Dead Man's Dice Read online

  Wearing boots, bandanna, and a shirt and waistcoat bound with belt and sash, the pretend pirate joins the nobles queuing at the castle’s gate, forged invitation in hand. All wear outlandish attires. Horns, stitched to hats, flop over like stringless puppets. Sequined butterfly wings twinkle in light cast by poled lanterns servants hold. Before Larko waddles a fat fairy, who bludgeons her scrawny gnome companion with a stream of disapproval. The wife’s admonishments set the impostor’s nerves on edge.

  “Thank you, Lord Khambra.”

  With vice-like fingers, the pirate grips the invitation as the servant attending the gate tries to take it. The tug-of-war continues until the servant releases the card. Swearing under his breath, the pretender passes through the gate, and on reaching a path, glances back to see the other guests surrendering their invitations willingly.

  The seaman winds his way along the gravel path and enters the ornamental gardens of Lord Longford’s castle—a granite fortress rooted in high cliffs. Checking behind, he barely sees horned, winged and other costumed figures silhouetted against lantern light. Then, oblivious of the surrounding floral perfume, Larko navigates hedges, flower beds and fountains, until reaching a white angel. From beneath a marble wing, he locates the balcony leading to Lady Natasha’s rooms. On the balcony’s banister rests a white rose—his signal that all is clear inside.

  “Delightful, aren’t they?”

  The thief freezes on hearing a man’s voice.

  “Athuen’s face will be full and bright tonight. When the clouds part, we are blessed with a sight as divine as the evening scent. I feel roses by moonlight are one of the great wonders of Dragonland.”

  Larko’s eyes rest on an old man, dressed as a priest. Seated on a nearby bench, the man wears a dun robe, and has gone so far as shaving his head to enhance his fancy dress costume.

  “The local variety are pure joy. My favourite rose, though, grows in the foothills of the Qingshan Mountains. Its flower is such a radiant yellow that you would think the petals were made from Alta’s light, and indeed they are called Alta’s Gold. They grow poorly near the coast, much to Longford’s despair: probably the sea air.”

  Larko glances to the castle wall as a guard, patrolling the battlements, passes beneath a swirl of noisy gulls.

  “I do like your costume. A pirate on the high seas, eh?” On standing, the man adds, “It is a fine costume, indeed. Wonderful.”

  The intruder’s thoughts reach for the knife tucked into the back of his sash as he glances to the guard.

  “Is everything all right?” the man asks, looking up into eyes bruised by insomnia. “You seem agitated. Are you well?”

  The guard is too near to risk a stabbing. What can he say? The old man will hear his voice, then find him false. To disguise his gruff tones, Larko rolls, “Ooh-arr.”

  “Oh, very good,” the old man says. “Very good, indeed.”

  “Ooh-arr.” The pretender squints one eye, then rolls and nods his head.

  “Wonderful. You are the captain, then?”

  The mariner nods in answer.

  “Who are you? Your costume is so good, I have no idea who you really are.”

  Larko says, “I’d be Lord Khambra.”

  “No? No? Fredek, is that you? Is that dye in your hair? And where did you get those wonderful teeth?”

  The pretender rumbles, “You don’t look too bad yourself.”

  The old man laughs. “Well, I see the gods have granted you a witty tongue this night. I never would have …”

  The guard has turned and walks the other way. He will have to act quickly, Larko thinks, as he faces the problem at hand.

  “… is Marlayna improving?” the robed man says. “Sister Farlan said the birth was awkward for mother and child. I have prayed to Athuen they grow strong enough for their pilgrimage to Mount Prophecy for the boy’s naming. Have you decided on a name yet?”

  The pirate growls, “Ooh-arr….”

  After dragging the unconscious body into the rose bushes, Larko runs to the trellis leading to the balcony. As quickly as he climbs a ship’s rigging, he ascends the flowering vines. Once on the balcony, the intruder checks on the guard patrolling the castle wall before sneaking into Lady Natasha’s chambers.

  The jewellery box sits atop a dressing table. Gingerly the thief crosses a rug, staining it with soil. After opening the ornate casket’s lid, he retrieves the necklace contained within. The Eyes of Babalon mesmerise. The emeralds’ shimmer eclipses the allure of the rubies and sapphires adorning the priceless loop, and the scintillating diamond hanging between them. Only a desperate voice breaks the spell.

  “Lady Natasha, you’ll catch your death.”

  Larko’s eyes snap to an adjoining door as he hears a second voice, young and haughty. “Why are you shouting? Harriet, what has got into you?”

  The door opens as the lady-in-waiting insists, “Let me get your necklace for you, my lady. The water is hot, how you like it; don’t let it cool.”

  Larko closes the jewellery box’s lid.

  “Harriet, I won’t have your grubby paws all over my necklace. Besides, if I want to wear it while bathing, I will. Understood?”

  The burglar stands behind a dressing screen and pockets the prize. Through a crack that separates two of its foldable panels, he sees the flash of a shoulder, then a fleshy buttock bulging from beneath a corset.

  “But Lady Natasha, it isn’t right for you to be walking around like this. Someone might see you.”

  “Nobody is going to see me, unless your wittering sends me running through the castle, screaming. Now, my brush, if you don’t mind; my hair is an absolute mess.”

  “My lady, let me brush your hair.”

  “No. You’ve done quite enough, and have given me a splitting headache. My goodness, don’t you understand that Lord Belton is here to court me?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Then give me the brush and run along to the kitchen at once. Ask Cook to brew me a pot of white willow bark tea.”

  “But, Lady Natasha, you—”

  “Why are you arguing? Do as I ask.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  The lady-in-waiting leaves, closing the door behind her. Larko watches Natasha pull a tortoiseshell-backed hairbrush, decorated with a gilded serpentine dragon, through tangled locks. He follows the trail of flaming red down to the crisscross lacing of a half-undone corset. As she collects her hair in hand, and brushes it before a silver-framed mirror, his eyes drift to buttocks parted, penetrated and bloodied by his imagination.

  “Silly woman,” Natasha says, exasperated.

  Curves. Silky hair. Nape, bare. Larko’s eyes devour powdered skin, so easily bruised.

  “Harriet?” Natasha says after lifting the jewellery box’s lid. “Where has that woman put—”

  Larko smells fear, enjoys the terror in leaf-green eyes staring at his reflection in the mirror. He watches the bitch struggle, bite the hand covering her mouth. Yanking her head to one side, pinning it against his chest, the burglar fixes on a slender neck—snap? No … he will break into this one while she lives.

  VI

  Natasha chokes on foul breath, stale sweat. She tries to push the pirate away—prise his hand from her throat. Excited, he thrusts harder, stabbing, splitting her inside. Each moment an eternity, a strangled thought, his sighs—whispers, groans—distant whimpers, drowned by Natasha’s terror. Who is this beast who defiles?

  Spent. The pirate’s warm lust spills. Collapsing like a fallen tombstone atop a grave, the rapist gives a tobacco-stained grin. Natasha smells the sea as he scrapes his tongue across her tear-drenched cheek and trembling lips. He cuts. Eyes wide, Natasha sees the blade used to slice her cheek. Who is this demon who feasts on fear?

  Hips withdraw. The crime seeps and pools on the floor. The man, dressed as a storybook pirate, rises. Baring crooked teeth like an ogre from tales of old, he pulls up and buckles his breeches. Her head reflexively turns as a gob of spit hits, and meander
s down her wounded cheek. His tattooed fist, wrapped around the knife’s handle, flexes. Natasha fixes on eyes—malevolent.

  Stab. Stifling Natasha’s cries with a calloused hand, the pirate punctures her abdomen. Stab. The rapist’s knife thrusts more violently than his penis. With a twist of his hand he gouges, tears. Stab. His shadow soul, not blade, pierces, as on each of her eyes he places an ivory cube—a grinning skull—Dead Man’s Dice.

  About the Author

  Nicholas studies ecology, and is currently developing the conservation website, HIPPOCH.com. When not writing, he volunteers for various conservation bodies including the RSPB and National Trust, and enjoys chess, swimming, yoga and weights. Nicholas' passion for the outdoors has taken him hiking throughout the Scottish Highlands and various ranges throughout Canada. When not in the hills, he lives with his cat, Leo.

  To learn more about the author, his novels, and to download free short stories, visit:

  www.nbcauthor.com