The Cavalry is Dead

Chapter 4: A Strange Man Tells Me to Eat a Scone

"We're all going to die," Hettie said.

She stared down at her cold cup of tea; her blonde hair was coming loose, and her pretty summer dress was stained with blood. Jax poked at his tomato quiche with a fork. His mother was taken to bouts of hysterics over the inanest things — mismatched socks, loud chewing, their neighbours accidentally setting fire to the local apple tree again — but this was dire, even for her.

"More tea?" Jax offered.

He held up the teapot. His mother looked at him as if he'd held up a dead kitten. Slowly, Jax lowered the teapot. Heavy footsteps sounded upstairs, followed by the sound of terse voices. His father was entertaining someone in his office. Jax hadn't recognized the stranger, but the fellow had looked big and burly, like the sort of person that shaved his beard with a pocketknife.

"There's cake, too," Jax offered. "Do you want a chocolate tart?"

He pointed to a tray weighed down by miniature carrot cakes, berry tarts, gooseberry trifle and a yellow bar that could have been either lemon or mango. Someone had written "Good luck, Percy!" in celebratory gold icing. Jax wiped it away surreptitiously.

"I loved Percy." His mother's lip wobbled. "He had the most wonderful singing voice."

"I know."

She laced her fingers together. "And he always brought me chocolate from the market. The salted kind, filled with caramel."

Jax smudged the icing some more. "I recall."

"He was such a thoughtful boy." His mother tipped her head back, blinking furiously. "I'm really going to miss him."

"Mum." Jax couldn't keep the alarm out of his voice. "Don't cry."

Good lord, that was the last thing they needed: a bunch of hungry monsters, tumbling through the roof to munch on their faces. No. Better to avoid that. Jax took a deep breath, and his mother copied him, staring hard at a window. Her hands trembled.

"I'm alright," she said.

"Good," Jax said.

He stared down at the smudged icing. Strange, Jax thought, that a name could be erased so easily. Would history remember his cousin? It certainly wouldn't remember him. But then, you had to do something impressive to be remembered. The most impressive thing Jax had ever done was repot a Fire Bush (the burn marks had lasted for weeks).

A door slammed. Heavy footsteps pounded down the stairs.

The stranger burst into the room. He was tall — so tall that Jax had to crane his neck back to look at him — and wearing a fitted black jacket. His nose was slightly squashed, as if it had been punched in a few times. His eyes landed on Jax.

"Do you know who I am, son?"

"Zark," his father muttered, shoving into the room. "This is ridiculous."

The stranger ignored him. "Well, do you?"

Jax glanced at his father. He hoped this wasn't someone important, like the Chancellor of the Exchequer or that guy that won Exerbury Idol last year. But his father was staring at the smudged icing with a clenched jaw. "Er. No."

The stranger nodded, as if he'd expected that. "My name is Commander Romulus Zark. I'm the head of His Majesty's army. Infantry, archers, light cavalry, special forces..." He plucked a lemon square from the table. "Everything is my jurisdiction."

"Right," Jax said politely. "Good for you."

Zark assessed him. "You're awfully small."

Jax blinked. "I... thanks?"