ILLUSTRATION - THE ZENOTHIAN GUARDS APPROACH THE DARK CASTLE
Maximum Mischief snarled and snapped, sulked and skulked in his study at the dark castle, smarting after the humiliating defeat at sea off Angarrad at the hand of his arch-rival and thorn-in-the-side, Buttondrop the Maptoodoo.
The great sea battle between his pirate fleet and Buttondrop’s allies was a catastrophe. He had barely escaped with his life but this was no comfort to him. News would get around about his defeat and he feared the floodgates would open. The thought of any kind of challenge to his carefully cultivated position as the master of mayhem sent him into a rage.
Why had Buttondrop spared his life?
He searched his mind for an answer. He wasn’t used to pity and he never had time for that with anyone else. The idea made him furious. Do-gooders! He hurled an empty wine flask across the room, shattering it into pieces on the stone floor.
Well, we’ll up the ante here, he thought craftily.
He stared out the window of his study onto the castle grounds below in silent thought, his evil mind ticking over feverously.
I still have some resources to play with, he thought. How can I put them to best use?
His wicked thoughts wandered to the township of Hilltopia.
That smug mayor, always running me down to the townsfolk, he fumed.
Hatred welled in him like a cork about to explode from a shaken bottle. His life had read like a lesson in how not to be and how not to live. He had decided from a young age to take revenge on the world for all his troubles, self-made or otherwise. He reacted violently to the slightest perceived insult and lashed out at those nearest to him for no rhyme or reason. In short, just a petty tyrant with a chip on his shoulder.
Looking out over the dark castle grounds, he saw large trees with lush, long branches reaching out over the shrubs and grass below. The surrounds of the great building were ordered and well-kept despite the nasty business conducted there.
A knock at the door wrenched him out of his musing.
“What?” he shouted.
“Master, may I come in. It is I, Clotilda, your devoted one,” she said, grovelling as she let herself into the room.
“What’s on your mind, Master? Am I able to help? What is the master’s pleasure?” she said.
He hesitated at first but then told her of his desire for revenge on the Hilltopians.
She bowed her head in thought for a moment, then she lifted her head slowly and her eyes became clear, focused and cunning.
Perfect but I must let him think it is his idea, she thought.
Clotilda the witch and club-footed Rankle were Mischief’s faithful servants who pandered to his every whim. They had served him for many years, competing with each other for the scraps from their master’s table.
“Yes Master, take away something that means a great deal to them, I am thinking,” she said in the most casual manner she could manage, all the while keeping a close eye on his reaction.
She stared out onto the grounds of the castle, particularly at the huge trees towering above everything. Mischief followed the line of her eyes with suspicion.
Then suddenly, the light-bulb moment.
Walking slowly to the door, he shouted: “Rankle! Get here.”
Mischief told them his plan.
“Master, a most cunning plan, if I do say so myself,” Rankle said, his eyes smiling in admiration.
For that he copped a clip over the ear. The vile smile didn’t leave his face, though.
“We will organise everything,” Clotilda offered.
They parted.
