Category: Fantasy Publisher: Createspace
ISBN-10: 1453734422
Type: Fiction
Pages: 286
Copyright: August 27, 2010
ISBN-13: 9781453734421
The Chevalier Mark Andrew Ramsay finds himself catching the worst of three worlds as battles rage in two of them and intrigue develops in the third. The Queen of the Abyss, the Queen of the Center and the King of the Tuatha de Danaan may be more than the venerable Knight of Death can handle at one time, but he may have more going for him than everyone suspects. He must protect the Order and the Order's interests from the evil powers that have usurped Omar Kadif's empire since the Prophet suffered an unfortunate accident. Meanwhile, he must try to win over his wayward son, Luke Andrew and recruit enough power to put down a threat to the woodland elves. Just when he thinks things can't get any worse... well... he must face his own worst nightmare.
History tells us that the Knights Templar were disbanded on Friday the 13th of October 1307 when the King of France conspired with the Pope to have them rounded up, arrested and imprisoned on spurious charges of heresy, blasphemy and other crimes. But the King was not quite successful. Some of them escaped. Some of them thrived and some have lived a long, long time. In fact, an entire sub-order called the Red Cross of Gold is still operating in the twenty-first century behind the scenes, waiting for Armageddon and the return of Christ when they plan to fight the Anti-Christ at his side.
Mark Andrew Ramsay, the Chevalier du Morte, Knight of Death is one of twelve members of the semi-immortal members of the ruling council of the Order of the Red Cross of Gold. He is a reclusive Scot with a grumpy personality who spends most of his time in the lowlands of Scotland where he works as alchemist, assassin and Knight of Death for the Order. He provides them the financial means to support their global operations, he makes sure that the members of the Order stay in line and he releases the souls of his semi-immortal Brothers when the need arises.
Excerpt
The King worked furiously on the latches at the window. As far as he knew, they had never been opened. He wondered if Sam’s people had put the latches on as decorations like the faucets in his bathroom or if they really worked. In desperation he began to beat on the colorful glass with the hilt of the skian dubh, the short black-handled dagger he wore on his belt, trying to break the panes, but the glass was made with elven magick. Another door screeched and then crashed inwards as the thing drew nearer. The smell of its breath was unbearable. Nausea washed over him. It bellowed down the short expanse of corridor left between them and nearly split his eardrums. He spun about and held up the sword, waiting for his inevitably horrible end that was surely coming now. There was nowhere to run and he would not even be able to use the Golden Sword of the Cherubim long enough to make the kill before the thing tore him in half or bit his head off. Such wounds could not be repaired by any magick he knew of. The thing roared again and then began to wiggle back and forth, smashing the torch brackets in its frenzy to reach him.
The space closed between them and the beast pushed its great hands straight at him. He brought up the sword and allowed the beast to skewer its own hand on the twisted blade. Blood gushed from the wound and Mark Andrew screamed at the beast as he turned the blade in the leathery skin between the claws. The monster flicked his feet from under him with the other claw and he fell on his back. The cramped space restricted the beast’s ability to close its wounded hand on him as he wrenched his blade free. It brought the uninjured hand down and the claws struck the stones beside and behind him and then he was being scraped toward the gaping mouth. His back slid along the floor as he tried desperately to get the sword at the right angle to stab or slash the hand. Mark Andrew closed his eyes and swung the blade against the side of the arm. His blows were one-handed, haphazard and ineffectual. The thing howled again as dark liquid sprayed across Mark’s face and he expected to feel the razor sharp teeth on his head or neck at any moment. The horrid stinking breath flowed over him again and spittle rained down on his body. He jabbed upwards with the sword, screamed like a little girl and closed his eyes against the sight of the teeth snapping just above him, but the final blow did not come. The Formorian threw its head back and howled, causing the very stone beneath them to shudder and Mark suddenly found himself free of the vicious claws. He rolled away and came up again near the window. It seemed that the Formorian was trying to back up now. It was scrabbling and scratching at the walls on either side of its body, pushing backwards and bellowing terribly, eyes rolling as it knocked its head against the ceiling again and again. Pebbles and dust rained down in the corridor while Mark Andrew pressed his hands over his ears as he tried to figure out what was wrong with the beast. It had had him and yet, it had let go. It was obviously in pain. Something was attacking it from behind.
The King ran forward, dodging under the flailing arms and rammed the golden blade into the leathery neck below the almost chinless mouth. The Formorian grabbed at him with both arms and he leaped back out of reach before darting back in to pull the sword free. Blood poured from between its teeth and its screams became gurgling, sickly noises. He stabbed it again and again as its swipes became more and more feeble. It lurched and struggled in the passage for several long moments and then leaned forward slightly, exhaling one last, long stinking breath at him and then it was dead or at least fatally wounded. One problem remained: it was stuck fast in the passage, filling it from top to bottom and side to side.
“Father?” He could hear the faint voice, greatly muffled by the body of the beast. He could also hear the thumping and whumping noises of the other Formorian on the roof and its horrid bellows.
“Luke?!” Mark Andrew shouted as loud as he could.
“Can you get out?!” Came the barely audible question.
“No. I’m trapped here!”
“Then you’d better start cutting!”
Mark Andrew’s face crumpled in on itself in disgust. Blood was still flowing from the thing and the floor was slick with the stuff. He raised the sword over his head and prepared to start hacking his way through the thing when he was startled out of his remaining wits by the sound of the Djinni’s voice behind him. He whirled around and saw a shadowy figure clinging to the glass outside the window.
“Adar?!” The Djinni called as he beat on the glass.
Mark ran back to the window and beat on the glass in turn.
“I’m in here!” He shouted. “The window won’t open!”
The Chevalier watched in fascination as a thin stream of what looked like melted purple wax oozed under the glass panel and flowed down the wall, following the joints between the stones in a squared zigzag pattern. It puddled onto the floor before flowing up again to take the shape of the mighty Djinni.
“Ohhhhh! What a terrible smell, Adar,” Lemarik said as he looked Mark up and down. The Djinni held his nose as he surveyed the wrecked hall and the body of the Formorian.
“Th’ ’ousekeeper’s off today,” Mark Andrew told him and then hugged him tightly.
“There is another of these creatures on your roof,” Lemarik said almost casually as he swayed forward to inspect the horrid visage of the dead Formorian. “This is not a safe place.”
“No kidding?” Mark Andrew resumed his position in front of the beast and raised the sword.
“Wait, Father. He is dead already.”
“I know, but ’e’s in me way,” Mark Andrew told him impatiently. “Son, please stand asoide and allow me a bit o’ room to wark ’ere.”
“As you wish, my father,” Lemarik said and stepped back. They could hear shouts on the far side of the creature. “But it would be much simpler merely to transform him into another, more useful form.”
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