Victory's Price

Mollen (Part Thirty - Nine)

Chapter 39

And which of us is feared the most?

Step not with white lady's ghost

Take her hand and life is done, come morning find your soul is gone.

"Perhaps for tonight this one's mine my Lady."

A large hand fell on his shoulder and only then was Moll able to tear his eyes from the perfect form of his dance partner. Her hands had been cold, not like ice but a deeper chill that saturated his bones and stole his breath.

The speaker ripped Moll from her grasp, dragging him from her hungry eyes. The hand on his shoulder was warm, as disconcertingly so as the dead were cold. Already sweat ran in rivulets down his neck and when his clumsy, living form brushed against the icy figures of the dead, the two temperature fronts battled across his skin; ice against fire.

"It is a sorry sign when even the king forgets not to dance with the Lady in White."

The voice was a strong one, the seeping creatures of terror oozing through the subtle undertones of the words. But not, this time, because of the owner's obvious demise. This was a man who had been as fearsome in life as he was dead.

For as far as Moll could see, he was surrounded by whirling grey forms. The women wore long, old fashioned skirts and many of the men wore the traditional garb of the players, the formidable creatures sewn onto their shirts partaking almost as much in the dance as their wearers.

The contrast between hot and cold swirled a thick mist into the air and more often than not Moll cringed away from the snarling fangs of great bears or the grasping claws of the eagle only to discover he'd jumped at nothing more than cloth. With these horrifying forms came an intense heat, identical to that which burned his shoulder. Sweeping through the icy chill of the dead, the Star's creatures blazed a trail of lithe wonder.

And all the while they sang, the dead and the forever doomed. They sang the verses of an old, old song to the tune of Hecter's final dedication.

The night is dark, the bells swing strong,

The dead and the Stars they dance along,

Hide your daughters, close your eyes, listen not to the haunting cries!

Everything had just become so believable. Moll wasn't sure if his mind had simply given in or whether he'd been cast under a glamour but there was no fear now. It had been replaced by a dangerously hypnotic fascination. Time slowed, the twirling figures moving as if through water. They were in the final few hours before dawn but Moll knew that to stay here it would feel like days.

The creature he had come to realise as his saviour drew him to the edge of the market, sitting down on a stack of crates. They were only wooden boxes but somehow Moll knew it was a throne.

As Moll stood, struggling to keep his eyes from the bodies that tumbled tempestuously behind him, the figure on the plywood surveyed him critically.

"Do you know who I am, young Majesty?"

The creature was Star-spawn but of the type that had been man and player once. Somehow Moll just knew; as he had known that cold meant death, hot meant cursed.

One man holds the fiercest form

Take his hand you'll find him warm

Cruellest temper, darkest Red, Lord of the Stars and King of the dead.

"You're Red."

The Old King struck an imposing figure: broad shoulders, dark hair and cold, cruel eyes. He was everything Moll had imagined and more. There was no give to the man and he kept constant attention on the swirling mass of his creatures. Whilst Hecter had required plush cushions and embroidered blankets to cover a throne that had stood proud for centuries, Red made an old pile of boxes seem regal.