BAD BLOOD, Brendan Hore-Thorburn

Lorrenz sat alone and unseen. He looked out over the fields of frost covered grass that spread down through the shallow, wide valley below Castle Argostine. The sounds of drinking and shouting forced their way up to his solitary perch in the attics above the great hall. He couldn’t bring himself to join them. What was there to celebrate? The whistling winds that fell from the mountains above helped him block out the sounds of merry making but neither could distract him from the dark shape he watched on the horizon. The winds danced and slipped between the walls, towers and halls of the great squat castle at the head of the valley. He had spent much of his youth in these less frequented reaches of the castle, trying to avoid the constant work that his father forced upon him. The King siring a bastard was bad enough, but an idle bastard was a recipe for disaster. Far in the distance great dark shadows grew as they snaked their way over the crumbling roads that lead up the valley. He wouldn’t have long before he would be forced out of his father’s stronghold. He had been found out.

Despite all the care he had taken they had discovered the truth about his rise to the throne. He paced back and forth over the creaking, splintery floors of the attic. How much the lords knew he couldn’t tell, but they knew enough to have already rallied their bannermen to war. Their first real action since the succession wars that saw his grandfather crowned. The lords of the Argos valley were not skilled diplomats nor feared warriors, their long peace was born out of having been forgotten by the wider world. Their pettiness and division kept them out of the thoughts of greater powers. Perhaps his false prophecy about the beast that stalked their lands had set the groundwork for this union that they now brought against him. He shook his head in frustration and the crown shifted out of position slightly. He knew that they would blame him for everything. They would ignore their own part in crippling the kingdom. They never learned. They refused to.

The King, Lorrenz’s reluctant father, had raised him out of a half hearted guilt that he felt towards Lorrenz’ common born mother. Who knows what his bastard fate would have been if she hadn’t saved the King some embarrassment by dying so soon after his birth. Occasionally out of some vague paternal instinct the King would drunkenly pass on useless advice but always followed it quickly with a boot or a cuff out of instinct. Beyond that their relationship was purely one of king and subject.

Lorrenz looked at the large, brass hand-bell that rested on the floor of the castle’s attic. He couldn’t sound the alarm yet. If he did, the mercenaries he had garrisoning the castle would grab what they could and run for the mountains. No. He could only wait until it was too late for them to escape. He wouldn’t give them the choice. They only stayed for his promises of more gold. They drank and celebrated in his name and yet he couldn’t bring himself to join them. Years of thankless service in the shadows and the one feast at which he was welcome seemed so hollow. He didn’t deserve it. But none who wore this ill-fitting crown ever had. Lorrenz had watched his father let power slip through his fingers; he watched the lords grow bold and the land fall into disrepair out of laziness and greed. All this they simply ignored as long as their bellies and beds stayed full. The dark columns of their drab uniformed soldiers inched slowly closer over the crumbling roads, past empty unworked fields.

Perhaps a second prophecy could cement his rule. If only he hadn’t strangled the ragged priest he had brought down from the mountains to deliver the first. He wasn’t proud of what he had done, but he had no regrets. Sebastine had been the man’s name. He had walked the streets announcing the prophecy of the beast for three days and three nights before Lorrenz put an end to him. He couldn’t have the foul tempered old man wandering freely, knowing that there was no beast dwelling in the woods; he would have sparked questions about Lorrenz’ half-brother’s death. The nobles had all wanted the bitter old man’s story to be true. It was kinder to them than the truth that they caused the kingdom’s sorrows. Sebastine had been consumed by his resentment for the world that had forgotten him up in the mountains. Tending to his shrine that none ever visited. He had jumped at a chance for revenge. A bag full of gold and a chance to fool them all… he had looked so scared when he realised that Lorrenz was going to kill him. That was how Lorrenz knew it was right. The priest had lived a bad life. He feared his death because he knew his soul would be found wanting. His disappearance had just added to the mystery of it all, which suited Lorrenz perfectly.

Those long dark nights out in the fields dragging animal carcasses around to leave evidence of the beast, the risks taken sneaking gold out of the keep to pay the mercenaries to be ready to support him when his time came and the endless hours of mixing and testing poisons to find the right one for his father. It had all been with the people’s best interests at heart– he hadn’t once thought of himself. Things couldn’t go on as they had; someone had to take action. The beast had been the story that the lords had wanted to hear. They just shut off and ignored anyone who blamed them for mismanaging the lands and not planning for harsh winters. The people died and they waited in their holds, warm and merry. The beast deep in the woods spreading pestilence and corrupting the earth around it was the convenient tale; it aligned with the lies they told about their ancestor’s heroic deeds and they saw their chance for glory that the painfully long peace had deprived them of. When the true prince, his half brother, brashly jumped at the task of hunting the great beast, their own sons were spared. No-one examined the situation too closely. They had no interest in seeing the truth. It had all gone perfectly. Yet here they were, that grim host that should know no master but him, come to clumsily grind him into the dirt to repay his regicide. Maybe he should go and enjoy the fruits of his horrible labours, even just for a few hours. Was that so wrong?

He once more adjusted the crown that sat awkwardly atop his head, always weighing heavily upon one or other of his jug handle ears. He removed the gloves he had taken to wearing to hide the burns and sores on his hands from exposure to his own vile concoctions. He pressed the cool metal of the crown against them once more, to dampen their constant pain. He was shocked by how grotesque they had become. It must have been penance for the cowardice of his actions. He hadn’t even been there to watch his father die, he had gone to lay an ambush for the returning prince rather than bring him back to be crowned king. He was sure that his vile younger brother watched him now from his shallow grave deep in the woods. The crossbow bolts in his back twitching from the shudders of his dry corpse laugh as he saw Lorrenz’ hard work come to nothing.

He couldn’t deny, even to himself, that his brother’s death wasn’t a more personal matter. He may have gone on to become a good king. But Lorrenz didn’t have it in himself to forgive the brat who tormented him daily knowing that his bastard status forbade any retaliation.

For so many years Lorrenz’ only focus was the throne and what he could do for the people once he was there. But what had he done? What was his legacy? To have bled the coffers as recklessly as his father to keep his mercenary muscle loyal and ready. Emptied the larders, even taking from the villages to keep his army strong. He told himself it was only for a season, but what end was there in sight? Nothing had changed. Maybe time wouldn’t be enough. He wasn’t enough. So far he had preyed upon the people just as much as those who came to dethrone him.

The columns of soldiers were now clearly visible, bristling with ranks of rusty spears and surrounded by their scattered horsemen who scoured the valley for resistance. He deserved whatever fate they felt was just for his crimes. Noone else should have to suffer for what he had done.

He rang the bell as violently as his thin arms would allow, his body vibrating as its peals echoed through the stone towers and high walls before letting it fall out into the courtyard below, clattering and bouncing off slate roofs and cobblestones. He wandered numbly down the winding staircases in the wake of this sound. The merry making turning to panicked shouts as awareness dawned on the mercenaries. They still had a small window of time to try to grab what they could and run for the mountains. They dashed to and fro below him trying to decide what would be worth taking but the effort was farcical. Once Lorrenz was among his mercenaries they continued to rush past him in their mad scramble. He was as invisible as he had always been in this castle, just part of the furniture. The crown askance, his hands raw and throbbing, Lorenz stumbled through the halls of chaos to the mighty oak doors of the entrance. He took the crown, now robbed of meaning, and hurled it so that it bounced along the pavers ringing with long loud notes; quickly snatched up by one of the mercenaries before it had come to a stop.

Lorrenz crossed the shadowy courtyard that the sun could not yet reach over the walls and made for the still half open front gate of the castle. No-one had taken the time to close it: they had no interest in a siege. Once out in the open beyond the walls he was bathed in the pale light of the autumn sun through a thin screen of clouds. He could hear the faint rumble of hooves striking the hard ground over the soft crunch of his boots on the frosted grass. A few minutes passed as he walked onwards between the sparsely scattered trees in front of the castle. Their branches well on their way to wintry nakedness, only holding onto the occasional red or brown leaf. How could he think that he could truly be king?

The column of soldiers crested the shallow rise before him, their hollow cheeks and tired eyes filled Lorrenz with pity. At the column’s head sat Count Orlands with his many chins poking out over his ill fitting chest-plate. His displeased look lingered on Lorrenz for several seconds as he grasped at foggy memories of the boy. None came to mind as he had spent his time at the castle feasting with his back turned towards the bastard prince, except shake his silver goblet above his head rather than verbally demand more wine. He couldn’t waste time emptying his vast and busy mouth.

‘Come to do the right thing have you?’ Orlands asked with surprising nonchalance.

‘Yes.’ he said solemnly, knowing that he was signing away his life. He had gone too far.

‘Good, can’t have a bastard running about when the king and heir are dead. Could have a bastard on the throne if we’re not careful. It’d be an abomination… Go’on string him up.’

They didn’t know about any of what he had done. He was being killed for being born. Lorrenz was dumbfounded. The crowd of soldiers before him showed no interest in his death. Only a handful bothered to watch as he kicked and thrashed, hung from a straggly birch barely able to hold his weight. They could at least have hated him, the way they had hated his beast. But no. Instead they would remember the beast that was never there and continue to kneel at the feet of monsters.


Brendan Hore-Thorburn is an emerging writer who focuses on otherworldly fantasy and science fiction. He is studying a bachelor of arts majoring in ancient history and minoring in creative writing, has published in Macquarie University’s The Quarry and has been highly commended for the Future Leaders Writing Prize.

The Showman, Scott Monk

Photo by Marco ten Hoff on Unsplash

Applause and confetti rained down on the Showman. Thousands and thousands of fans rose to their feet and stood, spellbound, for another five minutes, as he walked to each corner of the stage serving out kisses. Camera phones pop-pop-popped, each reflecting blue light and freezing their owner’s whimsical faces, double chins and yawns. Fathers ushered their families to the aisles with rolled up programmes to beat the traffic, while the majority stayed, half respectfully, half expectantly. Finally, the band riffed and the Showman waved the crowd goodnight.

Backstage, a line formed as the Showman appeared. He pressed hands and smiled for photographs before finally meeting a mother and daughter. His heart sank. The girl, about ten, was shaved bald. Her eyes were defeated and her skin the colour of self-abandonment. The mother was a fusser. No doubt she’d ironed the girl’s clothes, then dragged this poor wretch here, even though the child was clueless about who he was. Now she was prompting her to tell the Showman her story. In detail.

He listened. Patiently, of course. Nodded at the appropriate spots. Caught himself drifting and re-focussed. Was thankful his family wasn’t like theirs.

A female producer with a headset interrupted them and asked to borrow the Showman. The show had to go on.

‘It’s been an honour to meet you,’ the girl said, reaching out to shake the Showman’s hand. Hers was warm but fading.

‘Ask him,’ the mother said, nudging her in the back. ‘What you said to me in the car.’

The Showman looked to his producer and she bent to steer the girl away. ‘Maybe next time.’

‘Ask him,’ the mother insisted.

The girl spoke so softly that she had to repeat herself. ‘What would you say to someone who’s sick like me?’

The Showman glanced down at those surrendered eyes and he felt a flicker of… what?…creeping fear?…mortal insecurity?

‘Believe in yourself, sweetie, and you can overcome anything.’

The producer ushered the pair away, then found the Showman in an editing suite. He was studying the checkerboard of monitors replaying his performance. Cheshire teeth… white. Tonal range… confident. Power dressing… crisp. Make-up?… A tad too orange. ‘Can you lighten my skin tone? We don’t want fifty million viewers thinking I spend all my time in tanning salons. This is one hundred percent Florida!’

The producer cleared her throat. ‘Your ride’s here.’

The Showman glanced at his gold Audemars Piguet timepiece, straightened his silk tie with one quick tug, snapped his bespoke jacket collar then strode in his Louis Vuitton waxed alligators through the rear maze of the stadium.

‘What are the numbers?’ he asked, not breaking stride.

‘Forty.’

He stalled as she handed him the electronic tablet. ‘Four-zero?’

‘Well, thirty-nine with change.’

‘Love offerings?’

‘An extra three.’

‘With change?’

‘No. Flat.’

The Showman’s face glowed as he scrolled through the night’s takings, looking for a mistake – or better yet, an extra zero to carry.

‘Who was on the buckets?’ he asked calmly.

‘Teams D, E and F.’

He slid his hands into his pockets and breathed thinly. ‘Replace them. Put something up on Instagram calling for new volunteers. From now on we always finish with fifty on the books, even if we have to send the buckets around a second time.’

‘Who do you want to –’

‘People with charisma. Women – or even better, young people. Let them be a model to everyone else.’

When the producer raised an eyebrow – just a smidge, but a smidge nonetheless – the Showman softened his tone and shone his immaculate teeth. ‘Look, I know times are tough and everyone is under a lot of pressure, including myself. But we’re doing good work here. World-changing work. You more than most. We just need to pull together and put our best foot forward, and the rewards will come. Don’t you agree?’

Magnanimously, he opened the door, still smiling, then followed her in the loading dock. His face dropped, however, when he saw the black stretch limousine waiting for him.

‘Your driver called in sick,’ the producer said immediately. ‘Appendicitis.’

He held back, then spoke quietly when he pulled her aside. Behind them on the limousine’s hood, sat a rotund Nepalese man in his fifties. He sported a cheap black suit, a bottom-of-the-drawer tie, an orange and pink Dhaka topi on his bald head and a red tilaka between his thick eyebrows. ‘Find another driver with a different car. I can’t go to the airport in that.’

‘We tried. Twice. We even offered to double the fare. But there’re no cars available. All that’s left are taxis…’

The limousine was a peacock on roller skates. The interior discoed with red, blue and green party lights – the kind that turned drunk, snorting passengers into blinking Andy Warhol portraits. Even the number plate danced with small globes, which, mercifully, was simply 2CO R11 and not something horrid like or WATZ UP, GET SUM or I GOTA P. The music system (which he’d asked to turn down) quaked even the surrounding cars, and the air conditioning (which he’d asked to turn up) smelt of cloves and citrus. Factory-made citrus. Worse, the backseats were white leather with a heavy red trim but shaped like the famous giant lips emblem of the Rolling Stones. Want to be swallowed up by Mick Jagger? No thanks.

The Showman had instead chosen the front seat, though now it only added to his distress. Strung along the dashboard were dozens of miniature toys: grinning pigs, pugs, kittens, monkeys, boys, girls, unicorns, pandas, hedgehogs and those ghastly Funko Pops. Most were bobbleheads, and as one, they nodded smugly at the Showman: ‘We know what you’re thinking. Cheerful, eh?’ The only ‘normal’ thing he recognised was the central idol: a statue of the Hindu god Shiva.

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ the driver said with a thick accent into his Bluetooth earpiece. On the other end, a woman spoke in a foreign language, his mobile phone listing her as SHE 01. ‘I’ve got the VIP at the moment. The five other passengers can wait.’

He cancelled the call and eased the limousine to a stop at a red light.

‘You spoke very impressive tonight, sir,’ the driver said.

‘Just drive, please,’ the Showman said.

‘I saw the last twenty minute myself. Many people walked away happy.’

The Showman reached for his mobile but the battery signal flashed red.

‘A man like you must be happy all the time,’ the driver added.

‘Not tonight,’ the Showman said, pocketing his phone.

‘You’re a very popular man, am I correct? I’ve seen you on television. Even back home in Kathmandu, you’re on TV.’

‘I hope so.’

‘Whenever I change the channels, I check up on you. Big stadiums. Big crowds. Big rock bands. Lots of people singing. Happy people. I thought: this man brings lots of joy to the world. Must meet him one day. And here you are!’

‘Look, how long is it to the airport? I really need to – ’

‘Twenty minutes. Thirty max. Your jet has filed a new flight plan. Your producer has everything under control. You’re in safe hands with me.’

The light turned green and the limousine powered forward. There was an awkward pause before the silence weighed too much on the driver.

‘So you’re a priest, sir?’

‘A pastor,’ the Showman said.

‘Are they not the same?’

‘A priest dresses in robes and carries out rites. A pastor is…well, he pastors people.’

‘Sir, my apologies. English is only my third language. What does this word mean? Pastors?’

‘It means you care for others. You counsel them and lead them.’

‘Lead them where?’

‘To God.’

‘Oh! Like Hindu priests. They help people find gods too –’

‘No, to God. The one God.’

‘But they believe in Him too.’

‘I don’t think so,’ the Showman said.

‘Yes, yes, they do. Your God is one of the many gods we Hindus believe in. Look!’
The driver singlehandedly dropped open the heavy glove box to reveal dozens of statues of Brahma, Vishnu, Lakshmi, Buddha, Mary, numerous saints, a ceramic beckoning cat and even Thor. Not some metal Norse representation, but the Marvel action figure.

‘I swap them every few hours,’ the driver said, replacing Shiva on the dashboard with the archangel Raphael. ‘When I need patience, I put Buddha up here. When I need protection, I go with a saint. When I need better fares, I put them all up here!’

‘You can’t do that. That’s – That’s blasphemous!’

‘But very, very profitable!’ the driver laughed, slapping the glove box closed.

The limousine continued through the streets, ghosting large crowds of revellers in its headlights. The caller, SHE 01, rang back. The driver’s conversation was curt. ‘We’re on our way, okay? Tell them it’s not the end of the world.’ He chuckled, ending the call.

‘Sir, you are a man of great wealth, no?’

The Showman sighed. Save me, he thought. ‘I get by.’

‘I heard you speaking to that crowd tonight. You said everyone can get happy. How can I get happy?’

‘You won’t understand.’

‘What wouldn’t I understand, sir?’

‘It’s complicated.’

‘Was it complicated for those people in the stadium tonight?’

The Showman burned. He breathed out then remembered the mantra from his own bestseller: Reward others and you’ll be rewarded.

‘Okay, okay. I’d prefer you come to my church. But it’s a simple secret that’ll change your life.’

‘Why, thank you, sir. Very grateful.’

‘I always encourage people to wake up each day, and to do their best. God is always watching. And when God’s always watching, He’s always expecting. So when you do your part, God will do his part. You following me so far?’

‘Very much, sir.’

‘The problem is, most of us wake up every day thinking we’re not worthy of God’s blessing. We let our emotions tell us we’re not good enough. So we become unhappy. But we are good enough. We’re good people inside. And so we need to live our lives like we’re totally triumphant. God told us to go out and live good lives – and we can only do that if we’re triumphant over our fears and worries, anxiety and pain, poverty and money. He created us to be prosperous, not paupers.’

‘I don’t want to be a pauper, sir.’

‘None of us do. That’s why if we do something good for God, He’ll give it back to us in spades.’

‘Like money?’

‘Money, good health, relationships…you name it. He’ll supply it. He wants you to live in prosperity now.’

‘But how do I do that?’

‘Get a vision for it.’

‘A vision? Like seeing an angel?’

The Showman chuckled. ‘No, friend. Imagine it. Think about what you really want and focus on it. Do everything in your power to make it become real. But most importantly, be generous in your giving.’

‘Giving?’

‘To ministries like mine. God rewards those who reward others.’

The driver changed lanes. ‘So, what you’re saying is: if I want a boat, I should focus on it in my mind, and then give money to you –’

‘– for my ministry to others –’

‘– and then God will reward me with the boat?’

‘Exactly! God wants you to be happy because you are His treasure!’

Expectantly, the Showman glanced at the driver but the man looked perplexed. ‘Sir, forgive me, maybe my English is bad. I’ve read the Bible many times – many times! – and can you tell me where I can find that?’

‘Well…it’s everywhere. I’ve been preaching this for years.’

‘But can you tell me exactly what verses, sir? I’d like to read them myself.’

The Showman reached to Google it, then remembered the flat battery. ‘Trust me. It’s in there,’ he smiled.

‘Forgive me again, sir, but I’m still confused. I’ve read the holy books from all religions, and I’ve written plenty myself, but what about the cross?’

The Showman half-laughed. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Why did Jesus die then? To make us wealthy? He was poor Himself, wasn’t he?’
‘Ah, you see, He died to make us happy –’

‘But if you’re poor, then does that mean God doesn’t love you?’

‘That’s a very simplistic view –’

‘And I heard a passenger say the other day that Jesus died on the cross to save us from the wrath of God because we are sinners. I have to say, sir, I felt anything but happy –’

‘Yes but –’

‘We don’t earn eternal life, but it’s given freely. By Christ alone.’

‘Look!’ the Showman said. ‘The Bible’s a very difficult book to understand. You need years of talking about it to understand it. Just trust yourself and your heart will find the truth.’

The limousine paused at another traffic light and silence ticked between both men. Thankfully, the driver’s mobile phone chirped a third time, flashing with SHE 01 again.

‘He’s ready,’ he answered, his accent gone. ‘No chance of redemption.’

Bewildered, the Showman glanced at the driver, suddenly realising that he was the subject of their conversation. It appeared that the driver had not only grown in confidence, but stature. ‘Who are you?’

‘Why, your biggest fan.’

‘Huh?’

‘The one who’s been with you from the beginning. The one who holds your money bags. The one who whispers in the night: ‘Judas! Judas!’’

‘What?’

‘You know, the Devil in the detail.’

‘Is this a prank? Because if it is –’

‘You don’t know God, friend, but you definitely know me.’

Ignoring the red light, the driver pumped the accelerator and the limousine lurched forward into incoming traffic.

‘Are you crazy?!’ the Showman yelled, grabbing the door. ‘You’re going to kill us both!’

The driver laughed. ‘What? Are you afraid of death?’

Headlights, horns and squealing tyres filled the night air before the limousine exploded in metal and glass. Another car crashed into them and the Showman felt his entire body and soul ricochet.

Moments later, when everything came to a halt, he sat alone in the front seat. Shaken. Bloody. But breathing. The driver had vanished, and later no one admitted actually seeing such a man.

A woman in a tow truck uniform and cap peered down at the Showman through the smashed passenger’s window and whistled. ‘Praise the Lord! You’re alive. It looks like you’ve made a mess of yourself there,’ she said. ‘Hi, by the way. I’m Grace. How can I help you?’

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