man is half dead!'

'We…we were merely following Lady Jocasta's orders, Jailer Agnafar. She wishes this Englishman killed for his treachery to the Hades Consortium.'

'That order has since been countermanded by Sir George! You are lucky, Jailer Mullah. Had this man died, it would not have been long until you would have joined him!' snarled the burly Agnafar. 'Do what you will to the Scarab, but take the Englishman to the audience chamber right now, or these dogs will not be the only ones at the receiving end of a beating!'

'Yes, Jailer Agnafar.'

'Sorry, Jailer Agnafar.'

There was a sudden sound of jangling keys and unlocking locks.

Destine's heart sank into the pit of her stomach as she witnessed Cornelius's unmistakable shock of curly hair dragged past her hiding place by his guard. He was soon out of her sight, and out of her grasp.

'Right, you piece of camel dung, now it is just you and me,' yelled the voice of Jailer Veriz. 'You are the leader of those Scarabs, yes? Aksak Faroud, they call you? Well, Aksak…let us see if you are still as high and mighty once I have finished with you!'

The chains binding Faroud to the wall shook and rattled, followed by the sickening dull thud of knuckles against flesh. Destine winced as Faroud's pain jolted through her. If she was going to make a move she had better do it soon. The man in the next cell did not have long to live, and her instincts told her that if she and Cornelius were to escape the Hades Consortium's lair, they would need Aksak Faroud's help…

The One Little Thing

SIR GEORGE DRAY looked up from the table as a badly beaten Cornelius Quaint entered the audience chamber flanked by two Hades Consortium guards. The old man flashed a brief smile to himself at the sight. His enemy was broken and he had waited so very long to witness it. Without a word, Quaint took a seat at the large marble table opposite Dray. He sat bolt upright, his elbows on the table. His eyes were defiant and his spirit was not nearly as beaten as his body.

'Guards, you can leave us,' the Scotsman said, causing the two guards behind Quaint to exchange glances, as if they had both heard incorrectly. 'Don't worry, I've got a tight grip on his leash. He'll not be a bother if he wishes to see his Madame Destine alive again. Send in the maid on your way out too. It's so damn dry down here, I need a bloody drink!'

Cornelius Quaint sat in silence, staring into Dray's hooded eyes. The man had grown old. Like an exhumed corpse, his thin flesh hung from his fragile bones limply, as if it were dripping from them. But quite aside from his physical degradation, Dray's soul had decayed into something that went beyond misguided, beyond spiteful – beyond evil. The man was now the embodiment of festering contempt, lacking in any redeeming qualities whatsoever.

An Egyptian servant girl arrived from the tunnels carrying a metal tray containing a large carafe of dark, full-bodied Burgundy and two glass goblets. Dray silently observed the girl as she placed the goblets on the table and nervously filled them, her hands shaking with obvious anxiety. A single droplet of red wine escaped the neck and fell onto the marble tabletop. The servant gasped.

'Master, I-' she began.

Sir George waved her away with a decrepit hand. 'Think nothing of it, lass. Accidents happen, eh? Now off with you, this is grown-up talk.' He watched her swift exit with a twisted sense of satisfaction. 'You see, Cornelius…that is something that you'll never command,' he said, swallowing down a mouthful of wine. 'Respect!'

'Is that what you think that was?' Quaint asked. 'That wasn't respect, George – that was fear. Pure and simple fear.'

Sir George wriggled in his seat as if he was trying to get comfortable on a pincushion. 'You should try your wine,' he said.

'It's a little bitter all of a sudden,' Quaint replied. 'So why am I here, George? Why did you not just let your guards finish me off? They were just getting in their stride.'

'So I see,' Dray said, spying the many cuts, abrasions and bruises littering Quaint's face. 'I just wanted to set eyes on you one last time…to see if I can finally figure out what makes you tick. You intrigue me, Cornelius. You always have. Why would you knowingly risk your life to interfere with the Hades Consortium's plans yet again? Was the last time you and I tussled not enough of a warning? When we first met, you were an arrogant little snot sitting in such self-righteous judgement…if it hadn't been for my son standing up for you, you'd be dead.'

Quaint said, 'The last intelligent thing Oliver did.'

'You leave him out of this!' Dray yelled.

'You brought him up,' said Quaint. 'But you're wrong. I don't seek to judge you, George…a higher authority than I will do that.'

'Are you really so blind? Look around you…things have changed since the old days. The world has changed!' Sir George's eyes glazed over with an opaque, glassy sheen as his rage thundered forth from his mouth. 'No one needs heroes any more. They're a dying breed…the Hades Consortium has seen to that. You are finished, Cornelius, your job is done. Just like me, you're a man waiting to die.'

'Die? You?' Quaint laughed. 'Now that I'd like to see! The hourglass may be running low, but you're one of those types that have a nasty habit of surviving. Oliver was lucky that he never lived to see what a wraith you've become!'

Dray squinted, uncertain what he was hearing, as if the conjuror was speaking gibberish. 'What do you mean by that?'

'He was a victim, George!' Quaint snapped. 'His soul was poisoned the minute you indoctrinated him into this damned club of yours! His blood is on your hands, just like so many others.'

'His blood?' Dray replied in a whispering wheeze. 'What…are you saying?'

'Are you that detached from reality?' snapped Quaint, his physical body like a stone statue, his wrath peppering every syllable. 'George, don't tell me you don't even know!'

'Cornelius, you're not making sense,' said Dray. 'If this is supposed to be some sort of threat it is absurd.'

'Threat?' squawked Quaint. 'George, this is no threat! Has no one told you what happened in Crawditch?' He pushed his chair from the table, and it screamed an obscenity against the stone ground as he rose swiftly to his feet. 'Don't you know what happened to your son?' He searched Dray's face, trying to read the old man's expression but there were so many grooves, wrinkles and liver spots that it was hard ascertaining any sense of emotion whatsoever.

Dray looked at Quaint with equal curiosity. He knew Cornelius Quaint well, but he had never seen that look in his dark eyes before. It was not just anger. It was pity. The old Scot tempered his breath. 'You're enjoying this, aren't you? Getting your own back…playing me at my own game? Honestly, lad, I'm surprised that you'd stoop down to my level?'