Chapter 1: The Trap
The swish of a cloak was the only sound to be heard, on a dark, damp night, as Count Drachunt rounded the corner of a curvy, leaf strewn country lane of Ormesby St. Margaret. The count had important business here tonight, hopefully the last big thing he would have to do. Soon he would be the leader of all the Grevers. This night would definitely be one to remember. It would be his finest. He was just half an hour from total domination.
Across the road from the Count was a newsagent. It had the usual sign up looking for paperboys and girls, and advertisements for other things. It looked very shabby, with a white van in the parking spot outside the launderette. The sign above the door read: N. Fletcher. It wasn’t very big, but held most of the needs of the community. It was two storeys high, with the proprietors living above the shop, presumably so they heard if someone was trying to steal something from their shop. This meant nothing to Drachunt however, whose destination lay elsewhere. He continued to walk down a slope in front of him. He entered into a trot because of the slop and walked past a narrow lane of the road Drachunt was on.
Next to the lane was a massive pond. A bench looked over the water. It looked as though it had been vandalized many times. It was probably where all the local teenagers hung around, binge drinking on stolen alcohol in the late hours of the night.
The surface of the pond rippled as a duck flew into the water. Its body rose to the top of the water, dripping wet. Its black eyes looked around the water and must have seen Drachunts reflection from the moonlight shining on the glittering pool, because it looked directly at Drachunt and then quacked at the top of its voice. Drachunt could have silenced the bird at once and forever but decided against it. It was too much like hard work. He continued walking towards his prey. He didn’t want to waste any time on anything, especially a useless duck. He may be murderous but he didn’t kill just for the fun of it. The victim must have actually done something, and tonight’s victims had certainly done something bad. They would soon learn what they had done wrong. The payment would be their lives.
Drachunt had one goal: to eliminate his last opponents. It was surprising but this opponent was not a wise, old man, but a four year old boy and his parents who knew nothing about what was going to happen to them. At this very moment they were probably laughing, expecting to be safe for the rest of their lives with the protection of the damn Authoriters, who meddled in all of Drachunt’s business. They made it their job to stop him gaining power, because they feared what Drachunt being head of the Grevers would do. Drachunt would certainly made drastic changes and have a few people killed, but it was for the greater good. Drachunt however, would see to it that the boy and his parents would not live much longer. Drachunt was going to commit murder tonight and they were going to be his victims.
He did not know why, but this night Drachunt felt a strong sense of excitement instead of determination like on the night of his other countless murders. This night was different. It was special. He was going to have fun. This night would be his most celebrated victory over the Justice Fighters. He would be able to laugh in there face, and if they dared to question any of his activities he would just have them killed, for he would be leader of all the Grevers around the world. It would be unlimited power. All for him. No one to look upon him and sneer at him, as many people had done before, including tonight’s unlucky trio.
The thought of the three traitors being murdered made Drachunt’s heartbeat speed up a notch because of the excitement cursing through him. He decided to quicken his pace from a slow, steady walk to a fast walk - almost a jog. The boy and his parents would be his last great challenge, if you could call Luke Blanco, Katie and their kid a challenge, and then he, Count Drachunt, would be the finest of all the Grevers. He would be remembered in history as the one who conquered so many of the enemy, the Justice Fighters. Lots of others had done what Drachunt had done but fallen at the last hurdle or stopped straight away, by the idiotic Authoriters. Whenever something good happened the Authoriters would be their to make sure that no one was special, that everyone was normal, no one stepping out of line.
Drachunt knew what to do; destroy the boy, and destroy his fool parents. He would make it a slow, painful death. Drawn out so the idiots would suffer. Then when they would be begging for death to come, and he would finish them. They deserved it after what they did. It may have been years before but Drachunt had still not forgotten. How could he forget what they did to him? It was unforgiveable.
He was too anxious to walk and so quickened his pace again to a slow jog. He turned to his left and emerged onto a long winding road. If he was correct, and he usually was, then he should go to the top of this road and then turn left. At different points down the long road there were several other roads leading off in different directions. But Drachunt was sure he was right. He would follow the plan that he and his followers had fought of all those months ago. This operation had been planned months ago so that nothing could go wrong.
Behind Drachunt was a pub. It was called the Jolly Farmers. It looked quite small from the outside, but had a reasonable size garden and car park. It was connected to other houses. The noise at night must be unbearable. Drachunt had never been in a pub and had never drunken alcohol, for it clouds the mind and brings it out of focus, and he couldn’t stand the smoke. It damaged the body and smelt horrible. It is easy to be set upon if you have drunk too much. He had heard tales of it happening to other Grevers like himself, and since hearing these rumours he had made sure that nothing could take him down.
Maybe he should search the pub for the boy. He remembered the parents liked to go out. But then he decided against it. The boy was only four so why would the parents take him into that atmosphere. All the swearing and drunkenness. He would check the home first, and then if the traitors were not there, he would tear down the pub apart looking for the boy. The drunks would feel his anger as well. He would not hold back. The Authoriters could clear up the mess of the pub. But the pub torn down would only if Drachunt didn’t kill the traitors.
He started to walk down the road. It contained lots of semi-detached houses, all with their curtains drawn. This suited Drachunt. It would make it easier for him to hide, if necessary. But even if anyone looked out of their windows they wouldn’t see a thing, as Drachunt could conceal himself so he looked invisible. It was a simple trick he had learned but had served him well over the years. It was his secret weapon. It was what he fell back on when in a foreign territory.
Drachunt stopped jogging now and changed to a full pelt sprint. He knew this was his destiny. He was born to rule the Grevers and kill anyone who opposed him. He knew that it was his fate to do this. He was doing the right thing. No one would stand in his way anymore. His path would be clear once more. He would claim what should have been his years ago. He would rule everyone, Grever and non-Grever.
Somehow sensing that he was close to his prey, Drachunt slowed to a fast walk. It was a smooth transfer. Most people would have been gasping for air after practically sprinting the whole distance of the road, but Drachunt was breathing slowly, steadily and calmly. He always made sure that he was fit, because sometimes he needed to call upon his body’s physical attributes and once almost got caught because his body wasn’t up to scratch. Since that little mistake he had been perfectly fit. He was also very muscular. His strength had helped him so many times. He wouldn’t be the Grever he was today without the strength he had gained a decade ago at school.
He turned left at the top of the road and looked for a blue garage. This was where the traitors lived. His eyes roamed the street, moving left and then right. Straight opposite of Drachunt was a blue garage, but he knew that this wasn’t the one. The house that he was looking for was farther on. Drachunt walked on, looking for the blue garage. And then he saw it. It was about fifty meters away to the left. He immediately sprinted towards the house.
Drachunt reached the house where the family of traitors was supposed to live in about five seconds, and stared at it. How could these people of so much power and promise live in a place like this? It was so normal. The seventy six sign sat level with the door and shone in the moonlight just as the water in the pond had done. There wasn’t a car in front of the garage. This didn’t matter, for the traitors were probably inside. Perhaps they didn’t have a car. He remembered how they liked to get somewhere quick, not in a slow normal vehicle like a car. There were much faster ways of travelling with much less hassle. Most Grevers didn’t use a car. They thought that the car was a useless vehicle. Some, who lived near non-Grevers, always used it and valued it. Drachunt himself had never used a car. It was rubbish, in his opinion.
A gush of wind whipped his face. It knocked his hood back to show his features. He had a round face with blue eyes that used to hold so much warmth in them. He also had short black hair, spiked up at the front. He was not tall, but not small. Drachunt liked his height. He towered over some people and was strong enough to beat people taller than him.
Drachunt plunged his hand into the left hand side pocket of his cloak and drew out a small, cylindered piece of wood, about a foot in length.
It looked just like an ordinary rough piece of wood, with a crack down the centre of it but Drachunt knew better. Looks could be deceiving. That was what made non-Grevers pathetic. They looked but didn’t see, they listened but didn’t hear. Drachunt ran his fingers along the crack and just after taking his fingers off the wood it changed completely. The crack opened wider and a smaller piece of wood fell out in slow motion and floated in the air, as if there were an invisible table on which the wood was resting. It was not affected by gravity and lay facing Drachunt vertically. This piece of wood was smooth and soft to touch. It was made of Drachunt’s chosen wood: mahogany, the wood that represented elegance. Suddenly it stretched towards the ground and outwards. The tip touched the ground. It was thin but widened towards the top. The top was illicitly carved with symbols, scratched by the maker, Drachunt. The symbols were things that were connected with Drachunt. There was a cheetah, a school logo and the logo of Drachunt himself: a C that continued on to form the letter D.
A wisp of red smoke emitted from the tip of the Greve and engulfed Drachunt’s feet so that it looked as if he were floating on a cloud from hell. The smoke hung by his feet but soon dissolved into the atmosphere. Now the fun would begin.
Drachunt raised his head to look at the door of his victim’s house, letting the wind whip his face. His mind brought images to the front of his mind. All of his triumphs flashed before him, before being cast to the back of his mind. His heartbeat was pulsing rapidly now. In about five minutes he would be the greatest, the ultimate. He smiled to himself at the thought. Then he concentrated on the task ahead. He could smile after he had finished this chore. One more task then nothing more to worry about. No more opposition, no more struggles for power. He and his followers would sit proudly as the leaders of the Grevers.
Drachunt knew his plan. He was about to start stage one. He raised his Greve high above his head, as he had done plenty of other times before, and sliced the air in front of him, whilst saying “Slashio.”
The effect was instantaneous. It happened even before Drachunt’s Greve had come to rest by his side. The door shattered. It was as though a slab of the heaviest rock had been thrown at the door. Drachunt laughed and stepped over the rubble. The plan had worked so far. Stage one complete. Now onto stage two.
He was standing in a sort of landing with a door on the left, which he presumed led to the garage, the stairs in front of him, and also the living room, with a door blocking it from view. To the right was the kitchen. Drachunt knew that there was no one in the kitchen as it could be seen from the outside and he had seen nothing.
He couldn’t hear anything from anywhere in the house. There was an eerie silence as the house knew its inhabitants were soon going to be destroyed. However, Drachunt knew that the family was in the building somewhere.
Drachunt decided to start on the biggest room. He kicked open the door of the living room, expecting to find the boy, crouching with his parents, sobbing, hugging each other, resigned to their fate, for they now realized that they were foolish to challenge the great Count Drachunt.
However, Drachunt couldn’t see anyone in the room, not even in the shadowy corners. He was beginning to get angry now. He shouted at the house, “Do not try and defeat Count Drachunt, for he will destroy you.”
There was no reply. Only a little click could be heard, and then suddenly the television in the opposite corner to Drachunt came on, and to his utter surprise, Drachunt’s three greatest enemies appeared on the screen.
“If you are watching this, Carl, then you have not captured us”, Luke Blanco said, looking directly at Drachunt. “We left the house about an hour ago. You thought that you had us, but we have known all along that you would come for us. We were the only ones who were better than you at everything, and that’s why you want us dead. You turned from the good path to the opposite path. You used to be our friend. We used to get along. Think about those times and come back to yourself, my old friend. You can be great once more. Do the right thing, I urge you.”
The recording finished. Drachunt stood there. He was fuming. How dare they say that they were better than him at everything. It was a lie. A damn right lie.
“A lie”, Drachunt shouted at the house. He was so angry. Why couldn’t this have happened on some other murder he had done. Not tonight. The only people who he had wanted dead for years and they had eluded him. He lifted his Greve into the air and slashed at the television. It split in two. It couldn’t withstand that much power. Drachunt lifted his Greve in turn to everything in the room, and then brought it down savagely. He would destroy everything associated with this house. Everything crumbled. The remains of clocks, chairs and a coffee table lay all around Drachunt, on the laminated floor. For once he had failed. His only failure and he was furious. He couldn’t withstand the anger. It couldn’t be true. They couldn’t have fooled him.
He went to search the other rooms for the liars. Drachunt quickly searched the rest of the house. The fools were no where. Neither was anyone else. Drachunt was now at boiling point, for in the last room he searched, the one with the window that looked out into the street, he had seen ten people, whom he recognized as Authoriters, who had come to return Drachunt to prison. But Drachunt wasn’t going, no matter what. The fact of the matter was; Drachunt had been tricked and was now trapped.
