The Royal Wedding from Hell

THE ROYAL WEDDING FROM HELL

  Richard Barnes

  Copyright 2012 Richard Barnes

  https://richardbarneswriter.blogspot.co.nz

  ****

  Table of Contents

  Authors note

  The Royal Wedding from Hell

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  About the Author

  ****

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  “The Royal Wedding from Hell” is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used entirely fictitiously.

  Let me stress (with some examples):

  John Key, the Prime Minister of New Zealand has not become a demonic beast, hungry only for fresh flesh,

  The Queen does not have a vault full of arcane magical artefacts beneath Buckingham Palace

  and

  The Duchess of Cambridge (nee Kate Middleton) does not speak like some slapper from Leeds.

  ****

  THE ROYAL WEDDING FROM HELL

  It is 2011. The world is in the grip of the worst global economic meltdown since the 1930s. Millions have lost their jobs and struggle to make ends meet.

  Goddamnit, the world needs a party.

  And as luck would have it, there’s a big one coming.

  On Friday, April 29th, Prince William, eldest son of Prince Charles and Princess Diana and second in line to the British throne, will get married to his long-standing girlfriend, Kate Middleton.

  It will be the greatest show of British pageantry since Charles and Di wed in 1981.

  Two million people will line the streets of London to celebrate.

  3900 guests including heads of state, celebrities and charity workers, will pack Westminster Abbey for the service.

  An estimated two billion people will watch the wedding worldwide.

  A security operation, costing 10 million pounds, will be in place because nothing, repeat nothing, is going to go wrong.

  And Prince Harry, the best man, has lost the rings.

  ****

  CHAPTER ONE

  London, 28th April 2011, 11:30pm

  Two figures in black jumped from the roof of the Falcon Point on the South Bank of the Thames. One was tall and solid; the other was lithe and svelte. They both landed, rolled and ran, avoiding the streetlights. In moments they were crouched in the shadows at the foot of the west wall of the Tate Modern Building.

  The dark, square shape of the brick-built, art-deco structure loomed above. The sturdy one gazed up at the building’s roof, only his eyes visible through the slit in his black balaclava. He pulled a pair of mini grappling-hook guns from his backpack and handed one to his firm-bodied companion.

  “Explain to me, one more time,” said Pippa Middleton, “why are we breaking in to the Tate Modern on the eve of my sister’s and your brother’s wedding?” Her voice was muffled through her black balaclava, but Harry could certainly hear every word and the tone it was said in.

  “The wedding rings are in there,” he replied.

  “Well that explains everything,” said Pippa, “some people would think that we would be with the happy couple, helping to ease their nerves before they say their vows in front of two billion people. But no, we’re doing some kind of commando raid on a major tourist attraction because the best man has lost the rings.”

  Harry looked his brother’s future sister-in-law in the eye and was pleased to see that her fury was all fake. Her eyes told him that she was having the time of her life. “If we pull this off,” he said, “I guess I’ll have to call you commando.”

  “People will so take that the wrong way.”

  The chimes of Big Ben echoed down the river, telling them it was half past eleven. “Damn,” muttered Harry, “we need to get moving; we absolutely have to have the rings by midnight.”

  “Fire the hooks and let’s go then,” said Pippa.

  Harry aimed and fired the first grappling hook. Time was going to be tight. He knew he shouldn’t have left it until Wills was in bed with his cocoa before setting out.

  Clarence House, London 28th April 2011, 11:30pm

  Wills took another sip of his cocoa and tried to read a little more of “Bravo Two Zero.” The words just made no sense; there was too much going through his mind. Maybe he should have taken up his father’s offer of a herbal infusion that would settle nerves and guarantee a good night’s sleep.

  Maybe he should go and speak to Harry. It seemed like a childish notion though, tip-toeing through the house to his brother’s room while wearing his pyjamas and dressing gown. But at least half of his worries were about Harry’s role in the wedding.

  He knew he shouldn’t doubt his younger brother; the days of Harry’s wild past were largely gone. There was absolutely no conceivable reason why Harry should lose the rings, or have forgotten to write a speech.

  It wasn’t about doubting Harry. Perhaps speaking to his brother would simply help settle his nerves. After all, Harry was the young man whose service in Afghanistan had been so admired and whose work with veterans was inspirational.

  On the other hand, Harry’s black satin sheets and faux leopard skin throw made Wills distinctly uneasy.

  Sod it, thought the second-in-line to the throne of Great Britain, everything is under control. Catherine will look stunning in the dress, Grandfather will not say anything out of turn and Harry has got the rings.

  He gulped back the cocoa, chucked the Andy McNabb across the room and got up to go find some fresh air.

  Tate Modern Roof, 28th April, 11:35pm

  “I did think it was quite ghastly,” said Pippa, looking through the skylight that ran the length of the building and down onto the sculpture that dominated the vast chamber beneath.

  “You’ve seen it before?” asked Harry, also looking at the object crafted from twisted steel and lurid strips of crimson rubber.

  “Half of London has seen it, wandered through it and clambered over it, Harry,” replied Pippa, “It’s had queues across the Millennium bridge to St Pauls. People have been so determined to see that thing that they weren’t even complaining about the wobbling. It is by far and away the most popular thing that the gallery has ever displayed in the turbine hall. Have you seriously not heard about Renfield’s Metamorphosis?”

  “Should I have?”

  “Renfield was brilliant in his twenties, but locked away for his own safety since 1968. He comes out of a catatonic state to design a spectacular new art work, in between eating flies, and wows the world before committing suicide,” said Pippa, “it’s been quite a story.”

  “Can’t say I keep up on the art world much,” said Harry, “what I do know is that somewhere in that monstrosity are the rings.”

  “OK, I’ll ask the obvious,” said Pippa while Harry pulled various tools from his belt and started to remove a pane of the skylight glass. “How did the rings get there? And shouldn’t the police be dealing with this?”

  “The answer to the first question should answer your second question,” replied Harry.

  “Go on,” said Pippa.

  Harry paused and glanced up at her. He took a deep breath. “The rings were stolen in a dream. Before I went to sleep last night, I checked that the rings were in my bedside table. I fell asleep and had a dream.

  “In my dream, I was in a dark room made of curtains. A pair of twisted dwarfs appeared; they ran up, rifled through my pockets and grabbed a ring each, before scurrying away, backwards. I tried to shout out but I could only talk in tongues. I ran after them and saw them disappear into this hideous structure.

  “When I woke, the rings were gone.”

  Pipp
a sat back on her haunches and stared at Harry. Since Kate had started hanging out with Wills, and Pippa had started to get to know the Wales brothers, she had formed a strong bond with Harry. Both knew that their siblings would always be the ones in the spotlight and the ones with all the responsibility, but they also knew that some of that light would reflect on them. It was up to Pippa and Harry to be the best they could be to help Kate and Wills be the people they had to be.

  She knew about Harry’s youthful indiscretions; the whole world knew about them, but she liked to think that she had come to know the real man.

  And here he was, spinning her some nonsense about dwarfs stealing the Royal wedding rings in a dream.

  Harry saw the look in Pippa’s eyes. “I nearly told you some story about anarchists nicking the rings,” he said “but thought no, Pippa deserves the truth, however mad it sounds. I wouldn’t even tell Chelsy about this.”

  “Are you telling me everything?” asked Pippa, not sure if she wanted an answer.

  Harry rubbed his eyes then pulled the glass panel back and laid it carefully onto the flat roof. He made the two hooks fast and clicked the rope onto his belt harness. He passed the other rope to Pippa.

  She hesitated.

  “I’m not mad,” said Harry.

  Pippa had a quick look around. She was on the roof of the Tate Modern on the night before the biggest day of her life. Just who was mad right now was kind of a moot point.

  “How can I explain?” said Harry, “my family have a strange past.”

  Pippa smiled. “I knew that. Everyone does.”

  “You don’t know it at all. You see, some things are real. Really real. Some things are nearly real. Some things are myth.”

  “Are you saying the history of the Royal family is a myth?”

  “Sort of. Take King Arthur and the roundtable,” said Harry.

  “Myth,” said Pippa.

  “Except that my Grandmother and therefore me, we’re descendants of Arthur.”

  Pippa started to decide who was actually mad now.

  Even in the darkness, Harry could sense the change in Pippa’s expression. “It was real, but not real real. It was where myth met reality. Except that reality, our reality, overtook the myth so that Arthur and the roundtable faded away. The myth was nearly real but never real real. The myth now sits beneath the real, almost gone forever.”

  “Only almost?” said Pippa.

  “Well, Wills will be wearing Excalibur to the wedding tomorrow. It’s a family tradition. So the myth hasn’t quite gone yet.”

  “Excalibur? The Excalibur, as in sword in the stone Excalibur?”

  “That’s the one. Of course, it’s more or less just a piece of decorative metal these days,” said Harry.

  “And the dwarfs from a dream that stole the wedding rings?” asked Pippa, trying to get back to reality, such that it was.

  “Myth,” said Harry, “but nearly real. Not quite real real. But real enough. This could get dangerous.”

  “Mother of fuck,” she muttered. She snapped the rope to her belt and smiled. “Let’s go and kick some dwarf arse.”

  Goring Hotel 28th April 11:35pm

  Catherine Middleton, soon to be the Duchess of Cambridge sipped her cocoa. It occurred to her that Wills would be doing the same thing right at that moment. A small comfort before a day where she would be watched by billions. She reached, for the thousandth time, to check her curlers. At least her hair would look as grand as it could.

  There was a gentle knock at the door to her room. “Come in,” she called.

  “Eh, lass,” said her father, Michael, as he entered, “you should be getting t’ beauty sleep. Not that you need beauty sleep. You got your Mam to thank for that.”

  “By ‘eck, our Dad,” she replied, pleased to let her tone sink back to its native Leeds accent. “Like I could sleep on night like this? How is Mam?”

  “Oh, she were out like t’ light,” he said, “all them years as a trolley-dolly is what does it.”

  “Don’t let her hear you call her that, our Dad. She’ll swing for you, she will.”

  Michael laughed. “Where’s that sister of yours got to? There were no answer when I knocked on her door and I reckon she’d be as frit as you are.”

  “Bloody ‘ell, our Dad,” muttered Kate. She put her cocoa down and swung her legs out of bed.

  “I’m sure its nowt to worry about,” said Michael.

  “Like ‘ell it is,” said Kate, throwing on her fluffy, towelling robe, “That girl will be death of me, I tell you. It were like this at boarding school. I were always having to cover for her being out after lights out on some daft mucking about. She got in with wrong crowd, Pippa did. Turned her back on good Yorkshire folk, started hanging round with the Chelsea set.”

  Kate barged out of her room and across the suite hallway to hammer on the door of Pippa’s room opposite. She threw a filthy look at the two special branch men who had glanced back at her from the main lounge of the suite.

  “Pippa Middleton, open this bloody door, or I’ll kick it in, so I will,” she hollered.

  There was no answer, so she slammed her foot against the lock and the door swung inwards. Kate stormed into the room. No sign of Pippa. Her gorgeous, white bridesmaid’s dress was hung on the wardrobe. Kate stomped over to the wardrobe and looked inside, checking through Pippa’s clothes.

  “Any ideas, love?” said Michael, hovering nervously at the door.

  “All her nice frocks are here,” muttered Kate, “and her best shoes.” Kate looked about, spotted the suitcase and swung it onto the bed. She flipped it open, reached inside to release a series of hidden catches and pulled back a panel to find a secret pocket.

  “What is it, pet? What have you found?” asked her father.

  “It’s what I’ve not found, our Dad,” she spat. “I asked her why she brought her covert ops gear with her. She said in case of emergencies like. I thought nowt of it. I just laughed.”

  Without another word Kate stormed back to her room and grabbed her phone. The ringing tone went once before Wills’ voice came on.

  “I thought this was bad luck, sweet chunks,” he said.

  “Bad luck to see each other, big boy,” replied Kate, and Michael was pleased to see a smile replace her scowl. “Is your brother around, by any chance?”

  “Harry? I’ll check his room. Won’t be a mo.”

  There was a pause. A minute or so later, Kate heard Wills pick the phone up again. “The swine’s gone out.”

  “Pippa’s missing too. Taken her covert ops gear.”

  There was a groan at the other end of the phone. “Ever since they had that weekend doing anti-terrorist training, they’ve been thick as thieves.”

  “Do you think there’s ‘owt to worry over?” asked Kate.

  Wills paused. “I’m sure there isn’t. Probably just letting off a little steam together before the big day. Harry is not the idiot he used to be. And Pippa’s a sensible young lady.”

  Kate sighed in relief, though held back her opinion of Pippa. “Nothing we can do now. Thanks for calming me down.”

  “No worries, sweet chunks. I needed a bit of a talk with someone anyway, calm the nerves, what?”

  “See you tomorrow, big boy,” said Kate.

  “Don’t be late,” said Wills as he rung off.

  Michael saw that Kate seemed a little happier now. “With Harry is she? I reckon she’s a bit sweet on him.”

  “Pippa has a boyfriend and Harry has a girlfriend. Hopefully all four are together right now having a pleasant meal or drink.”

  Kate strolled out of Pippa’s room. She noticed the two special branch men finding something suddenly interesting in their newspapers.

  “Listen up, you two,” she called, “if one bloody word of this turns up on Twitter or Facebook or any such like, I will personally kick both your fucking teeth in. Got it?”

  “Yes ma’am,” they both muttered back.

  Tate Modern 28th April 11:40p
m

  “This thing is doing my head in,” muttered Harry as he and Pippa made their way up one the structure’s many winding and strangely angled passages.

  The lights within the giant artwork were hidden so Harry was never sure where light was coming from. They faded in and out, alternating colours and shadows, making the tunnels and passages seem like they were expanding and contracting.

  “It’s supposed to be like being inside a living organism,” said Pippa, “though when Kate and I came to its opening event, we both just got a headache.”

  “I thought you said the bloody thing was popular?” said Harry.

  “It is,” said Pippa, “The people we were with generally thought it was wonderful. The public have been coming in droves.”

  They squeezed through a narrow section. Harry shivered as he rubbed against the membrane wall. It had a sickly, moist texture; it was indeed like being inside some kind of organism.

  They emerged into a larger, almost spherical chamber. The floor gave slightly beneath their feet and felt sticky. The chamber was warmer and more humid; both Pippa and Harry felt prickly sweat beneath their clothes. At the apex of the chamber was a vast black hole. Some dark substance dripped from it and onto a pulsating mass that was suspended in the middle of the chamber. Beneath the mass was another black hole. More gloop slid down into it.

  Pippa pointed to other shadowy openings in the walls, some large and coloured, some tight and dark. “All the passages eventually lead here,” she said.

  Harry nodded. Even in this weird structure, he was able to keep his strong sense of direction. Tours of duty in the wilds of Afghanistan had taught the Prince to map his movements without thinking.

  He started towards the centre of the chamber and the pulsating crimson mass. There were glistening rope ladders leading into it and wet strips of fabric sliding out.

  “Christ, Harry,” said Pippa, “we could be here for hours. There’s dozens of passages twisting between dozens of odd rooms and tunnels. The rings could be anywhere.”

  Harry knelt in front of one of the rope ladders. “Lucky that Granny taught me a few tricks,” he said. Pippa crouched beside him.

  She watched as Harry pulled a small bag, barely big enough to keep a pair of cufflinks in, from one of his belt pouches. He loosened the bag’s gold drawstring. “Hold out your hand, palm up,” he said to Pippa.

  She did as she was told. There was a distant whispering noise that made her look round suddenly and jerk her hand back. Harry grabbed her wrist and made her snap round to face him.

  He leaned closer to her. “We’re being followed, that was the noise.”

  “The dwarves?”

  “Probably,” said Harry, “but ignore them for now, focus here for the moment. It’s the only way we’ll find the rings.”

  He let go of her wrist while keeping his eyes locked with hers. He could see fear, probably the same fear he was feeling, but he also saw her resolve to stick with him.

  Harry put his hand, palm up, next to hers. With his other hand he started to tip the bag up above their palms.

  “We’re the closest people to Wills and Kate,” he whispered, “hopefully, there’s enough of them on the rings and on us for the dust to make the connection.”

  Whispering came sliding up out of one of the passages and into the chamber. Pippa closed her eyes, took a breath and opened them to see Harry looking at her. The whispering continued, staying at a level that meant she knew there were words being spoken but could not make any of them out.

  “Ignore the sounds, watch the dust,” said Harry.

  Pippa pushed the sinister noise from her mind and looked down to their hands. A coil of golden dust was slipping out of the bag. It didn’t fall, like sand through an hour glass, it gently floated in a deliberate spiral. Just when its tip nearly made contact with her skin, it jerked back an inch or so. More dust slipped out, building into a slender dart, maybe two inches long.

  The golden dart trembled then slid forward, away from their hands and towards the nearest rope ladder.

  The whisper was joined by a hiss, louder and more aggressive. Harry pulled back onto his haunches.

  Pippa watched the dart for a moment as it quivered towards the ladder, then looked back to Harry. “When you said Granny taught you this...”

  “That’s Her Majesty to you,” Harry grinned, though his eyes were flicking around the chamber now. “You follow the dart, it should lead you to the rings. I’ll keep our little friends occupied.”

  Pippa looked back to the dart. It was floating up the ladder now. She grabbed the side ropes and pulled herself up a couple of rungs. “Did you bring a gun?” she asked over her shoulder.

  Harry, distracted for a moment by the tight fabric of Pippa’s black pants, shook his head. “I don’t think a gun would be much use here,” he said, “Luckily, there are more exotic things in the Palace basement.”

  “Your family are weird,” said Pippa as she climbed on up, following the magic dart.

  “You’re telling me,” muttered Harry who kept scanning the chamber, trying to make out whether the shifting shadows were just the lights or something moving. Behind him, he heard a slight sucking noise. He glanced back up to see Pippa’s feet vanish through a hole. The hole seemed too small for Pippa’s body now.

  The atmosphere in the chamber shifted and Harry felt a chill across his skin. Prickly sweat was replaced by shivering cold. The floor, which had been tacky underfoot, now froze to hard ice.

  He reached for a sheath strapped to his leg. The thing hit him before he could pull the knife free. He hit the hard ground with his right shoulder and slid on his back across the icy floor.

  Buckingham Palace, 28th April, 11:45pm

  The Queen sat up in bed. Beside her, Phillip coughed, a dry, dusty rattle, then pushed himself up to his elbows.

  “I’m sure everything will be fine,” he rasped, although his tone lacked confidence. He remembered the dream he was having before Elizabeth had disturbed him. It was the Pacific in the War. He could feel sweat cooling on his brow. It reminded him of the sweat that had poured off of him while he watched oil on the sea burn and men scream. The buzzing of plane engines and the whistle of bombs echoed in his mind. “Maybe it won’t,” he conceded.

  “We’ve been fooled,” said Elizabeth. “I’ve sent Harry off to face something far more powerful than I realised.”

  Phillip sat up in the darkness and put his arm around her shoulders. “He’s a tough, resourceful lad.”

  “Yes,” she replied, “but that won’t be enough.” She swung her legs out of bed and grabbed her robe from a chair. She stomped towards the bedroom door. The heavy sound of her footsteps indicated a steely resolve that few but Phillip experienced. Those that did never forgot it. With a speed that belied his ninety years, Phillip jumped out of bed and scurried after her.

  As the Royal couple walked through the corridors of the palace they swept past a harassed butler. He jumped to attention. “Ma’am, can I..?” She cut him off with a dismissive wave. The Queen and Phillip swept out of sight round a corner and the butler sighed in relief.

  The alcove was dim and unobtrusive. Elizabeth rapped a bust of Victoria on the nose and the secret door swung open. She and Phillip trotted down the spiral staircase and the door slid shut behind them.

  Elizabeth entered the secret vault and torches burst into flame, standing to attention as their mistress entered, much like the butler had. Elizabeth smiled. In the world of public servants and fawning courtiers, things did not jump into place as quickly as she would like, but here, where she truly reigned, her majesty was recognised.

  Around the walls of the chamber were tables and cabinets crammed with artefacts. Dust did not settle on them, gold and silver shone brightly in the light of the torches’ flames; all of the artefacts looked vibrant and alive.

  In the centre of the room was a pedestal. On the pedestal was an object covered by a heavy, black velvet cloth. The Queen paused in front of it.
r />   Phillip, remaining several paces behind her, mused on how the small, elderly figure with curlers in her grey hair and wrapped in a faded and slightly worn, quilted robe held such power. He watched the little, old woman sweep the cloth from the object.

  It was a head. Dark, dry skin was pinched around a shrivelled skull. Its nose had rotted away leaving a black hole in the middle of its face. The eye sockets contained absurd, slightly too large, glass eyes. Its teeth were long gone. The first time Phillip had seen it, he’d thought it was grotesque but ridiculous.

  The Queen poked it in the middle of the forehead.

  When the head coughed and snarled, Phillip gave a small jump. Every time that wretched thing came to life, he jumped. He was never going to get used to it.

  “What now?” it hissed.

  “Less of your insolence,” replied Elizabeth, “remember your place.”

  “My place? I’m a long dead skull, re-animated by some eldritch power and dragged back from what should be my eternal rest. For crying out loud, Ma’am, tell me what I should remember about my place, eh?”

  “I am your Mistress,” said Elizabeth, “and command you as my ancestors did before me. Remember who saved you from the frozen abyss you were trapped in. Remember your debt.”

  “I’m never allowed to forget it, am I?” it rasped. Before she could speak again, it continued. “Don’t get your Royal knickers in a twist. What’s the problem? I suppose it’s got to do with the wedding and all?”

  Phillip watched her shoulders tense up, as she did whenever she spoke to the head. His wife trembled for a moment but he watched her body become still as she took a breath and calmed herself.

  “The rings were stolen. It seemed like some small magics and I gave Harry weapons that should have been enough to deal with it.”

  The head coughed. “He’s a good lad, that one. They all are to be honest, though Charlie never had much time for me.”

  “I do not wish to hear your opinions about my children and grandchildren again,” she said, “I can feel that something far more is at play here. You must reach out and find out what.”

  “Of course, love,” he replied with a whisper, “but you know the deal. I’m stuck in a vault of power. I need a boost to reach out beyond here, don’t I?”

  “Phillip,” she commanded quietly.

  The Duke stepped over to one of the tables and picked up a small, triangular knife. He walked back over to Elizabeth. She held out her hand over the head. Phillip brought the knife up.

  “Hey there, Phil,” it hissed, “all good with you, is it?”

  “Shut your face, you little bastard,” said Phillip.

  It gave a rattle that may have been a laugh. Phillip ignored it. His eyes met his wife’s. She gave a tense nod and he drew the blade across her palm. A line red blood welled up in her hand and a drop fell onto the shrivelled skull.

  “That’s not the stuff, is it now,” hissed the head.

  Elizabeth closed her eyes and concentrated. She clenched her fist, causing the blood to squeeze through her fingers, turning her small hand a rich crimson.

  Phillip saw that it caused her pain which made his heart ache. He longed to plunge the knife into the skull but also knew that if Elizabeth deemed this macabre ceremony necessary, then it was of the utmost importance.

  Blood continued to seep out through her fingers. Her fist trembled then shook, then suddenly flew open.

  Blood splattered out and across the head; it was no longer red but a deep and lustrous blue. The colour of her true heritage, the colour of Royalty.

  “That’s the stuff,” hissed the head in a trembling, almost ecstatic voice.

  Elizabeth was panting now and Phillip put a hand to her arm to keep her steady. He could see sweat across her brow. “Well then, what can you see?”

  The head sighed a few more times, drinking in the power. Then it stopped. “Oh Lord,” it said, in a tone that Phillip had never heard from the thing.

  “What is it?” said Elizabeth.

  “She should be dead. Damn it, she is dead. I did for her, centuries ago.”

  “As you prove,” said Elizabeth, “not everything stays dead.”

  Phillip saw the head’s face twist in anger. “They stay dead if I bloody killed them.”

  Elizabeth was unperturbed. “Clearly not in this case.”

  “Power. Dreadful power,” said the head, “That’s the only thing that could bring her back. And if you’re up against that kind of power, we’re all in the shit.”

  “But you are Merlin,” said Elizabeth, “the son of a devil and the most powerful mage in myth, reality and all places in between.”

  “And she is returning. And you have to stop her,” said Merlin.

  Tate Modern, 28th April, 11:45pm

  Harry caught a flashing glimpse of something white and stumpy flipping over and over towards him. He scrambled to a crouch, wincing with every movement of his arm.

  No time to go for the knife again; he rolled over his left shoulder and saw a glimpse of a twisted, pale face as the stumpy creature flipped over him. Harry lashed out a leg and felt it hit something as solid as a sandbag. He jerked to a sitting position and was able to take a longer look at his attacker.

  The thing was naked, with glistening white skin. Its body was a squat, square of solid flesh. Its limbs were longer, out of proportion to the squat torso, and lined with wiry muscle.

  Its face had a mouth with too many teeth that were far too big. A long, black tongue lashed out between its fangs. Its eyes were yellow and without irises or pupils.

  Clawed feet scraped at the icy surface as the thing moved from side to side, its eyes fixed on Harry. The horrible, deformed mouth twisted into something like a grin. One of its taloned hands reached out to Harry, the gnarled fingers flexing in a beckoning motion. The other claw gouged score marks into the ground.

  Harry didn’t take his eyes off the creature. Moving slowly, keeping his feet firm on the ice through skills learned on his arctic expedition, he reached for the knife again. As Harry curled the fingers of his left hand around its hilt, the creature’s face twisted back from a deformed smile and into an aggressive snarl. Harry’s right shoulder was still aching. His right arm was not going be much use.

  He kept in a crouch, staying low to maintain his centre of balance, and slid the knife out of its sheath. The creature hissed as the full length of the blade was revealed. The blade pulsed with a golden light.

  The creature’s eyes flicked from the blade and back to Harry’s face. It scrunched its body back, as if about to pounce. Harry brought the knife round, holding it in front of him. The creature shrunk back with another hiss.

  A voice rippled through the cold air. A woman’s voice, well spoken and very, very cold.

  “A blade of Morpheus?” said the voice, “smart thinking, young Prince. I assume it was something you found in the Palace vaults. Does your Grandmother know you have it?”

  Harry kept his eyes on the stunted creature and didn’t bother answering. He wasn’t going to tell the voice that it was his Grandmother who gave the blade to him.

  “If you’re lucky, young Prince,” continued the voice, “you might be fast enough to skewer Zepho here.” The creature, Zepho, snarled at the comment. “But then, Zepho is very fast. Fast enough and with enough of my power in him to be able to steal from you via your dreams. Do you really think you can take him on?” An icy laugh followed.

  The temperature in the chamber dropped even lower. Harry saw his white breath rising in front of his eyes. His fingers and toes started to go numb.

  Fear and doubt slipped into his mind. What the hell was this thing? How could he hope to kill it? It had already knocked him around the chamber with its speed and those vicious claws. The knife was surely just an old trinket?

  Thinking of the knife made him tighten his trembling fingers around its hilt. The movement calmed his mind. Concentrating on the creature again, Harry found his focus.

  Hell, he’d been i
n tighter places than this. Under fire on all sides with a company of men to command, Harry’s Royal status had meant nothing. His training, his ability to shut out the noise and focus on the situation had meant everything. Then there had been that time Piers Morgan had tried to speak to Harry in a club. He had faced odious creatures before.

  Harry watched the creature flexing its claws and tensing its legs. He dropped to one knee.

  Zepho lunged at Harry, claws outstretched and going for his throat.

  Harry rolled to his left. The claws missed his face by centimetres and he thrust upwards with the knife.

  There was a tearing noise accompanied by a high-pitched screech. Harry hit the hard ground on his back and desperately kept his grip on the knife.

  He looked at Zepho, who was scrambling across the crimson ice and shrieking. Wispy flames and smoke flickered out from a long slit down the length of its torso. The slit was widening, the flames were spreading across its body.

  “Poor show, Zepho,” said the cold voice, “Harry here proved to be a smarter fighter than we might have thought.

  Harry got to his feet and stepped over to the writhing creature. It was shrivelling away now, the monstrous face no longer scowling but twisted in pain. With a hard backward swipe, Harry slashed through Zepho’s neck. Its head rolled away, shrinking and crumbling into a tiny pile of black ash.

  The rest of Zepho’s body crumpled like a burst balloon then dissolved, leaving nothing but a small pool of bubbling ooze on the ice and a rotten smell.

  Harry flexed his right shoulder; it didn’t feel so sore now. He looked around for any sign of the voice’s owner.

  “Don’t feel so pleased with yourself, young Prince,” said the voice, filling the cold air. “There were two of them, remember? So where’s Zepho’s brother, eh? Where is young Gorko?

  “And how do you think young Pippa might be getting on? Or maybe Gorko is with her? Does she have a blade of Morpheus?”

  Harry swore and jumped at the rope ladder that Pippa had climbed. Putting the knife between his teeth he quickly ascended the rungs. The opening at the top was closed up, like a tight pair of puckered lips. He grabbed the knife and drew his arm back to plunge it into the fleshy wall.

  Just as he was about to strike, the rope ladder gave way. Harry grasped for a handhold but his fingers just found the gooey, slimy side of the crimson mass. He plummeted into the black hole beneath.

  ****