Deathscent: Intrigues of the Reflected Realm

“Assassins!” Lord Robert roared, haring after them, while Sussex and the other nobles fell in behind. “Stop them! Guards! Seize them!”

Battling through the gallery, Arvel thrust blustering officials and shrieking ladies-in-waiting aside, and his assistant did the same. The stairs were not far now, but even if they managed to elude capture long enough to get outside, their lives were surely forfeit.

“It’s no use, Arvel!” Bosco-Uttwar cried. “We’ll never escape this place. There are too many – they will hunt us down.”

His superior said nothing. A stout, florid-faced man suddenly stepped into their path and threw his arms wide to catch them. Not checking his pace, Arvel lashed out and grabbed the front of the man’s doublet.

Exhibiting incredible strength, the physician lifted the wailing obstacle off the ground and hurled him high over his head. Up into the ceiling the flailing man went rocketing, cracking the moulded plaster when he struck it with a crash. Then down he fell. Accompanied by a shower of white dust, he went spinning to the floor, just in time for Lord Robert to hurdle over him.

The way to the stairs was clear now and the cloaked strangers went bounding down them, jumping three at a time. Soon they would be out into the grounds, where the dark, drenching night might hide them. With only ten more steps to freedom, their hope was shattered when a company of guards came bursting into the hall. Swords and spears raised, they swarmed up to meet them.

Clutching hold of the banister, Arvel and Bosco-Uttwar slithered to a halt.

“Back!” Arvel shouted, retracing their galloping strides. “Back, up – up!”

Hard on his heels, his assistant was panicking. He had never known such fear before. He understood too well what kind of barbaric punishments these creatures meted out to those they considered their enemies. He had witnessed countless executions and afterwards seen the spikes of London Bridge adorned with the victims’ heads and limbs.

Lunging on to the topmost step he whirled wildly around. They were trapped. Dudley and the others were already streaming from the gallery to the right, and the stairs seethed with armed guards.

“Where now?” he gasped.

But Arvel was already hastening down a narrow corridor away to the left. “After me!” he called back. “There may yet be a chance, if we can only reach it!”

Bosco-Uttwar did not wait to be told a second time. Up from the stairs the palace guards came surging to join forces with Lord Robert and, as one fearsome column, they rushed after the terrified physicians.

The corridor was dimly lit by solitary candles, their thin flames wavering in the chill draughts. By this poor illumination Bosco-Uttwar saw several doors lining the passage, but Arvel ignored each of them and hurried on.

Ferocious shouts were trumpeting behind him and, to his horror, the assistant saw that the corridor led nowhere. They were running headlong into a blank wall. It was a dead end and they were cornered by a savage mob. There would be no time to explain, these creatures were too ignorant to believe or comprehend them anyway. He knew that they would both see only the gleam of metal and feel thirsty steel plunging into their flesh. In a frenzy of primitive hate, they would be torn to pieces.

“We have them!” Lord Robert’s furious voice bellowed.

Even as the words echoed through the corridor, Arvel threw himself into a doorway which his assistant had not seen. Before Bosco-Uttwar knew what was happening, a gloved hand came reaching out and he was dragged in after.

“Secure the entrance!” Arvel barked, slamming the door and staring frantically around.

The room beyond was small and lit by a single rush light. In that paltry glow he could see a long, low table standing against one wall and he ran to it at once. In a moment the table had been flipped on its end and rammed up against the door.

“There’s no way out of here,” his assistant blurted. “No window and no other exit. We’re trapped!”

The table juddered violently as their pursuers began to kick and heave. “Come out of there! Craven filth!” Lord Sussex demanded.

Holding the table in place, Bosco-Uttwar shook his head in misery. Arvel was still pulling every stick of furniture he could find to fortify the barricade, but it was all in vain.

“Just like one of their rat creatures caught in a hole,” the assistant snivelled as the pounding blows increased.

“A musical hole,” Arvel noted, for he had discovered a number of instruments in the far corner. But there was no time for him to admire their quality.

Discordant jangling interrupted Bosco-Uttwar’s despair as Arvel began dragging a clavichord across the room to prop against the upturned table. From then on, every hammering blow inflicted upon the door was accompanied by a clangorous riot of notes.

The din was unbearable but Arvel merely laughed and ran to pick up the rush light. Bearing the petty flame aloft, he dashed to the fireplace.

“Did I not tell you that it pays to be thorough?” he cried. “For twenty-nine years this has been here, waiting for such an emergency. Behold, Bosco-Uttwar, here is our escape route.”

The relief which flooded over his assistant was overwhelming. Beneath the high collar of his cloak, a wide smile spread across his long face when he gazed gladly upon the mirror which hung above the mantel.

In the passageway, Sussex and Dudley had stepped aside to allow the burliest of the guards to throw their weight against the door.

“Break it down!” Lord Robert bawled.

There was a tremendous crash as the table went toppling to the floor in the room beyond, and the clavichord exploded beneath its crushing weight with a jarring finale of twanging scales. A powerful kick sent the door ripping from its hinges, but no one went charging inside. Every vengeful voice was quelled and many crossed themselves in the manner of the old religion.

From that windowless room, brilliant colours were pouring and, for one instant, that dark corner of the palace was ablaze with light. A kaleidoscope of burning images radiated from the splintered entrance like dazzling sunshine streaming through a cathedral window – casting vibrant, fragmented shapes on to the corridor wall.

The vivid glare flashed across Lord Robert’s face. Squinting, he saw within that room innumerable visions of the villainous physicians. Over every surface their fractured likenesses flared, but even as he marvelled, the wonder vanished and all was dark once more.

Bewildered, Dudley and Sussex stepped through the doorway. But the chamber was empty. The strangers were nowhere to be found.

“Where are they?” snapped Sir William, pushing his way through the abashed guards.

Staring into the shadows, Lord Robert could only shake his head. “I know not,” he said softly. “It seemed to me I viewed them as if through the heart of a great faceted jewel, and then they were gone.”

“Witches and devils!” Lord Sussex growled.

Sir William threw them a disbelieving glance then turned to elbow past the guards once again. “Well,” he declared, “if they have flown up the chimney, then there is naught we can do. I’ll waste no more time on them this foul night.”

“Where are you going?” Lord Sussex asked, hastening after him.

“To summon back that German doctor!” came the stern reply. “If he doesn’t save the Queen, then I’ll stick a knife in him myself.”

Alone in the room, Robert Dudley sheathed his sword and dismissed the gaping guards. In all the years that were left to him he never spoke of that night again, not even to his precious Elizabeth.

PART ONE

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