The next day, under a sky heavy with gray rain clouds, Arthur and Simon finally arrived at the heart of Oakendell Shire. The town was a dreary, depressing sight. The buildings were dilapidated, the streets were muddy, and the townsfolk walked with their heads down, their eyes avoiding contact. It was a town that had been bullied into submission.
Arthur went straight to the Magistrate's estate to officially take up his post. The courthouse was dusty and reeked of neglect. As he sat behind the heavy oak desk of the Magistrate, two men entered to pay their official respects.
The first was Deputy Lawrence, a thin, balding man with permanent bags under his eyes and ink-stained fingers. He looked like a man who had given up on hope a long time ago. The second was Captain Carter, the head of the local constabulary. Carter was a thick-necked, red-faced brute who carried a heavy saber and looked at Arthur with thinly veiled contempt, clearly expecting the new Magistrate to be just as easily intimidated or bribed as the last one.
Arthur greeted them with polite but icy formality. He accepted their ledgers, dismissed them quickly, and closed the door. He knew better than to trust the local law enforcement just yet. "A man who trusts the wolves to guard the sheep will soon find himself without a flock," he muttered.
"Simon," Arthur called out.
"Yes, Master Arthur?"
"Tomorrow, I am not wearing the Magistrate's robes. I am going into Thornfield Village to see this Bartholomew Thorne with my own eyes. A rumor is just a rumor until proven by sight. I need to know exactly what kind of beast I am dealing with."
"But sir, is it safe? Should you not take Captain Carter and his men?"
"Carter is likely on their payroll," Arthur replied sharply. "No, I go alone, in disguise."
The following morning, the sun broke through the clouds, casting a golden glow over the countryside. Arthur had completely transformed his appearance. He wore a patched, multi-colored woolen cloak, a wide-brimmed felt hat pulled low over his eyes, and a fake, graying beard attached with theatrical glue. In his leather satchel, he carried a beautifully painted deck of fortune-telling tarot cards, an astrological astrolabe, and several charts mapping the constellations. He looked every bit the part of a traveling mystic and scholar of the occult.
He left Simon at a safe inn near the town border. "Wait for me here. If I am not back by the time the sun dips below the horizon, go straight to the courthouse. Force Deputy Lawrence to rally the guards and march on Thornfield Manor."
"Please be careful, sir," Simon pleaded.
Arthur simply nodded, picked up a wooden walking staff, and began the trek to Thornfield Village.
As he walked, the dreary atmosphere of Oakendell town faded, replaced by breath-taking natural beauty. Thornfield Village was deceptively picturesque. It looked like a painting of a rustic paradise. Crystal-clear streams wound through lush green meadows, lined with weeping willows that dipped their branches into the water. Neat rows of thatched-roof cottages sat behind low stone walls. Sheep grazed peacefully on the hillsides, and the scent of pine and blooming heather filled the crisp autumn air.
It is a beautiful cage, Arthur thought grimly as he walked past fearful villagers who quickly averted their eyes from the stranger. A village of peace, ruled by a tyrant.
He strolled leisurely down the main cobblestone path, loudly clicking a pair of wooden castanets together to draw attention. "Fortunes told! Destinies revealed!" he called out in a theatrical, gravelly voice. "I read the stars! I read the palms! Uncover the secrets of your past and the shadows of your future!"
He walked until he reached the northern end of the village. Here, the quaint cottages gave way to a massive, imposing estate. An enormous wrought-iron gate stood open, revealing a sprawling courtyard paved with imported stone. Standing right in the center of the gateway was a man who looked entirely out of place in the idyllic village.
He was incredibly massive nearly as tall as his brother Liam, but where Liam was built like a heroic statue, this man was built like a tavern brawler. He had a thick neck, a face heavy with excess fat and cruelty, and small, piggish eyes. He wore an expensive but garish navy-blue silk waistcoat and carried an ornate peacock-feather fan, which he flapped lazily. Two nervous-looking servants stood behind him.
This was Bartholomew "Barto" Thorne.
Arthur paused, locking eyes with the brute. He struck a dramatic pose, raising his staff toward the sky. "A face carved by the hands of fate!" Arthur boomed loudly, ensuring Barto heard him. "I see a man of immense power! A blade that cuts through stone! Eyes like lightning, capable of seeing the dragons hiding in the deep! Sir! Let me read the currents of your destiny! I can map your life from the cradle to the grave!"
Barto, who had been standing at his gate feeling utterly bored and harboring a foul mood from a recent dispute over land taxes, raised an eyebrow. He looked the strange, bearded mystic up and down. He enjoyed flattery, and he enjoyed being entertained.
"You got a loud mouth, old man," Barto grunted, snapping his fan shut. He turned to one of his servants, a weaselly looking boy. "Fetch the mystic inside. Let's see if he can actually read the stars, or if I have to feed his tarot cards to the hounds."
The servant scurried over. "The Master invites you in. And you'd better give him a good reading if you want to leave with your teeth intact."
"The stars do not lie, and neither do I," Arthur replied smoothly, following the boy through the iron gates.
The interior of the estate was a display of aggressive, ill-gotten wealth. The courtyard was filled with exotic, imported flowers that didn't belong in the English climate. Past a set of heavy mahogany doors, Arthur was led into a lavish reception hall. Silk tapestries hung from the walls, and a roaring fire crackled in a massive stone hearth.
Barto Thorne sat in a high-backed velvet armchair, a small oak table positioned in front of him holding a silver teapot and porcelain cups. He slouched back, looking at Arthur with an arrogant sneer.
"Sit," Barto commanded, gesturing to a wooden stool across the table. "Tell me my luck. Tell me what the year holds. And it better be good."
Arthur sat down slowly. He reached into his satchel, withdrawing his velvet-wrapped deck of tarot cards and a rolled piece of parchment. He spread the cards out on the table with practiced, elegant movements. He stared intently at Barto's face, narrowing his eyes as if peering into the man's very soul.
"You wish for the truth, My Lord," Arthur began, dropping his voice into a low, hypnotic register. "Then you must be prepared to hear it. You are governed by the elements of Earth and Fire. Your physical stature is grand, imposing. The charts show you were born into strength."
Barto smirked, pouring himself a cup of tea. "Go on. You're right so far."
"However," Arthur's tone suddenly shifted, becoming cold and ominous. He flipped over the first card. It was The Tower, depicted as a stone fortress being struck by violent lightning. "The heavens demand balance. Your mid-life trajectory is... troubled. Your brow carries a heavy shadow. The lines of your face suggest a man who acts on impulse, who listens to no counsel but his own anger."
Barto's smirk vanished. The hand holding his teacup froze.
Arthur flipped a second card. Justice, the scales and the sword. "There is a dark cloud gathering directly above your house of fate, My Lord. I see legal disputes. I see the chains of consequence tightening around your ankles. You are currently surrounded by the dark energy of broken laws and shattered lives."
Arthur leaned in close, his eyes locking onto Barto's piggish stare. "You must exercise extreme caution. You must repent, change your aggressive ways, and seek to mend the damages you have caused. If you do not... a catastrophic disaster will fall upon your head. The law will find you, and you will lose everything. And by then, it will be far too late to regret."
The reception hall fell into a deathly, suffocating silence. The crackling of the fire seemed to amplify in the quiet.
Barto Thorne's face turned a violent shade of purple. The veins in his thick neck bulged. He slowly set his teacup down, his eyes burning with a murderous rage. No one absolutely no one spoke to him like this in his own home.
Before Barto could explode, a slender man stepped out from the shadows near the doorway. It was Colin "The Rat", Barto's most cunning and wicked advisor. Colin possessed a sharp, rat-like face and eyes that gleamed with malice. He leaned down, placing a hand on Barto's shoulder, and whispered rapidly into his master's ear.
Arthur couldn't hear the exact words, but he watched Colin's eyes dart toward him, filled with lethal suspicion.
Barto listened to the whisper. The violent rage on his face slowly morphed into a chilling, psychopathic smile. He glared at Arthur, leaning forward across the table, his massive hands curling into fists.
The trap was closing, and the new Magistrate of Oakendell was sitting right in the center of it.
(To be continued...)