The little man drew himself up. There was a deep bruise on the side of his face, and blood from, his broken nose had stained his pale, wispy moustache. The fourteenth king of the Varlish people looked into the face of Winter Kay. ‘Not made to kneel?’ he said, his voice shaking with anger. ‘He can be dragged from his bed, and brought to a place of murder, but not made to kneel? You are a monster, Winterbourne. Foul and treacherous.’
‘Ah, my liege,’ said Winter Kay, his words echoing with regret, ‘I, and these gallant men around us, have served the nation well and loyally. We continue so to do. Who was it that plunged the Varlish people into civil war? Who was it that made a covenant with Luden Macks, offering greater powers to the people’s assembly – and then broke his word and had Macks sentenced to death? Not I, majesty. Indeed tonight this tragic war ends. Tonight Luden Macks will be dead – or his power destroyed.’
The king looked around at the Redeemers, who had once more pulled down the black visors. Each one was embossed with a bearded, demonic face, so that all the warriors looked identical. ‘Well might you all cover your faces,’ said the king. ‘Cowards will always find something to hide behind.’ He swung back to Winter Kay. ‘As to you, your talent for self-deceit is colossal. You blame me for the arrest of Luden Macks. Was it not you who supplied the information that he was plotting against me? Was it not you who railed against the Covenanters, calling them traitors?’
‘They were traitors – and you made them so with your vanity and your stupidity,’ said Winter Kay. ‘And now it is time for you to pay for your crimes.’
‘I should have listened to Buckman,’ said the king. ‘He warned me you were a wretch.’
‘And there is the problem,’ said Winter Kay. ‘The epitaph for an idiot king. I should have listened. You did not. Now your day is over, your house is ruined. It is time to join your wife and children.’
All colour drained from the king’s face. ‘You killed . . . ? Sweet heaven . . .’
‘I see the full effect of your actions has finally found its way into your thick skull. Yes, my liege, your wife and your two sons had to suffer for your sins. Their deaths were swift and relatively painless. Yours will not be. Your death – and the flow of royal blood – will enhance an object of great holiness. Through it we shall rebuild this land and enter an age of golden hope and true fulfilment.’
Winter Kay gestured once more to the Redeemers alongside the king. Taking his arms they dragged him to the rear of the hall. Broken by the news of his family’s fate he did not, at first, struggle. Not until they laid him on a blood-encrusted length of timber and a third Redeemer stepped into view bearing an iron mallet and several iron spikes.
He screamed as the first of the spikes was hammered through his wrist.
For Winter Kay the sound was eerily musical. He felt his body relax, and his mind free itself of burdens. The screams continued as other spikes plunged home. Then the timber was hoisted into place. Unlike the unfortunate Lord Person the king was crucified upside down, his head only a few feet from the marble floor.
Someone laughed then. Angry that the ritual should be marred by such behaviour Winter Kay swung round to see the cause of the amusement. The king’s white nightshirt had slipped down over his head. Winter Kay strode to the victim and drew a knife, cutting away the garment, which he hurled to one side.
Returning to the table he opened the black box which had been set at his place, and removed the velvet-covered skull. Holding it lovingly in his hands he walked back to the king and gently laid the skull on the ground beneath his head.
‘Now it begins, my liege,’ he said, softly, as he sliced open the flesh of the king’s throat – carefully avoiding cutting deeply into the main arteries. Blood ran over the monarch’s face and into his hair, then dripped and splashed onto the skull beneath.