So this isn't quite done yet, so bear with me...i just want to know if it's worth continuing.
Chapter I
Two men walked with growing pace within the dreaded depths of the alleyway snug between Forty Second Street and Barkleby Road. The alleyway was hard to scale from the soft rain that currently possessed the miniscule town of Beauregard, and the amount of sewer grim that slid down the slanting path made it like they were walking in place. As they reached the end of the alleyway, the street lanterns shinned on both of the men’s faces, showing how drenched they’d become. The shorter of the two was toad-like, warts and all, wearing a sabby, red petticoat. The taller one, however, resembled something of a horse, his nose ending like a rock-slide right above his profuse mustache.
“Douglas,” the toad man said to his friend. “Are you sure you’ve got your bearin’s right?”
Douglas Kendricks looked out across the harbor of Beauregard, ignoring the question addressed to him. He was lost in thought, thinking of the exact words the man at the tavern had told him.
“Go out of the tavern turn left… keep going till you reach Forty Second Street then turn left agin’…” Kendricks remembered how the bartender looked at him, skeptical of his intentions to reach the Thorburn estate. “Then keep walkin’ down that alley till you reach the second turn into it on the right.”
They had gone too far.
“Arthur,” Kendricks said, motioning him to follow him.
Turning on their heels they began the long trek to the beginning of the alleyway. Arthur Whitby, a rather bountiful man bound to quite the sedentary lifestyle, rolled his eyes in frustration as he hobble after his quicker paced friend.
“I don’t understand,” Whitby whined. “Why do we have to see the man tonight. Can’t he wait till tomorrow?”
Kendricks, a quiet man, kept his composer as Whitby continued his excessive complaining.
“He knows we haven’t contained all the right men yet…do you think he’s going to kill us Douglas? Douglas he’s going to kill us!”
“Hush now,” Kendricks snarled. “You’re making it obvious we’re here.”
They had reached the first right they had missed and turned left down a dark, uncanny path.
“What do you mean?” Whitby asked, suspicious of his friend’s motive.
“You’ll see. Wait here,” Kendricks said, then slipped into the shadows of the eerie street.
Whitby waited
and waited,
and waited.
Growing more and more impatient, Whitby took towards the street Kendricks had gone down, but stopped. There was a soft pop, a flash like a camera from an upper floor, and a loud thud. Then all was silent again. Nothing moved, not even Whitby took in a breath. Finally, he mustered up the courage to walk into the depths of the street.
Not knowing exactly which house number he was looking for, Whitby tried to remember the front of the house from his last visit in December. The snow had surely changed the appearance, but Whitby instantly recognized the small gargoyle perched on top the flight of stairs. The wooden fence felt soggy and moldy as he opened its gate.
Clambering up the broken flight of stairs, he couldn’t help but look up at the second flight of stairs, in chance he might see Kendricks peering down at him. But there was no Kendricks, only a foggy window.
The door of the narrow, brick apartment was open. Whitby took that as a sign to enter, but hesitated, knocked, and when there was no answer entered the house. It was drafty and dank, making for an unnerving setting.
“Thorburn,” Whitby called up the stairwell.
When there was no answer, Whitby approached the base of the stairs. As he stalked up the stairs, his heavy boots clumping on the wooden steps, his hands clinging to the railing, he looked around. Pictures flowed up and down the peeling, blue and yellow striped walls, pictures of Thorburn and his brother, Thorburn with his other brother, Thorburn with his associates, and Thorburn with Kendricks.
Whitby had always fantasized about a picture of him and Thorburn being placed among the collection, but he had not proven himself worthy to Thorburn. This was according to Kendricks of course, and it was hard to separate the man’s sarcasm and his truth. Nevertheless, Whitby decided Kendricks was right, he had not proven any worthiness to Thorburn. But perhaps it was too late. The popping sound sounded much like a gun.
Rounding the corner, he looked up the rest of the stairs to the next floor. There was a leg jutting out from the right side of the frame. It looked mangled and bloodied.
“Kendrick,” Whitby said with a small crack.
There were loud clanking footsteps and the jingling of keys and then the tall looming shadow of a man cast over Whitby’s entire body.
“Don’t gawk,” the man said. “It’s rude.”
“Sorry Thorburn…er… Sir,” Whitby said. His voice was small compared to Thorburn’s.
“Come up here and help clean up your friend,” Thorburn ordered. “He’ll stain the wood.”
Whitby nodded and quickly scrambled up the stairs, tripping over Kendrick’s protruding leg.
“Sir, how did-”
“Shut it,” Thorburn interrupted. “Go ahead and take a seat.”
Whitby hurriedly sat at the chair, facing Thorburn who sat at his desk.
“Sir,” Whitby tried again. “How did you know Kendrick was coming?”
Thorburn was resting his chin on his two hands, clasped together, and propped up by his elbows. His sleazy smile shown through crooked coffee stained teeth and the smell of cheese, whine, and blood wafted through the stuffy attic space.
“I didn’t know he was coming until I got notified by one of my scouts,” Thorburn said.
Thorburn suddenly let out a long strew of unsettling coughs before calming himself with a sip of wine he had crudely forgotten to offer to his guest.
“You have scouts, Sir?”
“Yes,” Thorburn said, rolling his eyes. “I have scouts. I heard it at the tavern, where I believe Kendrick was getting directions from to come here.”
“Who?” Whitby was astounded. Thorburn was as smart as they come.
“The bartender of course,” Thorburn let out another series of hacking. “He’s been one of my spies longer than you.”
Whitby leaned forward a little in the chair, trying to block out the vulgar view of his partner’s lifeless body in the corner.
“Sir,” Whitby said, hoarsely. “If you don’t mind me asking, what did Kendrick want from you?”
Thorburn stared Whitby down, his eyes unwavering. Two piercing wooden steak splintering the soul of any onlooker. Whitby found himself shaking at the intensity Thorburn had forced in the room.
“I’m glad you asked,” Thorburn said. “Those men you promised me…do you have them yet?”
“Sir, we need ‘bout twenty more,” Whitby said.
“Get on it-”
Whitby burst out of his chair, but Thorburn’s raised voice shoved him back into it.
“Sit down,” he ordered. “I tell you, how incompetent you can be!”
Whitby fidgeted with his thumbs, tapping them irritably together.
“Whitby,” Thorburn snapped.
Whitby stopped twiddling his thumbs.
“Sir what exactly are the sixty men for?”
Thorburn parted his tight, thin lipped mouth to speak, but erupted into another coughing fit.
“Sir, are you alright, Sir?”
“Yes, yes,” Thorburn wheezed. “The sixty men are needed for my new order.”
“What new order?”
“The order I need to take over to kingdom of-”
Thorburn stopped abruptly, looking around him. He then got up and closed the drapes over the windows. After the last curtain was pulled, he went over to Kendricks body, kicked it aside and let the drape above the stairwell fall. He then returned to his seat.
“I am planning something big,” Thorburn said, whispering.
His voice was so hushed, Whitby found himself leaning forward to hear the rest of what Thorburn had to say.
“I’m going to be transferring the princess of Craccia to the Kingdom of Algeron…”
The words drifted, echoing slighting among the rafters of the attic sending an eerie chill down Whitby’s spine. It was risky business shifting royalty town to town.
“Sir,” Whitby said, his voice just as hushed. “How do you imagine the princess being undetected with sixty men-”
“They won’t be surrounding the carriage,” Thorburn shouted. “They’ll be undercover, watching for any activity.”
Whitby’s face turned pale and sickly.
“Sir I thought I was gathering men for the war, not a secretive maneuver,” Whitby gulped. “The men I’ve been gathering are rather large and not a lot of thinkers.”
Thorburn remained calm, much to Whitby’s disbelief.
“Then don’t carry on your collecting,” Thorburn said. “I’ll find the right men myself.”
Thorburn then took out a cigar and stuck it in his mouth without lighting it. He began to chew on it.
“Whitby that princess will arrive in Algeron safely,” Thorburn said between stressed chews of his cigar. “And if she doesn’t…”
Whitby followed Thorburn’s gaze, as it landed on Kendricks. Whitby shuddered.
“Sir,” he gagged soundlessly for a moment. “Sir, why are we responsible for the princess’s move, not Algeron?”
“Algeron is…much like you Whitby, incompetent.”
“Sir how are you planning to move the princess?”
“We’ll start by the Pass of Moon then camp through the forest until we hit the mountain…from there we’ll of course be on boat, and after that the ports of Nardenville, then the Dead Forest, and-BAM!”
Whitby jumped.
“We’ve reached the Kingdom of Algeron.”
“Sir,” Whitby said. “Isn’t that all risky?”
“What do you mean?”
“The pass, the sea, the forests? They’re all known places for vandals.”
Thorburn glared at Whitby menacingly, sending Whitby deeper and deeper into the incline of the red arm-chair. By now all you could see was Whitby’s wart face sticking out of a mass of red.
“Then what do you propose we do?”
Thorburn had never asked for his opinion before, let alone anyone elses.
Better not screw this one up, Whitby thought nervously. A bead of sweat caressed his temple.
“I say we act like she’s not a princess,” Whitby said. “We use some lady to act as her mother, and we stay behind close, watching their every step. We should skip the beginning and start at our port and go straight to Algeron.”
“That’s amazing Whitby, true genius!”
Whitby leaned back in the chair, beaming. All those years of Kendricks overshadowing him was just a fluke. He was just as smart and just as sensible.
“Follow me,” Thorburn said.
Getting up from their seats, Whitby followed Thorburn to the left quarter of the attic.
It was filled with junk and trinkets from other kingdoms. Thorburn led him over to an area filled with books upon books, then into an area filled with maps. This was where they stopped.
Thorburn, with great ease and caution was able to pull out a map from the bottom of a large stack. Brown and crinkled, filled with lines going every-which-way. Everything suddenly smelled of mold and old crinkled paper. Whitby even got a whiff of some salt off a treasure map.
