But it had not seemed necessary at the time, the security of his tower was second to none, it could not be scaled and the locks that barred the great doors were beyond the skill of even the most proficient intruder.

But then obviously not!

When he turned the last corner before the grand staircase, all thoughts of flight became moot. Ahead of him, blocking the corridor, stood another cloaked figure, identical to the first.

Beuphalus stopped dead in his tracks, mouth agape. He thought of talking, of pleading, but it was obvious these infiltrators were not mere housebreakers. As he looked he could see that what he had previously thought was a bestial face was in fact a mask. The robes were designed for ceremony, not concealment. These figures were sinister indeed, sent to scare him, or kill him. Worshippers of a rival to Valac perhaps... or something worse? The powers Beuphalus had been toying with over the years were bound to catch up with him sometime. But he was not about to give in easily.

With a shrill cry of defiance, the Earl threw himself at the nearest window. The heavy glass shattered under his weight, and he felt the stinging pain of fresh cuts upon the flesh of his hands and face.

He lay on the balcony beyond, the stiff evening breeze was blowing strong, and it served to ripen the pain of his cuts.

Beuphalus knew he was hurt, he found it difficult to move, but he still managed to crawl to the balcony’s edge, hearing the crunch of glass beneath him. Glancing down he could see that his suit was in tatters, but it mattered little now.

Grasping the balustrade, Beuphalus pulled himself up. Blood covered his hands and left a dark smear on the stonework. He managed to get his head over the top, seeing nothing but clear air between him and the ground, hundreds of feet below.

‘Help!’ he screamed to the distant earth. ‘Help me!’

His second cry turned into a strangled sob, but the Manufactory did not seem to be listening. It was too preoccupied with its own noisome clangour. It was hopeless; there would be no rescue now.

Desperately, Beuphalus lifted one leg, the tattered cloth of his trouser fluttering in the breeze. He almost made it, almost shifted enough of his weight over the balcony for gravity to do the rest, but he was not quick enough.

Firm hands grasped him, with strong fingers that dug into his flesh and held him tight. As he was dragged back across the balcony, through the broken glass and into the darkness of his tower, Earl Beuphalus managed to scream one last time.

CHAPTER TWO

 

The room stank.

It was a mix of rotten eggs and dead animal. There was an eviscerated rat on the floor but that wasn’t the source of the animal stench. The rat still smelled bad, anyone who thinks that dead rats don’t leave an odour should try giving one a sniff, but this was worse; a more intense musk, reminiscent of a well used stable.

Thaddeus Blaklok lifted his head from the bare wood floor of the tiny room. It was fuddled, like a hooch hangover of the worst kind, but with an intense feeling of elation inextricably locked into the nausea. His hands were shaking. Could have been the adrenalin; the buzz of his recent communion. Or was it just fear? No matter how many times he did it, whether the invocation was a minor one or a full-blown hellfire-and-sulphur stink, it took all his willpower not to shit his trousers. Of course, anyone watching would struggle to notice. There was rarely any clue on Thaddeus Blaklok’s face as to his thoughts. That was where his power lay. Most of his power, at least. Had he been a card sharp, Blaklok would have been very rich indeed.

He rose to his hands and knees, heaving a large gulp of air into his lungs. A bead of sweat ran across his shaved head and dripped onto the floorboards.