An Uncrowned King Chapter 2 Part 3
Fresh Woods And Pastures New
Thanks to Caerleon’s foresight in not sending word to his friend of their intended visit to Hungary, the tour was carried on in a very leisurely fashion indeed, and the brothers lounged through Europe, to use Cyril’s phrase, by unfrequented routes, spending now a day and now a week in old half-deserted towns, left high and dry by the stream of modern progress. There was nothing very inspiriting in such travelling to men who were neither antiquarians nor photographic maniacs; but Caerleon had a vague idea that he was improving his mind by visiting the scenes made famous by old German history, while Cyril was as well content to put in his time on the Continent in this way as in another. The person who suffered most was Wright, the groom, who found himself debarred in most places from communion with his kind owing to his ignorance of the language, and he rejoiced unfeignedly when the course of his masters’ wanderings brought them at last to Janoszwar, the town that lay nearest to Count Gyula Temeszy’s castle.
Janoszwar was reached late one evening, and the travellers looked about them in some dismay as they drove to the hotel which had been recommended to them by some tourists they had met at Szegedin as the only one at which it was possible for English people to stay. The town was very small, and almost incredibly dirty, while, to put the finishing touch to their discomfiture, they found on arriving that they could not be received at the hotel. Its accommodation was extremely limited at the best of times, and at present all the rooms were in the occupation of the family of a Scythian officer of high rank, who was visiting the town for the sake of the mineral springs in its neighbourhood. This the landlord, a Hungarian who had spent several years in America, explained volubly and sorrowfully, and invited his intending guests to depart at once. But Cyril was very tired, and Caerleon, fearing that he might be going to fall ill again, tried to parley, pointing out that it was impossible for them to drive on eighteen miles farther to the Château Temeszy that night, and offering double the usual prices for the necessary accommodation. Still the landlord remained firm (though with deepening regret, as recognising that he had to deal with wealthy English milords), declaring that the Herr Oberst had assured him he would leave instantly if any other guests were admitted into the hotel. There seemed to be nothing to do but to seek some other resting-place, and Caerleon was just returning to the carriage in despair, when a white-haired man came slowly down the outer staircase of the inn, leaning heavily on a stick.
“Here is the gracious Herr Oberst himself!” said the landlord; and Cyril, who had been acting as his brother’s interpreter for the worthy man’s Hungarian German and even less intelligible English, prepared to address the new-comer in Scythian, but this proved unnecessary.
“Sure I thought I heard English voices,” said the Herr Oberst, “and it struck me that the landlord might be following too rigorously the orders I gave um. The fact is, gentlemen, that most of the people rich enough to travel in these parts are Austrian Jews, and me wife has a great objection to Jews, so that the only way I could get her here was by engaging to keep out of their reach. But I can assure you that I had no desire to inconvenience English travellers—— You are English, gentlemen?”
“We are,” said Caerleon. “I am Lord Caerleon, and this is my brother.”
“I am much honoured, me lord,” said the Herr Oberst, bowing deeply. “Allow me to introjuce meself. Me name is O’Malachy—The O’Malachy, at your servus, the representatuv of the ancient kings of Leitrum,—and I will be much displeased if you go a step farther to-night. Sure me son has not yet arrived, and what does me daughter want with two rooms? We’ll just tell some of the landlord’s fellers to bundle our traps out of the rooms, and you will have them.”
“Pray don’t disturb Miss O’Malachy,” entreated Caerleon in consternation. “I could not think of turning a lady out of her room. If you would be so kind as to allow my brother to occupy the room your son is not using, my servant and I will find quarters elsewhere.”
“Not a bit of ut!” cried the O’Malachy. “Would I turn you away when there are empty rooms waiting for you? Come, young gentleman,” turning to Cyril, “just make your brother understand that if he won’t stay he’ll oblige us all to turn out and leave the place free for um. Is not a whole hotel big enough for two families?”
“You are very kind,” began Caerleon. But the O’Malachy was in full retreat up the stairs again. At the top he turned and paused for a moment, the lamplight shining on his bronzed face and white moustache and imperial.
“A good night to you!” he called out. “I’ll be pleased to resoom your acquaintance in the morning, me lord. Now, you don’t leave this hotel—at least, it’ll be the worse for ut if you do!”
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An Uncrowned King Chapter 2 Part 2
In this way the matter was settled, and a few days later the two brothers left Llandiarmid for London, where Caerleon did his best to make a satisfactory disposition of his rather complicated affairs, and Cyril went round to say good-bye to his lady friends. Cyril was a very popular young man in London society, where he had found a footing as soon as he left Eton. He had slipped out of sight for a short time as unpaid attaché in the British Embassy at Pavelsburg, but the Scythian winter proved too severe for him, and he was invalided home, to take up a pleasant existence about town, while assuring every one that he was only waiting until a suitable post should offer itself for his acceptance in some more genial clime. As a poverty-stricken younger son, he was free from the pursuit of the match-making mothers and daughters who had made Caerleon’s life such a burden to him. No one wanted to marry him, and, fortunately for himself, he felt no particular desire to marry any one. The part he had chosen in the Human Comedy was that of the Laughing Philosopher, and he played it with complete satisfaction to himself and to his world. He was a universal favourite among the ladies, helping the elder ones to arrange their cotillons and organise their charity bazaars, while for the younger he designed costumes for fancy balls, and was always ready to suggest new ideas for any scheme of pleasure. With men he was not quite so popular. Those who did not know him well regarded him as entirely a ladies’ man, while some few who had penetrated more deeply into his character were a little afraid of him, and half suspected him of hiding deep designs under a mask of frivolity. This was not the case, however. Cyril was fully conscious of his own powers of mind, but he had no scruple as to using them to smooth his path in society until some more important object should come in his way.
By Sydney Grier4 years ago in Fiction
The Inferno Elixir: A Legacy of Blood
1. The Sinister Stillness of the Village My grandfather had always been an enigmatic man, but in the last three years, his eccentricity had crossed into something far more unsettling. He lived alone in a secluded house far from the city’s clamor, tucked away in a village perpetually choked by mist. We assumed he was merely grieving the loss of my grandmother and his lifelong friend, but his gaze hid something deeper than sorrow—a secret that was slowly devouring his soul. During my last visit, I was struck by the sight of his refrigerator; it was grotesquely overstuffed with heaps of raw meat. He claimed with a cold detachment that it was for the poor, but his face betrayed the lie. Even more disturbing was the reinforced steel door he had installed in the basement, from which a foul stench seeped through the cracks—a smell like a carcass that refused to stay buried. 2. A Descent into the Abyss Late that night, I took advantage of my grandfather’s heavy sleep. With trembling fingers, I pilfered a modern, sophisticated key from his cabinet. I descended the decaying stairs into the basement, my flashlight cutting through the oppressive gloom. The air there didn't just smell of rot; it smelled like a slaughterhouse. Dry bloodstains smeared the walls, and in the corners lay bleached-white human skeletons. I approached the reinforced room and peered through a tiny peephole. The blood froze in my veins. A gaunt creature, its bones protruding obscenely from its skin, stood there. Its hair was so long it trailed behind it like a shroud. It moved on all fours with a demonic fluidity. Suddenly, its eyes—completely white—locked onto the hole. It wasn't looking at me; it was scenting me. 3. The Bitter Truth Before I could flee, I felt the sharp sting of a needle in my neck. The world dissolved into darkness. I awoke inside a hermetically sealed glass chamber. My grandfather stood on the other side of the glass, weeping bitterly as he recounted the catastrophe: > "Three years ago, your grandmother was on the brink of death. A stranger with non-human features knocked on my door and gave me a dark red elixir, claiming it was the salvation. I injected her, but she transformed into this ravenous monster. I killed my oldest friend and fed him to her just to protect her secret. I love her, Alex, and I cannot let you leave to expose the truth of her 'death' to the world." > 4. The Banquet of Blood The glass barrier began to rise slowly, and the monstrosity crouched, ready to pounce. Suddenly, a scream pierced the silence. My younger brother, Thomas, had followed me. With a heavy blow from a sharp tool, he struck our grandfather, sending him sprawling into the room. In a moment of primal madness, the creature lunged at my grandfather, tearing into his flesh with unspeakable ferocity. Thomas and I fled, the screams echoing behind us, until the police arrived and ended the nightmare with a hail of bullets into the body of what was once my grandmother. 5. The Vicious Cycle A year has passed since that night, and I thought I had survived. But fate plays a cruel game. It is now the anniversary of my grandfather’s death, and my brother Thomas is wasting away from a rare, terminal illness. Last night, amidst the darkness, a stranger knocked on my door—matching the exact description my grandfather once gave. He placed a small box in my hand containing a vial of dark red liquid and hissed into my ear: "This is the only cure for your brother." The stranger vanished as if he never existed. I analyzed the liquid in a lab, and the results were bone-chilling: "A substance extracted from an unknown biological entity, non-existent in any natural record." I hold the vial in my hand now, looking at my pale brother, hearing the echo of my grandfather’s voice in my head. Do I repeat the tragedy? Do I begin a new massacre in the name of love? The elixir is before me, and hell is waiting just behind the door. Would you like me to create a "Book Cover" style description for this story, or perhaps suggest a sequel?
By Mayar Younesabout 14 hours ago in Fiction
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