Mike Arram
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Henry slowly turned. He had recognised the voice behind him, and the dangerously handsome face of the boy Jed Scudamore did not surprise him when he saw it smiling back at him. Except this was not Jed, it was something else which just used Jed’s appearance. Henry was so inured to the uncanny by the day’s experiences that he was not going to allow himself to be outfaced by yet another supernatural being. ‘Why do you copy Jed’s appearance?’ The being pouted. ‘You liked him, didn't you?
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Ed Cornish woke after midnight to find himself alone in the bed. The duvet was rolled back on Henry’s side and the depression his body had made in the mattress was cold. From outside the windows the chill of the clear autumn night reached into the room. They always slept naked and Eddie’s hospitality did not run to dressing gowns, so Henry was not likely to be far away. Ed rose and padded quietly to the adjacent bathroom. He found Henry sitting on the closed loo, head in his hands, staring
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It took a few moments for Max to realise something was wrong on the night-time Soho street, or more wrong than usual. He felt rather than saw Davey stiffen next to him. He observed Alan the bouncer frowning as he talked urgently into a mobile while his colleagues looked nervous – which in such fit and stocky men was perhaps the scariest thing. The remnants of the queue were being forced back on the door. A variety of men were doing the shoving, some shaven and tattooed, others dressed
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‘I’ll have a Snakey B, thanks.’ ‘Mine’s a G & T.’ ‘Why do I even ask?’ Ed Cornish was taking orders for the first round in Orton’s. He went off to the bar checking the contents of his wallet. ‘Is he here?’ Max was bobbing his head round. Henry grinned. ‘If he is, he’ll be upstairs. His London pad’s on the second floor.’ ‘What’s he like?’ ‘Really nice.’ ‘C’mon, Henry, let’s have some details,’ Max wheedled. ‘Well, he’s very kind and he can be funny if h
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I think we'll just have to accept that the author was illiterate ...
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The leaves were falling from the plane trees in the churchyard of St Edward the Confessor, Strelzen. A litter of gold lay among the gravestones of the expatriate Anglican community in the Rothenian capital. Henry Atwood had got to love the small church, transplanted English Victorian Gothic in an alien Catholic country. He walked up to the Rassendyll monument at the far corner, a tall pillar supposedly commemorating the earl of Burlesdon’s brother Rudolf, who had died in what was then called Str
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Henry’s backside hurt like nobody’s business when he woke, but he wasn’t going to mention it. In one way, he didn’t even mind, because it reminded him so forcibly of his and Ed’s first sexual experiments. It made him feel connected with his emotional past, more in touch with his soul. What unsettled him was the further evidence last night’s urgent coupling gave him about Ed’s state of mind. Although Ed usually liked a lot of foreplay, this time it had been all about assertion and possession.
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Henry was just leaving for the car park when Magda caught up with him. ‘Saw you on CNN.’ ‘Good?’ ‘You looked somewhat preoccupied, not your usual perky self.’ ‘Perky? Me, perky? ‘It’s the adjective that occurs to me when I see you. You’re full of energy but – be fair – you’re not the biggest of men.’ ‘Well, I was preoccupied.’ ‘A good point about the threat from international terrorism. But you went a bit overboard on the danger of violence from religious fundamentalism o
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The Reverend Anthony Willis checked his watch. The surge of praise-songs from the gospel choir on stage beat out from the open doors, mingling with the rhythmic clapping of the congregation. It was a humid North Carolina night in July, and the Evangelical Church of Christ, Thomasville, was packed. Anthony was glad to be outside for a breather, even though the vast church had air conditioning. But soon he would have to plunge back in. The singing died away in a last hallelujah as the accompa
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Henry Atwood meets the greatest adventure of his life, for the End-Time is come. Something sinister has entered into this reality, a thing of terrifying deceit which wants to be Prince of the World. But Enoch and Elijah rise to stand by Henry's side, and in the World Beyond a prophecy once made to the Destroyer by the Lady Fenice has fallen due.
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Jonas Antonin shouted cheerfully up to the loft of the western stables. ‘Uncle Karl! Maman said to tell you Papa’s going to be back in town soon!’ ‘That’ll be another brother on the way for you then, Jonas!’ came the laughing reply, followed by Karl Wollherz himself as he climbed down a ladder. ‘How many of you are there now? Andreas, Karl, Boromeo, Sergius, Willem Fenicius, Jan ... I lose track. Your poor mother.’ ‘With the twins, that’s sixteen of us in all.’ The Antonin family
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Andreas relaxed back into his chair. ‘Lord Willi and I’ve been talking about a scheme that’s been on me mind for quite a while, and I think it’s time to discuss it wiv yers all.’ Willi von Strelsau nodded. ‘Would this be about my estate up the hill?’ ‘Exactly, Willi. My lord Serge, Master Jan, Father Waxmann and all the rest of them volunteers did a good thing last winter for the street children of our city. Many of ‘em survived the snow and ice as probably would not have otherwise.
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Dudley and the abbess stared at the new arrival on the stairs. They recognised him simultaneously as Serge von Tarlenheim’s servant boy. ‘I know you,’ Dudley said. ‘Karl, a servant at the Sign of the Angel.’ ‘You’ve been here before, boy,’ the abbess added. ‘It was you who was with my nephew when he visited the abbey. Wait! You were the boy who claimed to have talked to a nun in Sister Agnes’s vacant cell a couple of weeks after her death.’ ‘That was me, my lady,’ Karl Wollherz
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As the four youths emerged into the nuns’ cemetery of the abbey of Medeln, Willi stared curiously around him. ‘Have you any idea what we’ll do if I succeed in getting to see my mother?’ he asked Karl. The boy frowned. ‘Well ... not exactly, no. But I’m hoping your lady mother may have some ideas.’ ‘She’s been stuck in there for years,’ observed Wilchin. ‘Chances are she’s done a lot of thinking about how to get out of the cell they put her in, and what to do once she was free of it
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Andreas and Karl led the way as they trotted their mounts along the road to Medeln. It was a brilliant late summer morning, the leaves of the shade trees along the road fluttering in a warm breeze above them and the sun dappling the dusty road below. The scents of high summer, of haymaking and lanes full of flowers, filled their noses and lazy insects buzzed past them, the horses flicking their tails to deter flies over-interested in their rear ends. ‘When we get there, Ando, I’m gonna go a
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Guys, you can do just that. Hadn't you noticed the similarities between Jonas and the being who later called himself Lance Atwood ...
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Boromeo von Tarlenheim took off his hat in punctilious salute to a superior officer. ‘It’s a surprise to see you here, sir. I had assumed you were with your regiment in Mittenheim.’ Colonel Barkozy returned the salute. ‘My dear captain, I fear I have to tell you news you will not wish to hear. All is lost in the duchy. The Prinzengarde and the rest of the prince’s army have been shattered, Prince Henry himself died in the rout. I was among the last to escape before the city was closely in
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Prince Henry of Ruritania may not have been the most erudite of men, but the things he read with interest tended to lodge in his head. One of those books was Caesar’s Gallic Wars, of which he had a pocket edition that he carried with him. He venerated it even more on learning from Serge that Julius Caesar had written it himself, and he was reading the man’s own words. ‘Hey what? Look here, Phoebus,’ the prince had said, ‘the book says “Caesar did this” and “Caesar did that”.’ ‘Yes your
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Karl Wollherz had ridden with the Prinzengarde before, and enjoyed it, even though neither Andreas nor Wilchin were with him this time to share his happiness. His contentment was not so much with the adult company, but for the happy communion it involved with Brunhild and her people. Whatever the soldiers thought their regiment was and how it worked, Karl knew better. Underlying it was a rich equine society of companionship, affection and competition. He had long found horses to be rather n
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Andreas Wittig led his troop of the Prinzengarde at full gallop along the highway to Vorplatzenberg from Mittenheim. The sky was lightening behind them as they crested the ridge above the suburb of Sankt Hubert. Andreas reined in and looked back across the river to the dark mass of the city. He called over the Prinzengarde sergeant he had selected for this mission, a talented youth not yet twenty but a formidable marksman and terrifying swordsman. He pointed across the hilly countryside thr
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Karl Wollherz woke and stretched, accidentally bumping with his elbow the warm shoulder of Andreas Wittig lying next to him. Or, he corrected himself, Andreas, the Freiherr Wittig von Bernenstein. Andreas stirred and murmured ‘Morning, Karlo.’ Then he yawned and sat up. The pink, dawn light was flooding into Karl’s small, bare dormer chamber in the Residenz, which both boys occupied. Andreas looked down. ‘Shouldn’t yer be outta bed already, looking after yer two lords? No Jonas now to do t
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Ja naturlich. Bavarian and Ruritanian dialects are quite close, both High German.
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The chamber door shut behind Willi as he left to meet the new day. Serge, roused by the sound, slumped back into the mattress as his mind recollected the previous day’s highs and lows, mostly the lows. He didn’t discount the possibility that Willi was up so early as a way of avoiding the consequences of yesterday’s wild moment. He sighed. Something would have to be said, much though Serge earnestly disliked confrontation with those he loved. He got up from the bed and found the water placed by y
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Hi Phoenix. I think the problem may be English usage. Up till 1714 the Habsburg provinces in the Low Countries (now Belgium) which had been part of Charles V's great Habsburg empire remained under Habsburg lordship and nominally under the part ruled by the crown of Spain, so as far as Marlborough and his generation were concerned the lands south of the United Provinces were the Spanish Netherlands, and remained so until the Treaty of Rastatt when sovereignty was formally transferred to the Austrian branch. No disrespect was intended to the great Dutch Republic. Check out https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Southern_Netherlands.
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A clatter on the stairs alerted Serge that the page Jonas was on his way. The child always ran full tilt up and down stairs, never seeming to need to pause. Indeed, when he tapped on the doorframe he was not so much as breathing heavily. ‘Lord Boro’s here, my lord!’ he announced. Serge smiled to himself. ‘Not “Boro” Jonas, you call him Lord Boromeo or my lord von Tarlenheim. Understood?’ The boy grinned shyly. ‘Sorry, my lord.’ Serge stopped him before he dashed off again.
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