The Conquering Dark: Crown
Clay Griffith, Susan Griffith & Clay Griffith
Chapter 1
The madman’s boots rang heavily as he strode up the nave of Westminster Abbey. His embroidered attire was old-fashioned and unkempt, including ridiculously tasseled boots and lace cuffs. The fires of hell and damnation drenched his hands in a shimmering hot blaze, causing dignitaries on the aisle to stand and rear back while those farther away stared. Passing tomb by tomb, the red-haired man marched down the stream of time. Statues of marble men stood stoic while stone angels mourned the intrusion. An overdressed guard rushed forward. The intruder set him ablaze with a wave of his hand, then pitilessly sidestepped the flailing soldier.
The stunned throngs began to move in a panic toward the doors. The man with the burning hands swept under the arch of the choir screen and looked on the theater of coronation. His feet muddied the black-and-white-diamond floor as a squad of guardsmen formed a solid line between the intruder and the royal family, who sat facing forward on a raised dais in the spiritual center of the church.
King William IV rose from his chair, resplendent in an admiral’s uniform, and turned with annoyance to view the disturbance. Beside him, the queen gained her feet as well, nervous and pale, contrasting against the white satin of her gown overlaid with a fine gold gauze. Her purple velvet train lined with white satin and a rich border of gold and ermine bunched around her legs as she twisted toward the line of soldiers standing with their backs to them.
King William motioned for the queen and the other grandees nearby to be removed from harm’s way. More scarlet-breasted soldiers moved quickly to rush the dignitaries toward the north transept where they found their way blocked by a woman.
She had shocking short white hair and wore trousers with high boots and a metallic corset over her midsection. Even more shocking than her mannish attire and hair was the fact that she had four arms made of strong rods and struts of brass and steel. Two of her hands held pistols like some mechanical horror of a highwayman. In a third, she brandished a thin walking stick like a country squire. Her free hand gestured threateningly at the approaching crowd. “I suggest you all remain in your places.”
“What is the meaning of this?” King William’s voice echoed through the hallowed halls of the Abbey, even above the sounds of fear and shuffling feet. “You want to stop my coronation? So be it! But spare the lives of my subjects.”
The redheaded man in the nave laughed, eyes crazed and hair wild. The heat radiating from his hands could be felt as he sneered, showing he was missing a few teeth. “You’re all guilty of the same sins as the rest of us. Why should we let anyone go?”
“Enough ranting, O’Malley.” The white-haired woman pointed at the king with her walking stick. “You have something we want, Your Majesty. We intend to take it.”
From the shrine of Edward the Confessor located behind the altar emerged a tall, languid gentleman dressed in the finest black silks, a fashionable top hat gracing his head. His sophisticated attire was hardly complemented by the strange bulky steel gauntlets that covered his hands and forearms. In his steel-sheathed right hand he worked a thin-bladed sword that gleamed wickedly in the candlelight. Where all others fell back, only Simon Archer came forward.
“I think not,” was his calm reply.
One of the woman’s pistols swung with the clicking sound of a geared arm to cover the newcomer. The other gun lifted directly at the king. Simon Archer leapt onto the dais, seizing the sovereign and pushing him down behind the throne. Two lead balls slammed into the chair, splintering it across Simon’s back as he huddled over the king.
The sound of shots unleashed the panic anew. Hordes of people made for the closest doors, some shoving and pushing to save themselves, others shouting to allow the women to go first, struggling to assert a hint of civilization in the madness. Terrified crowds roared from the makeshift galleries in the north transept, swarming around the woman with the mechanical arms but fighting to keep their distance. She tossed her empty pistols aside and began to muscle her way through the panicked herd toward the dais.
“Baroness!” shouted the fiery lunatic, but turned as he heard the sound of weapons cocking behind him.
“That’s right, lad. Face yer better,” scolded a new voice, one laced with a thick brogue.
The wild eyes of the madman turned gleefully, pleased that someone had dared challenge him. His desire for violence was not going to be soothed quickly. “Who are you to say such? A pompous duke or lazy English lord?”
“A Scotsman!”