By Fleedleflump
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
Bark dragged the knife through his victim's belly until it exited his side in a gush of blood. A scream burst from the man's mouth as crimson ropes burst from the wound, winding messily to the floor like snakes escaping an abattoir. He fell to his knees, sobbing and grabbing at his innards in a vain attempt to remain whole. Bark shoved the mortally wounded man to his back, reached into the gory mess of his abdomen, and yanked out another handful of tubes as he shouted at the terrified face.
"Tell me how to open it!" His voice dropped to a whisper. "Tell me, and I'll end this quick."
Parish looked away as his colleague continued the bloody business, shuddering from his very core. He looked up, across the ancient stonework of the walls and hulking Runnwood beams that braced the ceiling. Bookcases lined the room like sentinels, guardians of the knowledge on their shelves. Light was funnelled through the thick walls by narrow windows like arrow slits, their shape designed to stop any direct light from hitting the tomes.
The Library of Antos came from a time before stories began, always a feature in fables. More ancient than civilisation, it was a reference point for all knowledge, and the First Age of modern history was counted from its discovery. Legend had it there were tomes here none could decipher ... as well as the treasures Parish and Bark sought.
Unfortunately, Parish's reverie left him staring at the pile of bodies his colleague was building, littering the floor in their plain, brown robes and horrific injuries. Custodians of the library, their only crime was being here at the wrong time. He sighed and closed his eyes, remembering the plan -- sneak in, take what they needed to buy next season's seed, sneak out again -- and realising Bark never had any intention of completing it peacefully. A fresh scream, wet with terror, sent revulsion rushing through his veins like icicles under the skin.
"By the Moons, Bark, he doesn't know anything -- none of them do. Just put the poor bastard out of his misery!" he turned to see a knife held beneath the librarian's pallid chin, shaking with the rage of the man holding it.
"Moons got nothing to do with this. They can stay out of my way. This is Depths business, and you enlisted. See it through, mare." He sheathed the knife, grabbing the man by his robes and pulling him up so their faces almost touched. "I know there's a room off this one with all the good stuff in it. If you don't tell me where the trigger is to open it, I'll leave you like this while I look, and find it anyway. Only difference is this pain lasts as long as it takes me, 'cause you aren't dying anytime soon. I know how to keep a man alive, boy -- what bits to leave alone, and how to cause the agony."
Parish turned away again as lunch made its way up his windpipe, and something caught his eye -- a book, wrong-looking, as though it lost its way. He strode over, noticing as he approached that its binding didn't have that organic look leather possesses. When he got there, the reason became clear. Drawing his sword, he strode over to his colleague.
"Finally, you join me," started Bark, but he stopped talking when Parish shoved him away from the librarian. "What the?"
"Shut it," said Parish, and stabbed his sword into the dying man's chest.
"Thank you," whispered the librarian as Parish pulled the weapon free. He nodded, holding the man's gaze until his eyes turned to glass. Then he wiped his sword on a small clean patch of the corpse's robe and closed its eyes.
"You bloody idiot," shouted Bark. "He was about to spill."
"He already spilled, thanks to you. I found the trigger."
He strode back to the fake-looking book, which sported a wolf's head emblem on the spine -- the sign of the Duelists. As he'd expected, pulling on the false tome released a mechanism, and the bookcase swung smoothly away from the wall, a section of stone attached to the back. It revealed a small room without windows, coated with more books. In the centre, there was just space for a desk with a single chair and a lamp. Parish squinted, making out a stack of parchment on the desk, resting in two piles as though somebody had been reading through them.
"Books!" roared Bark. "I came all this way for a heap of Depthsworn books? I can't sell these. What a waste of energy." He stormed from the room, snorting in disgust.
Parish sat in the chair and used his flint to spark the lamp to life. Sure enough, it was stocked with oil and ready to light, meaning this document had been of recent interest. He lifted the flipped pages, cradling them after a corner crumbled off, and turned them to see the title:
'Elements of Existence' by Kallim Mantis, court philosopher.
"Court Philosopher?" he mumbled. There hadn't been a court since the first age, more than two millennia ago. He placed the sheets back on the desk with extreme care and read through the exposed page -- something here caused the reader to leave without continuing. The dialect was archaic and obtuse, but it still made sense with minimal interpretation.
"You coming?" said Bark from the door. "We need to go, before a Two Moon patrol catches us. There's nothing here worth taking. Nothing I'm risking duelism for, anyway."
"No, wait. I think this is why there aren't many librarians around. Most of them left in a hurry after they read this." He turned to look his colleague in the face. "This may be a load of turd, but if it isn't, it's worth more than you can imagine. We only need to get it to the right person."
He snorted. "What's an old book got to say that's worth anything? I trust my hands -- what they can make and what they can take. There's no other way in this world."
Parish smiled. "If I'm reading it right, and I think I am, what it says is we're all doomed. It says something bad's coming, and it's been brewing longer than men have been killing. I know exactly who to take this to."
"Fine, but you're carrying it, and I'll beat the snot out of you if it's worthless."
"It's not worthless." He set about collecting the ancient pages. "Those guys you tortured knew that, and if we play this right, I'll prove it to you. Let's go, Brother. I just found our destiny."
*
Insights of Life, Insight 4 -- The Way
Kallim Mantis, Court Philosopher, First Age 115
The transgression of humankind is simply to be.
What grander thought than this? What greater feast on which your dreams to binge? Let us ruminate for a moment upon that concept; that life itself can be a fault. That, simply by existing, a race of beings can so imperil its own existence that it will, irrevocably, become extinct -- such is the flaw in its design.
Perhaps I digress here, but it fascinates me to wonder whether, within humanity, there exists the potential for a change adequate to the task of self-preservation. Do we ever, as a race, truly evolve into something different, or is progress simply the steady clarification of definition? If the latter, as I believe, is the case, then it is a finite journey, culminating either in a terrible stagnation of our species or our chipping away at ourselves so completely that we dwindle to conceptually nothing. As to why this is the case? Put simply; vanity. It is our wilful need to self-govern every aspect of ourselves, as though our miniscule years of experience are better justification than the comparative infinity with which existence is equipped, which so imperils us. Righteousness is the trait which curses our race and condemns us to evolutionary failure. This is what I seek to explain herein.
Life, as we so grandly name it, is governed by a force which I have chosen to call The Way. This, as my name for it suggests, is a descriptive urge which indicates to us how things are, and how they will be. Some would call it Destiny, or Fate, but The Way does not fulfil the philosophical criteria to be labelled with either of those names. It is inexact, indistinct, and somewhat ineffable, though I shall try. For the purposes of illustration, I will describe The Way as a parent to humanity. As a power, it possibly gifts us life and later revokes that gift. It gives us instincts with which to handle any situations we may find ourselves coerced into. As a force, it guides our souls on their intended paths, provides for us a physical and mental environment which nurtures our growth and sense of self, weaving a complex, many-layered cloth from the threads our lives describe.
However -- and this is the key point of my insight -- it is also subject to some of our whims, adapting the method of its implementation based upon our likely susceptibility and perceived need. In terms of such weakness is The Way fallible.
The Way is simply a part of the reality all about us, and functions both with and for us. It is a creation most likely of our shared spiritual awareness; the unstoppable power which emanates from every source of life simultaneously, and the implications which we unconsciously impose upon the definition of existence around us. I fear, however, that this explanation will not be adequately sensible to many humans, nor indeed prove suitably dire a warning. I am unclear even if any force exists which would be. Our very nature leads us not only to seek our own answers to any given questions or mysteries, but also to stubbornly reject the answers given by others of our kind.
I have a fear for humanity. A fear that, subject to our own insistence on self determination, we will cause The Way to flounder, that this may even be an inevitable occurrence in the future of our history. A study of prophetic texts indicates a general consensus that, two ages hence, society will hit a critical node. My research convinces me this is a reference to The Way.
We may bring about the means to our own departure from this world, be it by war or famine, pestilence or sudden, unexplained death. It is philosophically possible for our race to chronically affect this nurturing force, and thereby risk the ultimate closure. Indeed, I believe it is possible for humankind, in its psychological complexity and astonishing proliferation, to break the multitudinous lines of The Way completely. If that should come to pass, and may The Moons see that it does not, then nobody alive can know what will happen.
| Author Notes |
.
. REVIVE: I'm reviving this because I'm about to continue posting chapters! This is one of my oldest stories. I drafted it over ten years ago, but was never fully happy with it. Rather than re-draft, I am writing it completely from scratch, treating the old copy as a plot/character outline. I hope you enjoyed the read :-). Mike . . |
By Fleedleflump
Warning: The author has noted that this contains strong violence.
"I hereby formally challenge you
in the manner of the Duelist.
By the power of the Two Moons,
I propose to you: Lupo Dexus!"
*
The sun crested the Viltna pass and washed over Wolven Demise like a wave bursting a dam. Roger Dunbar - the Black Stallion - winced as its light reflected from his blade, threatening to blind him. He stepped back to cover the momentary lapse in his guard, but his opponent was on him in the time he'd taken to form the thought. One two-pronged fork slid past his guard. It was shaped like a foot-long V, with each point sporting curved back thorns like arrow heads. One of those sliced along Dunbar's forearm, flicking away in an arc of blood.
The crowd surrounding them gasped as he cursed, jumping back and circling, his broadsword now held defensively once again. He glanced at his arm - a criss-cross in red, but that new wound was deeper than the others. The spectators were muttering in a susurrus of excitement, each of them paused in their journeys to watch a duel. The Black Stallion - bloody stupid name - ignored them, determined to focus on the task at hand. His opponent sported many cuts of his own, but Dunbar knew they were nothing. He'd not landed any fight-altering blows.
They circled for a while, staring and daring with their eyes. After the best part of an hour, Dunbar's chest was heaving. His chain mail torso and leg armour didn't help, or his heavy metal boots and gauntlets. Still, he was a large-set man - unlike his opponent - and relied on strength over speed. That meant covering up, waiting for his diminutive opponent to tire, and delivering a crippling strike.
The man opposite was barely five feet tall and so slim he almost disappeared into the sun's rays. He danced in constant motion, shifting from foot to foot, his bare legs and chest rippling with a thin but tightly defined layer of muscle. His mop of blond hair waved above him as he weaved like crops in the wind. The left side of his forehead was dominated by a six-sided red star tattoo, a black sigil of a bird of prey in its centre. Dunbar could feel his own tattoo - a warmer patch where the sweat didn't cool so well - the same star, his with a rearing horse. Marked men, condemned to fight.
Giving no warning, Dunbar lunged forward, swinging his sword in an overhead arc and down towards his opponent's head. Falcon - that seemed to be what the crowd was calling him - hopped backwards neatly and crossed his forks to block the sword blade above him. Dunbar stepped forward, forcing Falcon's arms over his head. Not to be unbalanced, the man darted to one side, releasing the sword from its trap. Dunbar took a swing, but the man was already away, skipping in a broad circle and laughing.
In twenty two duels, this was The Black Stallion's toughest challenge. He was used to two kinds of opponents; those that enjoyed the fight, and those seeking a quick exit from the torture of their existence. Duelism was a harsh, hard life, inflicted by an authority many questioned. Exiled from their home towns, Duelists were tolerated in only the roughest of roadside taverns. A code of honour bade them challenge other Duelists they encountered to mortal combat. Success brought them sustenance and brief shelter in a registered church, along with an ephemeral hope of future acceptance. Morta Siecle - one hundred kills - was their holy quest, though nobody could name anyone who'd managed it.
Dunbar's blade had seen off several criminals who fought with half a heart and almost allowed him to win. Between them came the rough element who knew something about the harder side of life. They fought - some of them well - and died cursing with their last breaths. This Falcon was something else. His pale eyes twinkled with malice, and danger meant nothing to him; in fact, it excited him. The Black Stallion had met only one other opponent like this, and he'd been a stalwart toe-to-toe slugger with a sword similar to his own.
Nobody beat Roger Dunbar in a straight-up fight. This dancing, though ...
Falcon darted in, forks held out to his sides, and slashed them forward in a pincer motion as he closed the space. Dunbar braced his sword horizontally, aiming to block, and the smaller man leapt into the air, spinning as he launched. In a blur of skin and sweat, the last thing Dunbar saw was a foot. It crashed into his jaw, sending his vision to the sky and his senses reeling. He staggered, and as he tilted his head back down, a fork gleamed before him. He jerked backwards, feeling the bite of metal in his face, and swung his sword upwards, one handed, from its lowered position. Fire seared through his mouth in a blur of chrome and a surprised yell issued from Falcon. The crowd cheered.
The two staggered apart, Dunbar feeling his upper lip hanging down across his mouth. Air wafted across bared gums and blood dribbled across his chin and neck. Crimson splashes flecked the point of his sword and he looked at his opponent. Falcon was dabbing the back of one hand at a deep gash in the underside of his chin, eyes so wide the whites showed all round. Dunbar smiled in satisfaction - neither had escaped the exchange unscathed.
"Dirty mare!" squealed Falcon, running once again at his opponent. "I'll pierce your eyes!" He launched a succession of attacks with incredible speed. Forks coming at him from all angles, it was all Dunbar could do to block. The attacks had no precision or technique to them, but their unpredictability made them dangerous. He held the solid blade of his sword upright in the bar position, frantically turning to block the successive blows. Cuts appeared up and down his arms and he staggered backwards. Surely Falcon couldn't keep this up!
Desperation started to show in the slender man's expression as exhaustion flicked in the corners of his eyes. His movements began to falter, wild swings becoming erratic, and it was mere moments before Dunbar got his chance.
As a fork flew particularly wild, he leaned back and raised one leg, lunging forward and planting a steel boot in Falcon's bare chest. As the thin Duelist staggered, almost losing balance, Dunbar advanced, bringing his heavy sword down in repeating overhead arcs. Falcon blocked them all, but his arms were shaking and each blow came closer to his plastered-down blond hair. Dunbar kept swinging, knowing his technique was obvious, and acknowledging his vulnerability to flank strikes if his opponent noticed, but it was a calculated risk. An exhausted, insanely angry man was unlikely given to rational analysis of his enemy's attack patterns. He thundered another blow from above, and another. This time when he raised his sword, a string of blood flew into the air, clumps of pale hair clinging to the globules.
He reached the apex of his swing, reared up for a killing blow, sword almost touching his back, and realised too late his opponent's expression had changed. He'd already committed to the swing, and the next overhead blow was in the hands of his muscles, now an inevitability. Perhaps the pain focused Falcon's mind, but his eyes were once more sane and he looked ready. Sure enough, as the broadsword came down, he reared upward from his beaten crouch, holding a fork back-handed. He angled it to catch the blade as it loomed over his head, deflecting it to one side and twisting his grip to trap the larger man's weapon. As the heavy sword thunked into the dirt, the second fork stabbed forward and triumph shone in the small man's face.
Dunbar saw two metal prongs heading for his eyes, seemingly unstoppable, and knew he would die. In that moment of clarity, he discarded one of the core warrior's principles. Never release your weapon. It was the oldest rule there was, and Falcon was relying on him being a traditional fighter, doggedly trying to free his weapon as a code of conduct doomed him. Dunbar smiled inwardly; he might be turning into an old dog, but he could still learn new tricks. He met that triumphant gaze full on, and let his weapon drop.
Falcon had time to look surprised, then angry. Then it all turned to pain as Dunbar grabbed his advancing wrist, turned to lead the extended arm perpendicular across his own, and yanked downwards, snapping it backwards at the elbow. The sharp, wet crack echoed through the clearing, drawing gasps of imagined pain from the crowd and an ear-piercing scream from the diminutive Duelist.
The bigger man stepped in and cannoned a fist into Falcon's belly. He doubled forward, air exploding from his mouth, and met a metal knee coming in the other direction. As he snapped upright, nose mashed to a crimson pulp, Dunbar slammed a gauntleted fist into his face. Falcon pitched backwards in a cloud of shattered teeth and blood, twisting as he fell, some survival instinct putting his hands beneath him. He roared in agony as his broken elbow folded under the impact, and flopped to his face in the sand.
The Black Stallion retrieved his sword and held it to the back of the other man's neck. "Get up, carcass," he growled. There was no response from Falcon, beyond his breath sending puffs of grey dust away from his mouth. Dunbar sneered. "I'll not kill a fallen man from behind." With that, he turned and walked away.
There was a shuffle and a slow, guttural voice in the crowd shouted, "Look out!"
Dunbar turned, swinging his sword as he twisted, to see Falcon pouncing at him, good arm thrusting a fork at waist height. The broadsword dipped under, round and up, meeting the extended wrist as it accelerated. Metal, nocked but sharper than sunlight, sluiced through flesh and bone, flinging Falcon's hand high into the air, spinning in a pirouette of blood as it still clutched its weapon.
The skinny man stumbled to a standstill, looking dumbfounded at his wrist, spurting rhythmic arterial gore across the sand. Dunbar, anger swelling in his belly, span on his heel, bringing his blade full circle in a level arc, and hacked through Falcon's throat to the spine. The head wobbled, almost unmounted, and the mouth worked without sound as sundered muscles danced in the open neck below. Sickened by the sight, the Black Stallion finished with a final mighty overhead chop, crashing through Falcon's skull from above, driving that mop of hair deep into the brains beneath. Finally, his opponent fell dead to the ground.
A wall of sound went up from the spectators, their excitement finally unleashed. Dunbar thought there must be two hundred of them at least. Wolven Demise was the only clearing along the Viltna pass, and a favoured spot for Duelist encounters. As such, there was rarely a shortage of crowds. Money clinked around his feet, thrown from the appreciative audience - a Duelist's only legal means of income. Larger amounts were exchanged by various members of the crowd as bets caused joy or disappointment.
The Black Stallion held his ruptured lip in place and bowed in all directions, acknowledging that, whilst painful, this had been a profitable bout. Then, as the travellers began to disperse, he walked over to his fallen opponent, limping as he noticed a gash in his leg that hadn't previously registered. He crouched over Falcon's corpse and yanked a gold medallion from round its neck. One side sported the bird of prey sigil whilst the other was blank. Later, he would carve his own emblem into the reverse as proof of his victory.
A shadow fell across his crouched form, and he looked up into the alien face of a Ralieri Tradesperson. Eight feet tall and grey of skin, the Ralieri came from a distant land. With their upturned mouths and large eyes, they were difficult to read, and formidably effective in commercial enterprise. For the most part, they travelled between settlements, peddling goods human traders rarely managed to come by.
"Lupo Dexus," it said in a stilted, gurgling voice. "The duelling of wolves. You play the game well, Black Stallion."
Dunbar smiled. "I'm still getting used to that name." He thought back to the fight. "It was you who called out?"
The trader nodded. "I like a fair fight, and he took advantage of your honour. What is your true given name, Duelist?"
"Roger Dunbar." He offered a hand, which was politely refused, and chuckled. "Do not worry, your lordship - you would have been the first."
The Ralieri's mouth flattened almost straight - an expression Dunbar knew to be a smile. "I am Rhyll, of the Ralieri, and I am no lord. Are you close to your tenure?"
"This was my twenty second victory, so I have seventy eight to go, but it's not all bad." He nudged the body with a toe. "This one was sadistic, and twisted - I could see it in his eyes. At times, there is pleasure to be had in ridding the world of such scum."
"I wish you luck," said Rhyll, "and I am sure that your crime was a provoked one."
Dunbar stood and bowed, for he'd been paid the greatest of available compliments. "Thank you kindly."
The alien mounted its horse - a beast of fully twenty hands - and flicked a large silver coin into the takings pile. It was worth easily double everything already there. "You have needle and thread for your wounds?"
"Yes, and thank you again. You are courteous and generous beyond all requirement."
"Farewell, Black Stallion. We will meet again, when The Way requires and you are more than you are now." With that, the tradesperson rode away, leaving the gory scene to be baked by the burning sun.
| Author Notes |
.
. I hope you enjoyed the chapter :-). Mike . . |
By Fleedleflump
Arran Cartwright sighed in resignation and tried turning his thoughts to anything but his son Xenn. It wasn't easy, even with the deep ache of a long day's work suffusing his muscles. He felt every inch the heavy, bulky wagon builder as he strolled along an outlying residential street in his home town. Reefen Harn was heading into twilight, and he was heading home. He scratched at his chin through the inch-thick beard, wondering when his next commission might come. Only so many people needed wagons in a town this size, and Arran refused to consider the repeat business of the local council.
Reefen Harn was situated in a shallow valley, built around the sedate but reliable river Plaid; a collection of houses which individually appeared almost ramshackle but when put together created a fitting picture of a wood town boasting many different hues of timber. To the south lay an immense stretch of grasslands and to the north the town huddled against a plush, dark green forest like a baby to its mother. It was a roughly circular and reasonably large settlement with a population of around three thousand. Just enough, Arran thought to himself dourly, to have its own damned Church council.
Arran's house, his five minute destination, sat on the Northern outskirts of town, right up against the edge of the forest, and it was a structure to be proud of. All the more so, in fact, because he'd built the place himself twelve years ago, with his newlywed love Melissa giving the instructions. Runnwood, only Runnwood. Runn trees were notoriously difficult to cut down as the wood was incredibly dense. The tree's trunk was narrow, but its branches burst wide in a broad fountain of foliage. Laborious as it was to cut enough sections for an entire structure, it did provide him with by far the strongest and best insulated house in Reefen Harn (barring those of the aristocracy and, of course, church council members). Arran had been just twenty when he built that house, and his wife was expecting their first child: Xenn.
Angry that he'd steered his thoughts back to that subject, Arran felt the strain in his thighs as his footsteps fell more heavily. Xenn had a troubled history, but one Arran had doggedly put down to juvenile exuberance. Still, he had trouble convincing even himself with that explanation these days. Today, there was a new twist to the tale.
To distract himself, Arran took to observing the people walking around him. Did they all have problems like these? Probably. The streets were busy at the moment; it was Home Hour. Added to all the husbands returning from work were many women, who took this time of the day to go about their business around town. During Home Hour, alleyways were not so dark and screams for help could be answered immediately. The wagon builder sighed. Such fear of being out alone had afflicted the ladies of the town steadily more over the years. The streets were undeniably becoming more dangerous. At night, the place was near deserted. Even young men went to the local taverns in groups. Something was slowly happening to this town, and most agreed with the church, putting it down to a breakdown in law and order; a degeneration in society brought about by certain individuals who should be rooted out and punished. That was too easy an explanation, thought Arran, and too sudden. He had no answers of his own, but felt certain of a fundamental belief that society, and humans in general, were not so simple.
He turned a corner and the two-storey abode he shared with his family came into view. Runnwood was a dark, reddish brown in colour, and Arran didn't believe in messing with the natural hues of timber. As such, the house faded into the shadows of twilight, lurking in the darkness as though malicious of intent. He sighed; it seemed every sight was going to turn his thoughts sour. He knew the fiery touch of anger turned to the helpless cold of melancholy, and Arran Cartwright did not do well with melancholy. Damn that boy and his inability to behave!
His mood turned from dark to black when he realised he'd have to tell his wife Melissa about Xenn's transgression. She always knew when he was anxious, so there was no longevity in hiding things from her, much as he wished to spare her the pain.
Caught up in his thoughts, Arran flung open the kitchen door harder than intended, causing a crash as it collided with a worktop. Melissa was standing not three feet away, carrying a stack of clay plates, which she promptly dropped as his entrance startled her. They burst into shards on the floor with a dull, percussive clatter.
"Now look what you-" she started to say, but then saw his expression.
"Is he in?" growled Arran, hating the aggressive edge he heard in his tone. He didn't want Melissa to think it was directed at her, but couldn't control it.
Melissa didn't need to enquire who. "No, he's been out all day."
"Yes; he's been busy." Arran slumped in a high-backed dining chair, allowing his gaze to drop to the table before him. The ache across the back of his neck felt appropriate, and he drew in a deep breath for another sigh. His wife brushed the broken crockery to one side and placed her hands on his shoulders from behind. She dug thumbs into the solid muscles either side of his spine, and pressed the tension upward and out to the sides repeatedly. Arran groaned in relaxation, feeling the stiffness draining away like water from an unplugged bath. When he was breathing evenly and his arms rested rather than bracing, she stepped round the table and took the seat opposite.
She swept long blonde hair from her young but careworn face, reminding him of how proud she was of those locks. The fashionable women around town were cropping their hair short these days, but Melissa knew the way she wanted to be, and Arran loved her fiercely for it. Others might see a chubby woman with a kind smile and always a friendly greeting, but otherwise unremarkable. He saw the woman who completed his picture, shining a light through his darkness. Arran saw his amazing wife. Still, the wood of the table drew his gaze, describing the failings of his life in grains and knots.
Melissa reached across the table and grabbed his clasped hands between hers, drawing them towards her. It forced him to look up or appear foolish, and he looked up immediately. The moment his gaze met her sympathetic eyes, all the anger melted into a mixture of resignation, shame, and anguish. She smiled, thin but genuine.
"What is it that our son has done now?"
Arran exhaled slowly and loudly, spreading his mouth, then inhaled sharply as he replied. "He was caught stealing."
"Not the baker's again?"
"No. If it was a loaf of bread, I would not be so anxious." He freed his entwined hands from each other and gripped those of his wife instead. "It was the armoury, this time. They caught him trying to steal a crossbow." She flinched, but he continued, finishing his prepared speech. "He ran off after the shop owner took it from him, but not before he was recognised."
Melissa leaned back, frowning. "This is getting serious. Are they sure it was him?"
He nodded. "There were witnesses, and I got official notice at the workshop just an hour ago. I think Don was there when it happened; I'll go and see him after dinner."
Now it was his wife's turn to sigh. "Do you think they'll do anything about it?"
"The council?" She nodded, her expression worried, and he nodded back. "They're bound to this time. By law, anything Xenn does until he's fifteen is my responsibility. We can expect a visit in the morning. No doubt they'll want a reparation agreement for civil disruption and potential undetected loss to the authorities. I would guess it'll be a percentage of my income. Huh! I wouldn't mind, but they get all the money; the victims barely get a sniff!"
"Calm down, Arran. That's hardly our concern."
"I suppose. I'm sorry, darling. This is no time for politics, and we can't do anything until he gets back anyway. I'll prepare the table. Dinner smells great."
They both rose from their chairs at the table.
"SARAH!"
"I'm already here, daddy." He jumped and turned to see his seven year old daughter standing in the doorway, wide eyed and innocent in her faded pink dress and straight black hair. Arran put his hands on his hips.
"How long have you been standing there?"
The girl giggled. "Is Xenny being naughty again?"
"Yes," Arran replied, "and I don't want you copying him, understand?" He injected a note of reprimand into his voice but Sarah just grinned back at him and nodded, then moved to take her place at the table. Despite himself, Arran found a smile forming on his own face. It troubled him at times, how his daughter always seemed to know when he wasn't genuinely angry with her.
"Sarah, I thought I told you to put on your new dress, not that old thing. It's too small for you anyway," came Melissa's voice from across the kitchen.
"But mummy, I like this one."
"Well that's not good enough, young lady. As soon as we finish eating, you go upstairs and you change out of it. Arran, I thought you were preparing the table."
"Oh. Sorry, love." Having been momentarily distracted, he rushed to put out cups of table wine and bronze eating utensils. He retrieved some new plates, taking unusual care with them. Melissa served up generous platters of roast boar in rich thick gravy, and the three of them ate in an uneasy silence. Regardless of the trouble he was in, one of their number was missing. Even Sarah remained quiet, apparently subdued by her parents' mood, and Arran missed her tendency to babble every thought that popped into her head. Uncomfortable in the crushing atmosphere, he quickly finished his food and washed it down with the watered red wine. Rising from his chair, he tried to smile in a reassuring manner at his beloved wife and daughter.
"I'm, err ... I'm going over to visit Don, see what he says. Don't wait up for me."
When he closed the door behind him, it sounded like a steel jail booming shut. As he stepped into the open, the cool late evening breeze settled his senses. Arran strolled, closing his eyes to the royal blue of early night, savouring the smells of the mixed forest as he followed its border. The orchestra of insect calls washed over his ears and for a few moments he allowed himself to forget the boring insecurity of reality.
He opened his eyes to see twin crescent moons, their proximitous position and mirrored shape causing them to appear as horns on a bull. To Arran, a straightforward thinker, it was merely a trick of the light. He'd also noticed this particular phenomenon occurred at regular intervals on the calendar, for three days at a time. Most, however, held a more superstitious view - that to notice the spectacle unintentionally was a bad omen, a sign of restless times to come. He smiled to himself. People needed mysteries, and conundrums such as this one were suitably removed from real life and just unsolvable enough to be worth probing.
Don was one such superstist, although to be fair the beliefs came not from common folklore but from the teachings of the continent's dominant faith; the Lord Church of the Two Moons. A widower at forty-four, he was what Arran referred to as a friend rather than merely a mate. Several shared crises had bound them far more closely that any two people usually became. The men had become a comfort and supporting shoulder to each other, never going out or socialising, but passing the hours in deep conversation when they were together. It was enough. At times they would debate, at others confess and confide, at still others simply sit in each other's company. Don was the one person to whom Arran felt a complete sense of trust, something which he rarely gave but took extremely seriously.
Snapping momentarily from his thoughts, Arran glanced to his right at the barely discernible Viltna mountains resting several miles to the south of Reefen Harn. Their existence was an enigmatic one; they seemed to be visibly growing each year, and stories of unusual occurrences within their daunting peaks were bountiful. The mountains were shrouded in state secrecy and a fear which Arran felt was not generated entirely by those who experienced it. He shivered and tried to push the matter from his mind, feeling too much grounded in reality on this day to be considering such things. Mind you, the power of the Lord Church was real, all too real, and he suspected it to be the source, at least in part, of many such mysteries as the Viltna mountains.
*
Melissa sat with Sarah back at the Cartwright home, still at the dinner table, a third cup of wine clasped in her hands and the dirtied tablewear untouched. Neither of them had spoken since Arran left, and Sarah was beginning to pace.
"Mummy?"
"Yes, darling?"
"Why does daddy always go to see Don when he's in a bad mood?"
"He likes talking to Don, that's all."
"But he's just a friend. Why can't he talk to you, or me?"
"Sarah, there's a bond between your father and Don far stronger than you, and I think even they, realise."
"But mummy, how can you know that and not them?"
"Don't worry, my love. It'll come to you as you grow into a woman, then you'll understand. It's one of those things."
"Like hairs, you mean? Kelly said I'd get hairs in all funny places.
Melissa smiled indulgently. "Yes, like hairs, but I think you have a few years to go yet, Sarah."
"That's what you always say."
"Well, it's always true. Now, let's get these dishes cleaned away shall we? Then you can get to bed, and tomorrow you put on a new dress or I'm throwing that one out."
"Life isn't fair," huffed the seven year old.
"Life isn't supposed to be fair, Sarah," replied her mother. "Life just is."
| Author Notes |
.
. I hope you enjoyed the read :-). From the next chapter I'll put character notes here to help readers keep track. Mike . . |
By Fleedleflump
Almost before he realised it, Arran was approaching the front door of Don's home; an aging stone cottage at the North Eastern edge of town. Light shone in a square shaft from the window of the front room, beaming like a moon ray in the night. Arran moved to knock, but the door opened before he got a chance.
"Saw you coming," said Don. His simple, uncoloured clothing hung loosely from a barrel chest and broad shoulders. Although he never spoke of his earlier life, Arran was sure Don had been some form of lumberjack or stonemason, and he kept himself in shape. They clasped hands briefly and moved inside, Arran noticing as he always did that his friend's home was warm and cosy even though he was the only occupant. In his mid forties, Don was already mostly grey. He acted old too, and often claimed that he'd aged early. In Arran's mind cause and effect had become the same thing, but Don remained adamant.
"If I was built like you, Don, I don't think I'd moan about being old."
His friend chuckled. "Where did that come from?"
"It's that crushing handshake of yours - makes a man think."
Don clasped one large hand on Arran's shoulder and squeezed. "You're not exactly wasting away yourself, my friend. You build more than wagons with that profession of yours."
Arran smiled and nodded, placing his cold hand over Don's warm one. "I feel the need for your counsel tonight."
"You shouldn't be out, Arran. The Moons shine evil."
"Come on, Don," he sighed, "you know I don't believe in all that stuff."
"Well, I have to keep on trying, even if I know I'll never convert you. One day, though. One day something will happen to change your mind. I wouldn't be so pious if I didn't have my reasons. You know that."
"Look, I don't have any reasons to be pious, Don, even if you do. Besides, I'm not here for a theological debate." They seated themselves comfortably in Don's sparsely furnished study, amidst expensive books and huge volumes which the bachelor himself had laboriously committed to paper over the years. Their eyes met, and something unspoken passed between them.
"So, you've come about your son, then."
"Yes. I was told you were there when he was caught today. He hasn't been home yet, so I'd like to hear the story from an unbiased viewpoint before I take any action. Some sage advice might not go amiss either," he admitted wryly. "I have difficulty thinking clearly or rationally at times like this."
His friend sat back slowly, a concern refracted in his expression that Arran sensed went deeper than contemplation of a single robbery attempt. "If I were you, I'd treat this matter very seriously indeed. Of this robbery business today, there really isn't much to say. I was at Jeff Rayson's place buying some hunting arrows when your boy walked in, all furtive and nervous looking. Before I had time to say anything, he grabbed a crossbow and ran for it. Of course, Jeff caught him easily and reclaimed his merchandise. It wasn't the theft that bothered me, though."
Arran leaned forward. "What then?"
"It was the look in Xenn's eyes when he was caught. Jeff grabbed his arm and yanked him round and ... Well; I swear if that crossbow had been loaded, your son would have pulled the trigger. Believe me, I've seen that expression before, and there is no doubt in my mind. The look was only momentary, but it lasted just long enough to be lethal."
Arran sighed heavily and leaned back again. His right hand came up almost of its own volition to rub his chin through the black beard. If anybody but Don had said what he just had, Arran would already have left in anger at what he'd heard. His friend, though, tempered his temper and instead made him contemplative. For the first time in ages, he felt helpless in the face of events that looked as though they might spiral way beyond his ability to control them.
Don spoke, snapping him from his reverie just before his mood darkened further. "My only thought, and I'm not saying you should necessarily do it mind, is that you could disown Xenn."
Arran's hands braced on the arms of his chair, knuckles white, and he began to rise, but Don was having none of it. He pointed hard at his oldest friend, his voice deep and authoritative.
"No, Arran. Hear me out. Sit back. Go on, sit back down. You know I'm not considered the nicest of people, and it's true I'm not. But I'm pragmatic, and you know it. What I'm doing is making an unbiased, practical suggestion; exactly what you asked me to do, if you remember. Disownership is the only way to fully absolve you of responsibility for his actions. At some point in the future, sooner or later, that boy is going to kill somebody." His eyebrows knitted, creating a sense of emphasis. "It's not your place to risk being blamed."
Arran squeezed the arms of his chair. "It's exactly my place, Don. He's my son. I raised him, I tutored him, and I took responsibility for seeing him through to adulthood. He's almost there, Moons damn it! Next year, he takes up an apprenticeship and a man's place in the world."
"Let's say I agree with you." Don sat forward, matching gazes with his friend. "Just like the law says, you are responsible for Xenn's actions until next year. Tell me; what did you do wrong? What part of raising your son did you fail at so spectacularly that his aberrant behaviour sits squarely on your shoulders?"
Arran thought for a long time, first gazing at Don's earnest face, then at the well-maintained rug on the floor. The fire crackled gently, washing blankets of warmth across his shoulders, but it didn't stop him wanting to shiver. He watched the early years of his son through a haze of memory; played, taught, disciplined and loved. So far as he could see, Xenn's time with his family had been ideal. What went wrong?
"I'm betting you can't find anything to blame yourself for," said Don quietly, "and it's eating you up, but it shouldn't. You love that boy - you always have - and whatever happened to him, it's something outside your control. I know it sounds harsh, my friend, but you don't owe Xenn anything."
"He's fourteen, Don. He doesn't understand the consequences of being how he is."
"He's fourteen, Arran - he knows exactly what he's doing. He shouldn't need a fear of consequences to stop him doing it. It's driven from within - he has a killer's instinct and he doesn't have the social conscience to stop him indulging it. I've never been more serious. Xenn is a murderer in the making, and when it happens you won't be looking at a slight loss of earnings. Arran. You'll be looking at Duelism."
*
He opened eyes that felt like entire deserts had taken up residence. A gravelly groan croaked from his throat, rattling around what sounded like a small, enclosed space. His body felt stiff - solid and straight like a tree trunk lain across the ground. He raised a hand to massage an aching face and the joints in his shoulder and elbow creaked. The hand was calloused and scarred, but more than that. Lines creased and withered the skin.
I'm old. "When did that happen?"
No answer came; he was alone. With a grunt of exertion, he pushed himself to a sitting position. Legs dangled from the edge of a small cot, he realised he was in a tiny room, big enough only for the bed he occupied, a small table with a scroll on it, and a chest taking up most of the remaining floor. Beyond that, the outline of a door showed in the dark grey stone of the walls, and a tiny hole above his position admitted the light of dawn or dusk. A scabbarded sword rested against the table, unassuming but powerful.
Everything hurt - he felt like someone poured fire down his throat, and it spread to every part. He needed water, and a small cup on the table promised as much but bore only the successive dusky rings of slow evaporation.
How long have I been asleep?
He leaned forward for the rolled parchment, fixed with a blob of red wax, pressed with a six-sided star. Muscles flexed in his legs and across his stomach as he moved - he might be old, but he was in good condition and built like a stallion.
Something sparked in his head, a fizz of excitement. An almost-caught recollection buzzed around his mind like a trapped bee. The wax seal snapped easily, brittle with age, revealing a brief note:
Pick up the sword. If you still don't remember after that, you're no use to me.
He shrugged, dropping the scroll back on the table, and reached for the sword. The grip felt worn but sure in his hand, a perfect fit for his palm. It was four feet long in the blade, and broad. As he slipped it easily from the scabbard, he saw serrations along both sides of the point, extending six inches towards the hilt on a curved taper. This was a hand-and-a-half sword, for which fighters had a more colourful name. Bastard sword.
Despite its significant weight, he wielded it well in a single fist, though the hilt was long enough for a second hand when firmer grip was required. The whole weapon was immaculately maintained, polished and oiled like new, but sporting enough marks along the blade and digs in the leather-wrapped grip to indicate significant use. It was then he noticed the pommel; a raised disc between the hilt and blade. Embossed on it was a symbol almost as famous as the group of people it belonged to. A rearing stallion, blackened and proud.
He felt a smile crawl across his face, cracking lips as dry as old bones, as memories returned. He remembered writing the note, and the pact he made with an alien friend. This was his sword, and he had a mission.
"So," he whispered. "It's time."
*
"Who dreamt up Duelism anyway?" Suddenly the idea seemed ridiculous to Arran. "What a damned stupid punishment."
Don smiled, but there was little humour in it. "The Moonfathers, in Second Age Two Hundred and Eighty Two. The Lord Church of the Two Moons had just seized power - violently - and they needed something to demonstrate their ideology, to give the populace a reason to support them. They'd gone from being the widespread faith to the system of government - not an easy transition."
"So they do that," snorted Arran, "by forcing criminals to fight one another in public? Where's the logic in that?"
"Bear in mind, the old system was a feudal arrangement of liege lords and provinces. The aristocracy don't give a Depths' breath for the peasants or justice. Anyone committing a crime, or even suspected of it, was simply executed, along with any friends or family who objected. Compared to that, the church's system was positively humanitarian. Add to that their willingness - some might say eagerness - to prosecute the nobility, and the Lord Church made a fast friend of the population. All thanks to Duelism."
"And you can be free again, for all time, if only you murder a hundred people with your bare hands; that's how you prove what a balanced, reformed member of society you can be."
Don rocked back in his chair, laughing from his belly. "You have a troublesome way of phrasing things, my friend. Don't let the church guards hear you talking like that. You missed the point. Morta Siecle isn't murdering a hundred people, it's executing a hundred convicted criminals, but in a manner that gives them a fighting chance."
"That's semantics."
"No, Arran. That's government."
He sighed, dropping his forearms to his knees and his head between them. "So my choices are to disown my son, or end up wandering the world, cast out from my home town, praying to the Moons I manage to win a hundred rounds of mortal combat in a row."
"You could always go pro like the Black Stallion - keep going after you reach a hundred as a service to the church."
Arran snorted. "What did he reach? Seven hundred, seven fifty?"
"Something like that."
"He was an exception, Don. Think about it; have you ever heard of anyone else reaching their tenure, of even a single Duelist from the last eight hundred years that's won freedom?"
A cloud loomed across his friend's expression. "Rumour has it there's one alive right now, hiding somewhere from government forces. He's no friend to anyone, though, and word is he's twisted the rules to his own advantage."
"I think I want to meet him, get some tips before my inevitable fall."
"No. If he's as bad as people say, you really don't."
| Author Notes |
.
. I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Characters so far: Bark & Parish - thieves who discover a prophetic text about a force called The Way that lies in jeopardy. Roger Dunbar, aka The Black Stallion - the most famous and successful Duelist ever. Rhyll - a Ralieri tradesperson, mysterious and friend to Roger Dunbar. Arran Carwright - a troubled wagon builder, suspicious of authority. Melissa and Sarah Cartwright - wife and young daughter of Arran. DonFriend and confidant of Arran. . . |
By Fleedleflump
Warning: The author has noted that this contains strong violence.
Skull. He rolled the name around on his mental tongue, contemplating its ramifications. Usually, his label appealed to him, but sometimes it just served to make him angry. Such a long time ago, the Moonfather had provided that ridiculous appendage; the Moonfather, in all his pathetic, hypocritical, soul searching wisdom and self-appointed sense of right. The assigned name of a duelist supposedly came from the essence of their personality. Skull wondered; did the name Skull truly reflect his basic character, or was it merely that he'd - over the years - moulded himself unconsciously to suit it? He had, after all, been called it now for almost as long as he could remember. The answer was unclear, and all the defining lines were blurred. Was anything ever as simple as one thing or the other? No, he thought. Everything would always be a little bit of both. Basic reality, bloody frustrating.
A noise sounded, demanding attention, and he lifted his head from its thinking position, the chin resting in his cupped palm. He ran a hand over his large, balding pate, sweeping a thin film of sweat to the floor in a cascade of droplets. Skull thought of his head as being the shape of a conical - rounded and coming from a wide top down to a point beneath his mouth. He liked the impression of his countenance; a sunken face with a flat, wide nose, and a thin mouth with small lips, usually pursed to make him appear ever annoyed, partially by intent. By contrast, he'd been told his eyes were quick, almost feral in their frantic activity, seeming to bulge somehow from his face in their fullness and inner light. He'd killed the concubine that said that, but often savoured her words. One originally blue-grey iris was drowned in crimson; his left eye permanently bloodshot after a government crossbow bolt swept through it with its feathers.
The noise sounded again, sharp and hollow, echoing several times, constantly in canon with itself as it clacked repeatedly. Footsteps, approaching the cavern. Skull glanced around momentarily at the voluminous stone-enclosed area. A vast underground cave, converted for habitation, rose around him. He sat on a natural rise in his throne, against what was usually referred to as the rear wall. The floor was suitably flat, and the semi-sphere of the rest of the cave contained three entrances. All three of these were perfectly visible from Skull's position, and none of the heavy, sharp stalactites hung above him; a satisfactory state of affairs, and no accident. A long shadow jerked progressively through the opening to his left, skinny and formless, and he stood to welcome his one and only adviser.
Moments later, Preacher followed his shadow into the chamber, six feet tall but almost skeletal. His face was tight and angular, a huge pointed nose giving him an almost bird-like appearance. He wore a burgundy red floor-length robe of thickest velvet, and Skull thought he looked like a massive, walking candle, his head the flame. His forehead sported a duelist tattoo embossed with a representation of praying hands rendered in purest black. He took a carefully significant time to acknowledge Skull, as he always did. When his eyes raised, their blueness was alert and clever, darting and staring. They alighted on Skull's gaze sporadically, ever so briefly, never resting on any one place or thing for any longer than was necessary to identify and analyse it.
Preacher looked up and gave a barely perceptible nod of his bare, domed head. "My Lord."
Skull sat back down and nodded in return, low enough to reveal the night blue twin horn crescent tattoo on the top of his head, set several inches above his red star which in turn was embossed with a disturbingly detailed white skull. "Preacher," he answered.
The adviser smiled his acknowledgement of the unspoken warning and produced his hands, apparently from nowhere, to fold together before him as he spoke. "Three matters require your attention, my lord. Firstly, your daily prophecy did not go as usual today. Something is happening. An event of major importance is on the proverbial horizon. If the omens speak true, it could threaten you."
Skull said, "Tell me." He leaned forward, intrigued. His adviser, at Skull's behest, made a daily forecast of possible future events, but rarely spoke of what he discovered. Skull had long ago given up wondering whether or not Preacher truly used his genuine mystical abilities or was simply highly empathic regarding the current political and social climate. In the end, he always found it more comforting to think of his adviser merely as a highly acute barometer of people. Skull dabbled occasionally in the Arts himself, although he kept it a closely guarded secret. Let his adviser bask in imagined power.
If Preacher was bothered enough to speak of the daily prophecy, then he'd either discovered a matter of some significance, or was playing one of his psychological games. Either way, it could prove interesting - boredom was Skull's least liked enemy. His adviser took as tentative a seat as was possible on the edge of the rise beneath the throne, and Skull sat back into it, playing out their usual ritual. The chair's arms and decoration of human bone enfolded their lord, creating from him an image of death reanimated. The Bone Lord smiled. He found the throne corny, but a necessary visual metaphor, designed to instantly instil the desired emotions in any visitors; willing or otherwise. Preacher fiddled silently with the hem of his robe and waited for his master. Skull waited until the silence was uncomfortable before repeating his request.
"Tell me."
Preacher cleared his throat, and intoned:
"One comes, one both of dark and light. He has a mind of cold but a heart of great warmth. He fights within himself. He will be the Lion. Alone he is insignificant, but he is an icon representing a great upheaval of our time. He must be stopped quickly. The Lion must die before he can exert the authority which time will make rightfully his. Once he inherits his destiny, he will be unstoppable. It is inevitable."
"Who?" asked Skull, his hand clamping on an ancient femur in his armrest.
Preacher sagged within his robe, as if recounting the prophecy had been a great strain. "I don't know."
Though it surprised even him, Skull wasn't angry with the reply. Indeed, he found himself intrigued and excited by the prospect of a challenge; something he hadn't faced for far too long. If this man was to inherit power, and he was stopped before that came to pass, could not that power then be transferred to another - was it not the way of things? Any such potential, even something so flimsy as future and destiny, would not simply dissipate, but would need to find an outlet similar to that for which it was originally intended.
Perhaps, perhaps not. Such power was always worth fighting for, though, and even if Skull could never make it his own, trying was bound to be, well, fun.
"If you don't know who we're looking for, Preacher," he said eventually, "then we shall have to find out." He looked down at his clothing - all baldrics and knife belts - and selected a heavy dirk from a hip scabbard. This he clutched in his left hand and drew slowly across his palm. Blood ran from the long wound, and he smeared it across the entire surface of the blade. Then he took the long dagger and rammed it hilt deep into the base of his throne of death. Preacher shivered visibly, as though a chill passed through him. Skull's pupils raised and met those of his adviser.
"I like the world just the way it is. My oath is given. The Lion will die."
*
Rhyll snorted and stopped in his tracks as a spike of awareness fired through his mind. Another Ralieri almost crashed into him and they exchanged apologies. He took a perch on the poles set along the main thoroughfare he'd been traversing. It connected two districts of Aktos, the capital of Raleria. Somewhere in the North, where the humans dwelled, a promise had been made.
Blue-grey bodies sped to and fro before him, but Rhyll saw another kind of person; a friend with whom he shared a pact. Somewhere, the Black Stallion would be rousing, and their part in the game to come was just beginning. He felt a smile turn his mouth flat and a shiver of excitement zip through his long, narrow body. The Way was pulling at him like a noose around his thoughts.
It was time for a journey. Destiny called.
*
Skull re-seated himself, having bandaged his hand. The melancholy he'd been feeling evaporated like sweat into the sun - today was a good day, after all, and Skull was the best name any duelist could ask for. He glanced at Preacher, who was fidgeting nervously as he always did, stiff with anxiety when awaiting the attention of his lord.
"Adviser?"
"Yes, Lord?"
"Is it a pleasant, clear night outside?"
Preacher's face was the very picture of 'blank'. "I cannot answer, master, for I have been inside the caves carrying out my duties since mid afternoon. I could send somebody...?"
"No, don't bother," sighed the Bone Lord. "What else would you bring to my attention?"
"Ah yes." The tension seemed to drain from Preacher the moment he was pushed back to matters he controlled. Skull wondered when the man last felt fresh air - he was always lurking somewhere in the cave complex. The weather question always unnerved him, which was exactly why Skull liked asking it. "We caught another young duelist roaming close by; he probably came to challenge you. Blood managed to gag him before he could issue anything formal, so he is ready at your leisure."
Skull's spirits lifted even further; another kill to add to his collection! Blood - his least untrustworthy companion - did, of course, have to accept any challenges which were successfully issued to him (and, Skull suspected, those of people whose nose his friend took a disliking to). However, he usually managed to gag potential opponents and bring them into the caves for the Bone Lord.
"Have him brought in, adviser."
Preacher pulled a bell cord on the west wall and shortly a metallic approach could be heard; stiff, clipped, strikingly even strides with precision and rhythm. Blood marched into view seconds behind his footsteps, dragging by the arm a young man of medium build with a large brow and a thick, unruly mop of brown hair. He stumbled and staggered as he tried unsuccessfully to keep up properly with his captor. A gag wrenched his cheeks back into a painful gurn and tears flecked his reddened cheeks. The youth glanced at the Bone Lord and his eyes widened. He emitted a groaning sound.
Skull grinned and looked the stranger straight in the face for a while as he was dragged to a position before his throne. Then he leaned forward, dropped the humour, and scowled. He was well practiced at this expression, and knew the effect it had.
"Number four hundred and ninety four," he whispered. "That's all you are to me, boy." His voice repeated itself eerily in the dank presence of the cavern, echoing with menacing cadence. "Do you understand?"
A nod.
"Good." He reached down one arm of his throne and lifted a crossbow from the floor beside it. The captive began struggling, but there was no way he could break the cast iron grip of Blood. Skull took careful aim and placed his finger on the trigger, delighting in the sensations racing through his stomach as his victim did the ragged dance of fear. Then a thought occurred to him. He sighed and lowered the weapon, gesturing to Blood. "Ungag him."
The man gasped deeply as his mouth was released, angry red welts on his skin giving testimony to just how tight the restraint had been tied. He tried to say something, but his mouth just moved, emitting a succession of croaks and grunts. Skull leaned forward and smiled at his target.
"I'm sure you'll appreciate, I have to do things properly. What's your emblem, boy?"
He couldn't answer, merely croaking, so Blood pulled back a lock of hair and examined the red star tattoo on the large forehead. He turned back to the Bone Lord, his stern features as iron as any of his armour.
"It appears to be some kind of flower, Lord."
"Well, well, a bit of a pansy are you?"
"Orr... Ork..." The man gave up, ducking his head as he failed to speak.
Preacher stepped in. "I think he's attempting to say 'Orchid', my lord. Perhaps he is a poet, or artist of some description."
Skull grimaced. "Ugh. Really? That's going to leave a nasty taste in my mouth." He turned his attention back to Orchid and arranged what he considered to be a serious expression. Then he issued the Challenge:
"I hereby formally challenge you
In the manner blah blah.
By the power blah blah,
blah blah: Lupo Dexus! Okay?"
He took aim again, enjoying the stunned look on the young man's face at such blatant disregard of the honour code, but once more paused and relaxed slightly. "Where do you keep your medallion, boy?"
"Rou... round my neck," came the croacked reply.
"Ah." Skull tensed, breathed, released, and shot Orchid in the face with his crossbow. The bolt slammed through his mouth, pinning his jaw to the throat beneath it, and wrenching his head off to a jaunty angle as it smashed his spine. The body toppled back, instantly lifeless. Blood reached an iron hand inside the corpse's tunic and tugged off the gleaming duelist medallion, throwing it to his lord.
"Phew!" said Skull, catching it cleanly, "I was about to shoot him in the chest." He pulled an aged and ragged-looking stamp from within his throne and rammed a skull into the blank reverse side of the Orchid medallion. He surveyed his subjects; Preacher fidgeting with his hands, looking on, and Blood's metal-wreathed form dragging the body off to one side.
"It is truly amazing," he lamented to himself, exaggerating his manner wildly, "that some of these people have ever committed an offence worthy of Duelism. I mean, what did he do; kill somebody with a particularly bad poetry recital?" He smiled. "I wouldn't mind so much if they were actually fun to kill, but they're no challenge, just useless romantics who mistakenly believe they can do the world some good." He shook his head to clear it, bringing himself back to the matters at hand. "Adviser?"
"Yes, lord?"
"You said that there were three matters."
"Mmm, yes. One of your concubines, Zita, has a son of teachable age. She wishes to request his release for adoption so that he may learn a craft and an honest living."
Preacher's tone sounded almost approving.
"Zita?" asked Skull. Preacher nodded, while his lord felt somewhat perplexed. "Yes, bring her in."
Preacher shuffled over to pull another bell cord, and Skull was left to wonder. Zita was his favourite; a rose among women - his own private little sun, as he liked to say. Her leather-toned skin and deep set eyes distracted him greatly, and she was a regular visitor to his bed. He was surprised to learn she had a son, and even more surprised to discover she was old enough to have a son of teachable maturity. Disturbing, he thought, although perhaps only to his pride.
Suddenly she was before him, a boy of six or seven standing beneath her hand. Her rather inadequate chiffon made Skull feel immediately awkward, so he focused his attention instead on the child... and stopped dead in place.
"Kevin," advised his adviser.
The Bone Lord didn't even twitch. Kevin was, without a doubt, the ugliest child he'd ever set eyes on - in every way. It defied even mental description. He spent a few moments seeking the words to describe the vision before him. Nothing he summoned could conceivably make the boy uglier in any way. He transferred his shocked gaze from the child back to his favourite concubine, and was immediately fighting a battle not to fall irrevocably into her gaze. He made sure that he had her attention, and pointed a shaking finger at Kevin.
"That came from between your legs?" Her mouth dropped open in clear affront, but she remained quiet, just nodding. "Moons!" He looked down at his lap in horror. "That's the last time you share my bed, woman!" Zita just stared at him, apparently unable to close her mouth.
Preacher stepped in front of her, fingers dancing with themselves in a frenzy, commanding his lord's attention. "The boy, sir?"
Skull flinched, then focused on his adviser, relief sweeping through him that he couldn't see the boy any more, and waved his hand dismissively. "Yes, yes, let him go, but she goes with him. Blood! See to it."
"Of course, my lord."
Zita's soft tan features were impassive beneath her elbow-length black hair that curled and twisted its way over her shoulders. Her eyes looked set; what colour were they? Skull could never quite decide. They swallowed his attention so completely that detail no longer mattered, only existence; orbs of power, if ever such things existed. Blood grasped her arm urgently, and she went with him calmly, without a word.
Skull slumped in his bone throne, resigning himself to the search for a new favourite. Slowly, inexorably, his mind wandered back to the first matter brought to his attention today - the prophecy. One came; but who? Somebody of which he knew, or an unknown quantity? Few or none that he'd encountered could threaten him, even should he choose to fight fairly. An idea occurred to him, and he felt himself stir involuntarily with the beginnings of arousal.
"Preacher?" he asked, tossing his latest medallion to his adviser.
"Yes lord?"
"See that this is handed in for me at the local church. Now, this one that comes. I've had an idea. Do you think it might be the return of the Black Stallion - I've heard reports that he may still be alive?"
"It is unlikely lord, but possible. If the Black Stallion lives, he may reside in Raleria. We should post a spy."
"Raleria? Sounds like a groin disease."
Preacher's mouth twitched slightly. "You would know it as Rhambia. Far to the South; the home of the Ralieri tradespeople. If you remember, the Black Stallion is said to have made a friend of one of that race during his time as a duelist and hunter for the church."
"Yes, I remember. See to that lookout spy. If he's important to what's happening, I want to know about it before he does. Maybe he'll constitute my five hundredth kill."
Roger Dunbar. The Black Stallion. The most successful duelist ever to live. A legend ... possibly a living legend. He jostled himself into a more comfortable position, considering what such a duel would be like, following the thought to its most romanticised lengths. Stallion versus Skull; power and stamina versus death and decay. An interesting playoff - two forces never meant to co-exist. Truly the battle of a lifetime! Then he, Skull, the Bone Lord, would become the most famous duelist in history. The man who killed Roger Dunbar. Roger Dunbar.
"Adviser," he muttered, suddenly troubled. "What is my true given name - I forget?"
"Verack, my lord."
"Ah, yes. What is yours, Preacher?"
"I have absolutely no idea, lord."
"Good. That is good. You may go."
| Author Notes |
.
. I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Characters so far: Bark & Parish - thieves who discover a prophetic text about a force called The Way that lies in jeopardy. Roger Dunbar, aka The Black Stallion - the most famous and successful Duelist ever. Rhyll - a Ralieri tradesperson, mysterious and friend to Roger Dunbar. Skull - Nasty bastard Duelist, sarcastic and intelligent. Preacher - Weedy duelist, adviser to Skull. Blood - Formal duelist, always in metal armour, companion of Skull. Arran Carwright - a troubled wagon builder, suspicious of authority. Melissa and Sarah Cartwright - wife and young daughter of Arran. Don - Friend and confidant of Arran. . . |
By Fleedleflump
The blade sliced through warm air, dusk's amber light flickering along its length like shooting stars. His muscles gloried in the sensation of release as his arm straightened, every ounce of strength focused on this one swing. Aim slightly past where you want to connect - that way, you'll strike with full momentum. The waning day blinded him as he turned but it didn't matter. The sword connected, chopping into his target, and a severed head tumbled through the air in the wake of his blow.
Barlon smiled through the cloud of ruptured straw, and then flinched as a piece drifted into his eye. His decapitated scarecrow wobbled in its support, the head mocking him from the floor with a smug, inanimate expression.
"Shut up," he muttered, blinking madly. "I still killed you."
He sheathed the sword and spent some time chasing straw fragments from his bare chest, teasing them from the ridges between muscles. Barlon was proud of his solid figure, but decided a shirt would be a good idea next time he made war on his pest deterrents.
A clapping sound drew his gaze to Rhianne, who approached with a broad grin, her eyes focused somewhere beneath his chin. "You showed that straw man!" she said, her deep brown eyes flashing with mischief.
Barlon smiled in return, admiring the curves that gave shape to her thin dress. "He deserved it - he was mocking me."
"Shut up and kiss me." She curled an elbow round his neck and pressed her lips to his. She had a warm, luscious mouth, firm yet pliant, and he responded urgently. One hand slipping into her brunette hair, he moved against her, his other hand following her waist's shape to grasp at the small of her back. Her tongue flicked against his as their lips slid back and forth and he felt fire smouldering in his abdomen. She hooked one knee over his hip and moaned. "You're just too good, baby."
He clasped her bottom and hoisted her up so her ankles locked behind him, and held her while they kissed some more. Rhianne was fire to his blood, and Barlon could never resist a chance to touch her. He tracked kisses down the side of her neck and pressed his lips to the crook of her shoulder. She let her head roll back so he could follow the line of her collar with his mouth, ending in the sweet spot behind her jaw on the other side. Barlon felt her legs clamp harder into his back, and suddenly she giggled.
"Oh baby, that feels hard."
He breathed in her ear. "That's because it's my sword hilt. What say we retreat to my cabin, fair maiden, and discover how much competition it has?"
"Whatever you say, Lord Barlon."
With some reluctance, they disentangled and ran, hand in hand, from the field he'd been using for sword practice. Through a short stretch of woods and down a hill to the outskirts of Makerest village, they went, giggling and casting grins at one another. Home was a large reinforced log cabin, passed down through the family for generations. It became Barlon's upon the death of his mother when he was sixteen, and he'd lived and worked there in the year since.
The two lovers burst through the front door, made it successfully through the hallway, then collapsed and made frantic love on the kitchen floor, proceeding to the dining table at some point mid way. Having recovered in a sweaty heap for half an hour, they proceeded into the bedroom and set to again, this time in slower, more controlled fashion. The kitchen was for lust, the bedroom strictly for loving.
By the time night finished falling, Barlon lay atop his covers with Rhianne snuggled into his chest and snoring gently. He stared at the ceiling, contemplating the post-coital openness of mind that let him think clearly. In the absence of urgency, melancholy began setting in. The thought he'd spent all day burying came crashing to the forefront of his mind.
The flash of silver. A lighting, instinctive reaction. The rending of flesh...
"No!" he whispered insistently, a chill sweeping through his chest. Last night did not happen, could not have happened! It must be simply a recent nightmare; his greatest fear given visual form by his unconscious awareness. He shifted about fitfully, wishing for a distraction, and fell back on his oldest dream; that of Duelism. He was the son of Roger Dunbar, travelling the roads with the Black Stallion, taught to bring punishment to the wicked and justice to the lands. No more trapping, selling just enough hides to get by; no more farming and tilling just to survive. Mind lost in happy fantasy, he got to sleep eventually. The nightmare came again three times before dawn.
Barlon woke to find Rhianne gone, and cracked a knowing smile. Right now she was probably running home to climb through the window of her room and ruffle the bed before her father got up. Nightmares aside, he felt at peace with himself, if not content with his life. A warm day and the solace of his cabin were two things he craved in life. Having eaten a hearty breakfast, Barlon threw on some cotton trousers and shirt. He laced his hardy leather boots and set out down the dirt track that led from his home into the hamlet of Makerest.
It was Moonsday, so nobody was working, and the calming silence complimented perfectly the pleasant beam of the sun. A glinting from belt level reminded Barlon that he wore his heavy hunting knife, having strapped it on without thinking about it. The six-inch serrated blade was his constant companion; a treasured possession since childhood, and he was so used to wearing it that his walk altered slightly when he didn't have it on. He patted the weapon affectionately, and suddenly flinched as if struck.
A memory hit him with the stunning force of a thunderbolt. It was momentary, gone in a flash before he could grab hold of the image, but left him stumbling. Could something so obviously important be so easily forgettable? Had it been a memory at all? Most worrying of all; why was it triggered by touching his hunting knife? Barlon shook his head and resumed his walk, still puzzling.
Five minutes from his home, he reached the village. Makerest was a single North South road accommodating a collection of solidly constructed commercial buildings. Surrounding the main thoroughfare was a collection of log huts housing thirty families, mostly traders or suppliers of one kind or another. Makerest prided itself on its self-sufficiency and, rather more quietly, on what it saw as independence. There were three churches; one Two Moons and two run down old buildings with officially sealed gates. There was also the obligatory inn, and it was towards The Moon and Traveller that Barlon headed now.
The heavy door creaked open to reveal a small lounge half filled with locals, mostly engaged in soft conversation. Barlon made his way along the rectangular room, weaving between the few tables, to the bar across the far end. Steff and Grinda were propped up against it and, as he approached, all greeted all.
"Didn't think we'd be here long before you showed up," remarked Grinda.
"What else am I going to do on Moonsday?" he responded, chuckling.
Barlon leaned with his two best friends and, as he ordered a drink, the conversation turned to the usual easily-forgotten trivia and banalities. Grinda was animated, gesticulating wildly as he spoke, his short black hair somehow remaining as still as death, like it was painted onto his head. Steff cradled his glass quietly and interjected the odd considered comment. His blonde hair, tied at the nape of his neck, shimmered when he moved, and he stood a head taller than the other two, his piercing blue-eyed gaze always roving. Inevitably, they ended up talking about the opposite sex.
"So, Steff," said Barlon cheerfully, "any luck with the hens yet?"
Steff smiled, barely. "Not me. This cock crows alone."
"Yeah?" interposed Grinda. "I hear little Sophie likes you."
"You think I didn't notice? I'm considering my position."
"Ridiculous! I've been trying at her for months and got nowhere. She's the only untouched girl in the village who's anything like our age, and the one person she's interested in is scared!"
"Wait a minute, I didn't say-"
"You may as well have."
Steff grinned suddenly. "My sensibilities don't answer to your filthy mind, Grinda. I'll grant you, from my point of view she's the only prize in the village worth winning. I'm just biding my time." He pointedly turned to Barlon, diverting any further attention. "How's Rhianne keeping?"
"Well oiled, I'll bet," smirked Grinda as Steff sighed visibly behind him. "I reckon she's a demon in the old chamber, eh Barlon?"
"Quite the opposite, my friend," replied Barlon in an affected formal tone. "It's like being ridden by a Moon's angel." He delivered the line in a light manner but felt the tightness in his smile. Then he added, "Just because you never get any."
Grinda bridled. "I get it whenever I want; I roam the yard. I don't bore my emotions with one target all the time."
Barlon took a sip from his drink, refraining from comment, but stared at his ribald friend frankly. Grinda snorted and turned away. Steff waited for a few moments before he spoke up.
"It's genuine isn't it, Barlon? You really do love Rhianne."
Their eyes met and Barlon hoped Steff saw the relief he felt that someone had noticed. What seemed obvious to him often seemed invisible to others, especially Rhianne herself. He could feel the sternness in his face as he nodded and answered softly. "Time will stop before I love another woman more."
He lowered his eyes, taking another sip, and an uncomfortable silence ensued. Barlon had nothing more to say, Steff appeared content, and Grinda actually looked embarrassed. For a while it seemed as though everybody else around them had stopped to listen to their conversation. They hadn't, of course, but it left Barlon picking distractedly at his clothes and taking imaginary interest in everyday sights and sounds. After a time he noticed Steff looking from him to Grinda and back, his brow furrowing in consternation. Finally, his blond friend drained his glass and put it down on the bar with unnecessary force.
"Oh well, must be off. Work to do."
Barlon sighed and smiled indulgently. "Steff, it's a day of rest for moon's sake!"
"Well, I suppose I'm just wicked, then," was the reply, and then Steff was gone, stepping through the door and closing it behind him. Barlon stared after his friend in slight confusion, certain he was missing something of the situation.
Grinda turned to Barlon as the door clicked shut, his face clouded. "How are you coping after the other night?"
The flash of silver. A lightning instinctive reaction. The rending of flesh. Blood...
Barlon felt himself go cold to the bone. A memory, not a nightmare, and yet both at once. He turned his white face to his friend's.
"I thought it was a dream."
A frown. "No. Not a dream."
"Who?"
"It was old Tom, the horse breeder."
"Have they found him yet?"
"No," Grinda sighed. "Look, I know... I know you actually, like, did it, but I feel really bad, and all I did was distract him. Do... Do you think they'll find out?"
Barlon's face felt numb and he knew he must have gone ashen in colour.
The flash of silver. A lightning instinctive reaction. The rending of flesh. Blood. Death...
"We, I, had no choice, Grinda." The dread memory was flooding back. "He was completely insane on drink; it was him or us."
Grinda smiled faintly. "Oh, I believe that, but we don't have any proof, and we don't have a local magistrate. If this goes to council, it'll be in Fallyharn, and nobody knows us there. Our word won't mean a thing."
Barlon felt anger rush through him at his friend's pessimistic, if realistic, analysis of the situation. "I don't care. Those bastards aren't going to take me for this. I'm no murderer, and if the church is so all wise then they damned well ought to know it." It might have been fear talking, but he felt righteous and determined.
Grinda looked miserable. "It's alright for you; you always did love playing with your sword. Duelism would suit you down to the ground."
"Maybe so, but I never wanted to make my life with it, not like this." His eyes felt hot. "They are going to have no easy time bringing me down." He offered his hand. "We can fight this, Grinda. Are you with me?"
Grinda gave a fierce grin and accepted the proffered handshake firmly. "What's the care? I'm with you."
They shook again. "To the end."
| Author Notes |
.
. I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Characters so far: Bark & Parish - thieves who discover a prophetic text about a force called The Way that lies in jeopardy. Roger Dunbar, aka The Black Stallion - the most famous and successful Duelist ever. Rhyll - a Ralieri tradesperson, mysterious and friend to Roger Dunbar. Skull - Nasty bastard Duelist, sarcastic and intelligent. Preacher - Weedy duelist, adviser to Skull. Blood - Formal duelist, always in metal armour, companion of Skull. Barlon - A young wannabe fighter with a guilty secret. Grinda and Steff - Friends of Barlon. Arran Carwright - a troubled wagon builder, suspicious of authority. Melissa and Sarah Cartwright - wife and young daughter of Arran. Don - Friend and confidant of Arran. . . |
By Fleedleflump
Warning: The author has noted that this contains strong violence.
The dawn beamed into existence and blossomed quickly into a sun-drenched morning. The tanned ex-concubine stood by the roadside near the Bone Lord's cave complex home and waved stiffly to her only son as he disappeared into the distance. She'd negotiated him a ride on the wagon of a passing merchant for a price she'd once have considered demeaning. Kevin was off to seek his manhood with a blown kiss and a pouch of valuables she'd stolen from Skull. As starts in life went, it was better than some, and the best she could manage.
Her black, half curled hair billowed in the morning breeze, beautiful but annoying as it drifted intermittently across her vision. The road wended between featureless expanses of pale dirt sparsely populated by hardy trees. Rocks were dotted around, large enough to provide definition to the view. She smiled - it was a mundane existence indeed that was markedly improved by rocks. Dust blankets crept low to the ground, migrated by the inconsistent wind, covering her sandals in grime. At least Blood let her keep the clothes she'd collected when he marched her, blindfolded, from the caves. The old fool lacked imagination, and for that she was grateful.
When Kevin disappeared fully behind a rocky chicane, she bent to her bag of personal possessions and rifled her way right to the bottom. Anger made her movements stiff and forceful, but right then she didn't care if clothes got damaged.
That..? Her legs..? What did he know? Moons, he even thought her name was actually Zita! He thought she was some poor town girl who pined for the attention of powerful men - who, like the rest of his concubines, meekly complied to wish and demand in the face of force. It never occurred to him that bed prowess such as hers came from nowhere but continuous practice. He never noticed the cold fire in her mind because, like all the others, he never even saw far enough to tell which colour they were.
Like all the others.
She snorted in derision. Skull, for all his posturing, was just another man, just another duelist ... just another target.
Still, as angry as he'd made her, she knew she wasn't ready. In two years of observing Skull from as close as anybody could possibly get, there hadn't been the right opportunity. He wasn't going anywhere, and she swore it would not take her long. Skull's time was ticking down, and she'd be there to lick up the last grains of sand as they tumbled from his glass.
Finally her rifling reached fruition as she found what she was looking for; a glass bottle half filled with transparent liquid, wrapped in a rough piece of white cloth. Next to it was a short dagger, buffed to a reflective shine. The seal on the bottle was crusted and dry from lack of use - this was the longest she'd spent anywhere. Always mindful of her son, she'd exercised the necessary discretion. Not any more; now he was free and clear, she could be everything she needed to. She swept her hair across her left shoulder and trapped it under her right arm.
Un-stoppering the bottle, she blinked at the invisible irritant emanating from the carefully prepared emulsion, and upended a small amount onto the wadded cloth. This she proceeded to rub furiously against the left side of her forehead, holding the dagger at an angle so she could see what she was doing in its reflection. Slowly but surely, the cloth began to acquire the colour of her skin, and a red star tattoo faded into view at the behest of her frantic motions. When she finished, it blazed bright crimson but displayed no pictogram in its centre. She re-stoppered the container and was replacing it in her bag when a shadow fell across her and a cold point touched the side of her neck.
"Well well, pretty pretty," said an unpleasant, raspy male voice. "This should be fun."
I agree. She turned slightly to face her accoster before replying, noting the red star he sported. "I'll say this only once. Forget about me. Do not issue the Challenge. Go along with your business and maybe, one day, see your freedom. You have this one opportunity to choose; live or die. Decide." Her soft, exotic voice held a vicious air of cold that the likes of Skull and Preacher had never heard. She almost frightened herself with its cadence - a deep, patient menace she'd been hiding for two years. Not many would have ignored it.
But the short, chubby, balding youth before her wanted a fight, and he wanted her. He wanted her alive or dead, she thought; a concept that even she managed to find shocking.
He backed off a step, his reddened, clammy skin wobbling slightly, and grinned. "I'll take my chances, mare."
"I don't like being called a mare," she responded quietly. He leered harder, and she dipped her hands into the bottom of her bag as he started issuing the Challenge, feeling the cold weight of her other secrets lurking in its depths.
"I hereby formally challenge you,
in the manner of the Duelist.
By the power of the Two Moons,
I propose to you: Lupo Dexus."
She smiled at him and threw in a wink. "You got it, fat boy."
Her hands whipped from the bag, barely visible streaks of tan with steel in tow. He was standing four feet away, sword pointed directly at her, and he never had a chance. One thick, eight-foot chain fastened round his neck, whipping in decreasing circles until it wrapped him five times over like a metal snake. Her left hand gripped its far end firmly, and her other wielded a second chain, curled twice along her right forearm, leaving her four feet with which to strike at her now captive target. She came to her feet, right chain whistling as she span it deftly, so fast it was a grey circle in the air, the heavily weighted end drawing perfect curves.
The young duelist moved to strike at her with his sword, but she adjusted slightly and his sword wrist crunched, broken so hard the fist folded back to punch the elbow. His weapon clanked to the ground as he hollered in pain. Before he could draw breath for a scream, his other hand disappeared in an exploding mass of flesh, sinew, and bone fragments.
"I warned you, fool, and now the Depth's angels wait to greet you! You made your choice."
A double blow to the ribcage, hammering flat both lungs, ensured he couldn't reply, merely watch as she continued to whirl her chain, now circling him, forcing him to turn with her. Bright blood dribbled down his chin, flecking the dirt and his feet with spots of leaking life.
"What made you think you could win any fight, let alone beat me? What, did you think the lowly little woman would be an easy target - give you a good time afterwards, too? Sick!"
The weighted chain swung up, round, and under, crunching up into his groin with sudden, cracking pressure. A formless wheeze tore from his throat, and fresh blood gushed down his chin and neck in rivulets.
"You look like you belong stuck on a spit, roasting over an open campfire. Maybe that's what I'll do with you."
A lateral strike burst both his kneecaps, snapping his legs sideways, and he fell into a crouch, unable to do anything but comply with the demands of his injuries. His eyes were retired and his expression begged for death. In a way he seemed relieved. She angled her arm so the free chain wrapped his neck alongside the first one, and pushed him flat on his face. Transferring her foot to the back of his neck, she leaned over and whispered into his ear.
"Death is the only mystery."
Then she straightened and heaved upward against her foot with all her strength, feeling sinews clench the length of her body. She held the position for a full two minutes, until her corded muscles began to cramp. The corpse hissed as she released her hold, and was still amongst the eddying dust. She searched for a while until she discovered his medallion. It sported what appeared to be a claw of some animal. The sign did not seem immediately appropriate, but she quickly shrugged the matter off. As with many Duelist call signs, the relevance and meaning was unclear; no doubt as much to the so named as anybody else.
Wasting no time, she carved her blank star into the medallion's reverse side and put it in her pack, which she proceeded to hoist onto her shoulders. She looked briefly back at the body, and decided to leave it there in full view. That fool Blood would find it. One of them might even work out who she was and what happened. Mind you, she mused as she began walking East along the road, following a whim in the only way she knew, who and what she was had to be the biggest question of all. A smile crossed her face as she recalled her naming ceremony.
"This is not right," the Moonfather had said. "The omens reveal nothing other than your existence and ... They insight nothing of your character." A bead of sweat ran down his forehead. The guards around her in the darkened ritual chamber seemed worried. Personally, she found the situation quite amusing; it was all a fake show anyway. The Moonfather fixed a hard gaze on her and she straightened her face.
"I don't know what to think, young lady, but I have made a decision. You are much and yet nothing; you are a paradox. As such, you will henceforth be known as Enigma."
Enigma. She rolled the word in her head as she walked.
Enigma. A nice word; a good name.
| Author Notes |
.
. I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Characters so far: Bark & Parish - thieves who discover a prophetic text about a force called The Way that lies in jeopardy. Roger Dunbar, aka The Black Stallion - the most famous and successful Duelist ever. Rhyll - a Ralieri tradesperson, mysterious and friend to Roger Dunbar. Skull - Nasty bastard Duelist, sarcastic and intelligent. Preacher - Weedy duelist, adviser to Skull. Blood - Formal duelist, always in metal armour, companion of Skull. Barlon - A young wannabe fighter with a guilty secret. Grinda and Steff - Friends of Barlon. Arran Carwright - a troubled wagon builder, suspicious of authority. Melissa and Sarah Cartwright - wife and young daughter of Arran. Don - Friend and confidant of Arran. Enigma - a mysterious duelist who fights with chains . . |
By Fleedleflump
Xenn Arranson was confused, but if asked he would have said angry. He only wanted to look at the crossbow. It wasn't as if he was going to use it on anybody. After all, he told himself, looking back, he'd not even taken any bolts for it. What was wrong with him having a crossbow? They wouldn't sell him one, so he was forced to attempt theft - simple as that. He only wanted it for hunting. He wasn't immature like the other boys around town; Xenn was older than his years. He was easily responsible enough to safely own a weapon; why didn't anybody else understand? What right did they have to deny him his wish? What if he needed it for self defence?
So many different thoughts - maybe he was confused, not angry - but Xenn didn't believe that. Xenn didn't want to believe it.
He kicked away an offending pebble and knocked the back of his head slowly, rhythmically against the wall behind him. No light penetrated the alley between buildings in which he sat, leaning - a fact that aided in his choosing it. He thought, perhaps, the darkness would make it easier for him to think, for him to feel angry. Wrong. Now, glancing round, all he could hear was the eerie, soft whistling of the wind through the cold black of night. Bile rose in his throat, weight gathered in his bladder, and a sickly tugging sensation yanked at the underside of his stomach.
The night seemed oppressive suddenly as the wind stopped and he was left with the high pitched buzzing of silence in his ears. Xenn rocked forward, clutching his knees, and consequently lost contact with the wall. Now there is nothing. No sight, sound, feeling or smell. He could be anywhere, or - worse - he could be nowhere, floating in a void.
Nothing. Complete freedom perhaps? No, he thought; quite the opposite, in fact. His breaths came faster, filling the dim alley with gasping echoes. They assaulted him from all sides in a susurrus of urgency and his heartbeat pumped in his ears. Panic slithered up his spine, curling round his neck as the sounds became his only existence, and he started shuffling from one foot to the other. A low groan passed from his throat and he heard it before realising it was him. He looked to one side then the other, registering nothing beyond the shifts in the shadows; the untrustworthy custodians of night. A sound flew at him from the bleak nothing, then another, and another. People sounds. Threatening sounds.
Fear coursing through his body, Xenn Arranson surged to his feet and ran blindly into the darkness.
*
Arran Cartwright closed his kitchen door mechanically on his way back in. He moved through to the lounge area, taking an awkward seat half-facing the fireplace. He needed to think, and sat with chin in hand, staring at the flames. The problem was, the more he sought sense in the maelstrom of thoughts, the less clarity he encountered. Don's suggestion lurked at the back of his consciousness - disown Xenn - a thought both repellent and tragically practical. His son had cost them much over the years, and now threatened the standing and livelihood of the entire family, but he was still blood. As far as he'd taken things, how far constituted too far? Arran was snapped from reverie by his wife Melissa coming down the stairs, and he looked up as she walked in.
She smiled weakly. "Sarah's tucked in bed." He nodded. "What did Don say?" she took a seat next to her husband.
Arran sighed. "Well, I didn't like to hear it, but I've learned to trust Don's judgement, and he wouldn't have said it if he didn't absolutely believe in it."
"He was there for the robbery attempt?"
"Yes, err, yes." He clenched his hands together before him. "He says, I mean, he thinks Xenn may be a threat to the public safety."
*
The sounds engulfed him now as he streaked through the night. No matter how swiftly he ran, still the voices seemed able to keep pace, and the sounds of urgency simply got louder in his ears. What were they doing? Why were they tormenting him so? He was just a young boy; how could he be any threat to anyone? Xenn felt a wetness on his face and realised he was crying, a fact which terrified him yet more. He sobbed out loud and tried to run even faster.
He nipped from the alley he'd been following, sprinted across a broad thoroughfare, and plunged into another narrow alley opposite the first. His eyes showed no pursuers or crowd, but they were traitors. The voices were chanting at him, pecking away like birds at his mind, and he knew he couldn't trust his vision.
A weapon. He needed a weapon - something he could use to defend himself, fend off his pursuers. The ominous sounds persisted, not chasing but waiting for him, anticipating his every move. He would have to stop and fight, because escape was impossible. Maybe he would do so, when he'd tried running a little more; his mind said fight, but his heart wanted to flee. He passed a closing tavern and a drunken shout sent ice through his veins. Xenn's concentration broke, his foot hit some obstacle in mid stride, and he slammed face down in the entrance of yet another alleyway.
The breath was sucked from his lungs and he rolled, gasping, until a sharp object dug painfully into his back. Hyperventilating madly, he reached behind himself to find a broken off half-bottle. Xenn giggled without knowing why. A weapon.
*
Arran rocked back in his chair and bit his lower lip. "What do you think, Melissa?"
She sighed, eyes downcast. "I worry for Sarah, and I guess I've seen this coming for some time. Yes, I think Xenn could be a danger."
*
Flash - dark, flash - dark, flash - dark. He was running once more, past lighted windows, coughing his every breath, barely able to feel his legs, no longer sure why he was running and oblivious to where. In his hand he clutched the broken bottle with a grip like his last, tenuous hold on sanity. Nothing mattered any more but that bottle; his focus, his resolve, his only chance of reprieve from the sounds and the voices. His saviour. Part of him questioned why he continued to run when he held a means of defence, but the rest knew he must try, must run until it was no longer possible. In fact he was barely stumbling any more, but only his legs acknowledged the fact.
Blur. Blur. Blur. Blur.
*
Arran sighed back at his wife. "Then it's time we did something serious about eliminating that danger."
*
Xenn grabbed a latrine pipe to turn him round a corner without slowing. He barrelled into the dark, and hit hard up against a barrier.
A figure!
The sounds came again as he toppled to the ground, mysterious and horrible. The figure bent over him, a threatening arm extended, and its mouth opened. The voice!
He screamed and struck forth manically with the only thing left he knew belonged to him. The bottle hit against something, so he pulled back and tried again, but once more a sticky obstruction prevented the movement from following through, something physical. The final straw.
With a hysterical roar, Xenn rammed his arm forward again and again, unaware of necessity or consequence but certain the barrier must be removed. A thick slickness drenched his hands, running down his arms, his neck, his face, into his mouth... A dead weight crushed down upon him, and eyes came to rest directly opposite his own - glazed, sightless eyes. They became his only world as the night finally broke through and invaded his mind. The half bottle, now wet and red, fell from his nerveless fingers to clatter percussively, meaninglessly, on the alley floor.
*
Arran was dragged from a restless sleep by Don knocking urgently on his door at dawn. He opened it, took one look at his wheezing friend's face, and ushered the man inside to the living room. He fetched a cup of water that was gratefully accepted. The pleading, hard look Don gave him conveyed the gist of what was happening before any words were spoken. He sat down opposite his friend and waited for his breath to return as concern gave way to fear and a thick wedge of anxiety grew in is gut.
"Xenn's in serious trouble? He never arrived home last night."
Don nodded soberly and spoke between gasps. "It's rather worse than you may think. Xenn is currently in the council jails."
"What's he done?"
"He was found in the early hours of this morning next to a bloodied half bottle, entangled with a body that was freshly stabbed more than ten times."
Arran sat back as pin-pricks swathed his skin. No! This had to be a mistake! Then he thought about last night's conversation with Melissa, of what he'd felt prepared to do before this morning's emergency. Was anything beyond his son's doing? Still, a father's mind defaults to protection.
"What's saying he did it though?" he said eventually. "Could he not have merely stumbled upon the scene, and found the sight too much to bear?"
Don heaved an exhalation, avoiding his friend's gaze. "Whatever I may think, I would be inclined to agree with you, but it wasn't just anybody who was stabbed. It was Jeff Rayson, the weapon maker. Even if you ignore the circumstantial evidence, it looks for all the world like Xenn attacked him after their altercation during the day."
"Hmm," was Arran's only response, then he sat in silence for a long time. The whole thing didn't feel real. Now the initial shock was wearing off, Arran found himself numb, uncertain what he actually felt. Unable to decide what his emotions were saying, he listened to his thoughts, but they were a jumbled mass themselves.
"You don't seem overly upset," remarked Don, and suddenly sense emerged from chaos.
Arran looked up, nodded. "Of course I'm upset. As much a pain as Xenn has been to me, he's still my son, in my blood, and I could never change that. Yes, I'm upset, but I won't let him destroy what I have with my wife and daughter. Last night Melissa and I decided our son was gone, that the boy we raised and the depths-begotten young man we see now are not the same person. We knew we should take steps to excise him for our daughter's sake. I just expected to have more time to act upon our decision."
"I'll admit it, I'm surprised. You were going to disown the boy?"
He nodded. "Do you think, if I went down to the Church council offices now, I could pretend I didn't yet know; after all, I haven't been officially informed?"
"It's worth a try," agreed Don after a short pause. "In theory, if you file for disownership before they apprise you of this incident, then you cannot be held accountable."
"And you would bear witness if they questioned me?"
"Of course."
"Then let's go," said Arran, raising himself from his chair. "No point in giving them any more time than we have to."
Don nodded and followed his long time friend to the front door and out into the frosty embrace of a chill morning, but Arran caught the look on his face.
"Say your piece, Don. Don't glare it into the back of my head."
"You understand what this means, don't you?"
"Yeah, I'll be rid of a massive pain in my backside."
"Stop it, Arran. I don't think you're so cold. If you disown Xenn now, you'll be stringing him up for the authorities to deal with. That's not something to take lightly."
Arran sighed and stopped walking. "You really think I haven't considered that? The more I think about it, the more I know this is the only course. You can believe I'm cold of blood if you like, my friend, but I'm doing what I need to. I hope you'll see that soon."
Don sighed. "You can't build ice barriers around the feelings you don't like, Arran. Believe me, I know all about that. They either melt over time or get smashed, and neither is a good experience."
Arran hoped the depth of anger he suppressed was showing in his expression. "Well, perhaps one day you'll deign to share some of your past with me. Until then, you haven't the right to lecture me on my own personal experiences." He strode away from the house in the direction of the council offices, and Don hurried to keep up, his limp sounding in uneven footsteps.
"Whatever else you may think, Arran, I've always got your back.
*
It took them almost twenty minutes to reach the council building on the opposite side of town, against the southern outskirts. On the way, they hid from a church messenger who was heading in the opposite direction. Each gave the other a significant look, but nothing was said until they reached their destination and Don turned to Arran.
"You okay?"
"Yes."
"Still angry?"
"Yes, but not with you."
Don smiled, though it lacked humour. "And you're sure you want to do this."
"Quite sure."
"Alright then, lead the way."
Arran knocked on the thick Oak door, and after an uncomfortably long wait a small panel opened at head height and a tightly clipped female voice said, "Yes?"
"I'd like to speak to the minister on duty, please."
A tut. "You're rather early. Can you not come back later?"
"No." There was a silence almost as cold as the morning, the aural equivalent of a shared glare. Snow began to fall gently on the frost-coated ground. Arran tapped his foot. "I'll invoke you if I have to." Invoking was an ancient social convention. When two folk disagreed, they could take the matter to an impartial third party who'd help arbitrate a settlement. Decorum dictated this was done immediately, before either person had time to prepare structured arguments.
A sigh echoed from beyond the door. "Okay." The door opened. "Wait in here while I go and find Mr Freeman." She clacked her way out of a small half circle entryway almost before they got a glimpse of her. Don closed the outer door once they were in and peered after the secretary, but shook his head.
"This place is a maze - I can't see anything beyond this room." They seated themselves on a stone bench; the only furniture in the small room other than the secretary's desk and chair. A large visitor's book dominated the desk's surface.
"Feels like I'm at the apothecary again," remarked Don with an encouraging half smile, but Arran gave no response. He simply sat, staring at the wall and trying not to concentrate on his thoughts. His success here would be determined, for the most part, by the mood and temperament of the minister on duty. It was a tenuous chance at best, but seemingly his only option.
"Are you nervous?" asked Don. "I feel apprehensive, and I'm only here as your witness."
Arran smiled. "I'm alright, Don. You don't need to keep me in conversation. No, I'm not nervous - I'm annoyed at what's happening and fearful for my family."
"I've seen you quiet before, and it usually precedes an explosion of temper. That can't happen during this meeting."
"It won't. I know what I need to do."
Don nodded. "If we're lucky, this minister's been asleep all night and won't know about the murder yet. We're at a change of shifts, so the messenger we saw was probably sent by somebody else." Arran nodded slightly, but gave no answer. Soon his loyal friend was praying softly to the Two Moons, a continuous mumble of archaic phrases designed to instil good fortune.
Arran Cartwright glanced over at the man's earnest face, poised above clenched fingers, and rolled his eyeballs. That was Don's problem; he actually believed it might work. It would be nice to have faith in something other than the endlessly fallible whims of people, he thought. Nice, but ultimately fruitless. With his friend's pious ramblings as a backdrop, Arran stared at the irregular finish on the wall in front of him, and waited.
| Author Notes |
.
. I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Schedule of characters: Bark & Parish - thieves who discover a prophetic text about a force called The Way that lies in jeopardy. Roger Dunbar, aka The Black Stallion - the most famous and successful Duelist ever. Rhyll - a Ralieri tradesperson, mysterious and friend to Roger Dunbar. Skull - Nasty bastard Duelist, sarcastic and intelligent. Preacher - Weedy duelist, adviser to Skull. Blood - Formal duelist, always in metal armour, companion of Skull. Barlon - A young wannabe fighter with a guilty secret. Grinda and Steff - Friends of Barlon. Arran Carwright - a troubled wagon builder, suspicious of authority. Melissa and Sarah Cartwright - wife and young daughter of Arran. Xenn - Arran's son, always in trouble. Don - Friend and confidant of Arran. Enigma - a mysterious duelist who fights with chains . . |
By Fleedleflump
"NEXT!"
Shandry peeled her ear from the door's surface when she heard the muffled shout and straightened, feeling her spine crack and auburn hair tumble down its length. She looked at the creepy bald guy in the velvet robes, and he gave her an almost imperceptible nod. Shandry wiggled her hips slightly, causing her feather-light silk skirt to shimmer and her breasts to bob in their chiffon. Preacher didn't respond - not even the merest flicker crossed his eyes - and simply stared at her face, his expression stoic. She sighed both inward and out, suppressing a shiver. Only a truly frightening man had her in his power and gave her to another.
Affecting her best bored expression, she pushed open the door to Skull's bedchamber and closed it behind her. A thick coating of furs covered the inside, overlapping onto the wall - that explained the ridiculous listening ritual she'd been forced to endure. Initially, Shandry was pleasantly surprised with the room. She glanced around at the ornate carved bedposts, gorgeous red silk sheets, and plush matching pillows. Taking in visual delights, she always thought, was an excellent warm up, and sometimes a necessary distraction. The carpet when she reached it was fluffy and insulating, caressing her feet like a lover's hands. On a bedside table was a collection of popular aphrodisiacs, arranged in 'erotic' configurations. Tacky, she thought.
"Nice," she said.
The cave, whilst cloaked in shadow, was still very much a room hewn from rock by whatever natural phenomenon invaded in ages past. Carefully positioned lanterns hid the bare rock in darkness and drew the eye to the man poised on his bed, waiting.
Skull was slouching amidst pillows and sheets like a dragon on its treasure haul, his shorn pate and piercing gaze immediately arresting her vision. Whatever else might be true about him, he certainly had poise, and a body to set a girl's pulse racing. Muscle twined like rope up his arms and clutched his abdomen in corded bands. His chest tapered from broad shoulders to a dense waist and a powerful thigh clenched where he kept one leg cocked. He looked like a giant wild cat - simultaneously attractive and dangerous.
He was chewing what looked like sugar biscuits and wincing slightly as he did so. Perhaps he just needed the energy. Then he raised his arms in greeting, indicating the expensive surroundings and intricately crafted four poster bed.
"Welcome to my lair."
Shandry doubled over and feigned a coughing fit to cover her giggles. When she straightened, he was sporting that terrible grin he always put on when he was about to execute someone. Hoping she hadn't signed her own death warrant, she dropped the bored act and unleashed her best demure smile.
"Do you have any 'special' requirements, Lord Skull?" she continued her approach, letting the words slide from her tongue into the warm air of the chamber. "I'm a real redhead, you know." With the merest slip of her fingers, the skirt wafted down her thighs, floating to the floor as she moved. She rolled her hips outrageously with each step, knowing he wouldn't notice the exaggeration.
"No, no," he stammered. "You're quite special enough on your own. And your name is..?"
"Camilla."
Skull frowned ever so slightly. Perhaps he didn't like that name, or suspected she was mocking him. Depths take me, I didn't expect him to be so shrewd. I may have to be genuine with this guy. Dropping any hint of pretence, she perched sideways on the foot of the bed and let that auburn hair tumble as she turned to face him and pouted her lips. At least she didn't have to fake interest with Skull.
"Well Camilla, shall we begin? The door is soundproofed, so you can make all the noise you like."
"Why not?" she giggled, curling her tongue from between perfect sets of teeth. She lifted her hair to present her back. "Would you like to finish undressing me?"
Skull grimaced. "Undress yourself, you lazy mare!"
Shandry tutted loudly, unable to stop herself, and felt the default look of extreme boredom fall across her face. She let the hair fall again and hooked one foot onto the opposite knee so she could pull at the sandal straps.
"You're not very polite for a concubine, are you?" said Skull, mirth vibrant in his voice, and she couldn't help cracking a genuine smile.
She turned to match the Bone Lord's gaze. "You'll have to teach me some manners, my lord."
In a blur, he was there, powerful arms enclosing her and lips pressed to hers. She let out a soft moan with no undertone of falsehood and clutched her legs round his waist. He fell back on the bed and held her up above him, those arms like pillars of stone supporting her, effortless and immovable.
"I like a girl with some feist in her," he said, gaze alight with fervour. "Let's see about those clothes, eh Camilla?"
"The name's Shandry," she breathed, and then the world became a maelstrom of motion and sighs.
*
Skull looked at the slumbering woman sprawled across his chest and wondered idly how to score her. The sea of rusty hair was a definite bonus, as was her wondrously soft skin and shapely figure. Facially, she'd make a Moons' Angel look plain, and that fiery personality stoked flames in his stomach.
Still, something wasn't right. Somewhere in the middle of her astonishing display of sexual prowess, unease set up home in Skull's thoughts. Perhaps she was too good. No man liked to think about his woman getting that much practice in the bedroom. He smiled idly, recognising the absurdity of male desires - wanting the skills of a whore in a pearly white virgin. Perhaps he thought his own powers should awaken her inner passion, mining a vein of untapped sexual energy with his pickaxe ...
He laughed before he could stop himself, causing Shandry to stir. Still only half awake, she moaned with perfectly pitched 'shy desire' and 'accidentally' moved her hand to rest on his stirring groin. Just liked that, he realised what was bothering him.
"What's your name, concubine?" he asked.
She mumbled her response through a lazy smile. "Betty."
Anger tightened his gut - this wasn't fun anymore. "Not Camilla, or Shandry?"
"Whichever you like best, lover mine."
"No! Tell me your real name."
She adopted that imperious look again, giving up the sleepy act and rolling onto one elbow facing him. "I am what I am to you, Bone Lord. Concubine, Bucket, Toilet - whatever."
"Is that supposed to make me feel guilty?"
She shrugged, and even the resulting jounce of her breasts didn't distract him. "It is what it is."
He felt his lips pursing in anger. "Do you realise who you're talking to, girl? I have people killed for looking at me funny. What makes you think I'll tolerate flippancy?"
"You're just another randy man," she said, tutting, "and randy men are all the same."
Skull was about to lose his temper when a soft, tentative knock sounded at the door.
"Yes, come in!" he shouted, pushing the woman aside and sliding to the floor.
No response.
"I said, COME IN!"
Still no response.
The soundproofing! Skull sprang across the room, his stomach twisting in a panic like fury. He grabbed the door handle and yanked the portal open, sending the latch mechanism flying sideways in three separate pieces. To his red drenched mind, it seemed there was a huge candle wavering beyond the door, a flesh coloured flame on top.
"PREACHER!"
"Yes, Lord?"
"Why, in all the deepest of the Depths," he began tearing the furs madly from the inside of the door, "did I ever get this CRAP installed?"
"It must have been my idea, sir."
"I thought so. PREACHER!"
"Yes, Lord?"
"What do you want?"
"Ah yes." Familiar territory. "Your daily prophecy, Lord."
"What, again?" Skull felt the knot dissipating in his abdomen.
"Yes, Lord. It is, after all, another day." They met gazes briefly and Preacher visibly suppressed a smile before hurrying on. "You bequeathed me appraise you of any further developments in the matter of the Lion, and I came to tell you there has been a progression."
"Go on, get on with it."
Preacher paused - intentionally, if Skull was any judge. "The omens now indicate the Lion is fast approaching his realisation. Something has occurred to usher the process forward."
"Do you know who it is yet?"
"Unfortunately no, Lord, but I have narrowed down my search by process of sensible elimination to the Two Moon town of Reefen Harn. What we need do now is send somebody there to inquire about any major recent events, and trace the line from there."
"What sort of recent event?" asked Skull, his interest piqued.
"Oh murder, rape, you know." Preacher shrugged. "Anything serious enough to lead to Duelism. The town is small enough that such incidents will not be commonplace, so the search will not be a difficult one."
"Anything else?" Skull hoped there was something further to distract from his foul mood; something fresh to think about, a subject that did not lead inexorably to annoyance. Preacher was fidgeting, his eyes jerking wildly, looking everywhere except at the Bone Lord. What he was doing, Skull realised, was deciding whether or not to confide some acquired information. Preacher glanced up and noticed his Lord studying him. He straightened perceptibly, and his hands faded from sight into his shapeless burgundy robe.
"Yes, Lord. Indications suggest another influential being is rising into his powers, though again he is ignorant of his own destiny. A young man, living in a hamlet community. He is far from here, and of no importance unless he is able to connect with the Lion. His specification is also still unclear; it seems there are several personal futures into which he could yet proceed. This inclines me to believe that he has not yet reached his full maturity. For now I am content merely to observe him. Until he makes a significant move, he is nothing but amassed potential."
Skull raised his eyebrows doubtfully, but in such matters of judgement Preacher was very rarely mistaken, and no doubt there were other factors aiding in his decision of which he had no intention of appraising his master.
The Bone Lord sighed. "Very well. Fetch Blood for me; I'll send him personally to investigate the Reefen Harn matter. He's due for a field trip anyway. See to it."
"Yes, Lord. Err, Lord?"
"What, Preacher?"
"Has your search for a new favourite amongst your concubines borne any fruit?"
Skull looked back through the ragged doorway at the pretty redhead, yawning quietly to herself and looking intensely fed up.
"No," he said. "Not as yet. But get this one's hair dyed - I want to see it long, and as black as your heart at midnight."
Preacher smiled with something like malice, and turned away to pursue his duties. Skull returned to his bed as Shandry/Camilla/Betty made her exit. Arranging the covers around him and his broad grin across his face, he cleared his throat.
"NEXT!"
| Author Notes |
.
. I hope you enjoyed the chapter - we'll be back with Arran next as he continues to wrestle with his conscience and what best to do for his family. Mike Schedule of characters: Bark & Parish - thieves who discover a prophetic text about a force called The Way that lies in jeopardy. Roger Dunbar, aka The Black Stallion - the most famous and successful Duelist ever. Rhyll - a Ralieri tradesperson, mysterious and friend to Roger Dunbar. Skull - Nasty bastard Duelist, sarcastic and intelligent. Preacher - Weedy duelist, adviser to Skull. Blood - Formal duelist, always in metal armour, companion of Skull. Barlon - A young wannabe fighter with a guilty secret. Grinda and Steff - Friends of Barlon. Arran Carwright - a troubled wagon builder, suspicious of authority. Melissa and Sarah Cartwright - wife and young daughter of Arran. Xenn - Arran's son, always in trouble. Don - Friend and confidant of Arran. Enigma - a mysterious duelist who fights with chains . . |
By Fleedleflump
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
Church council minister Mardan Freeman disliked getting up early. Today, however, he was covering the morning shift, cruelly robbing him of choice. This meant he couldn't legitimately be angry with the two men sitting before him, despite their intrusion upon his peace. The dull light lurking in the windows told him it was still an obscenely early hour. Only bakers and the supremely untrustworthy inhabited this half-light, and he was neither. Still, he couldn't hold that against his visitors, just resent them quietly.
It was a lucky for them, he thought drolly, church ministers were known for their patience. He was sitting behind his desk, the plush office with its mahogany furniture arrayed around him. Books adorned most of wall space, doors the rest - an ostentatious display of wealth and power; none of it Freeman's. A scroll tray sat full on one side of his desk, another empty on the opposite side, and the two visitors rested in chairs sitting across from him. One looked obviously worried, the other cold and unreadable. Under the circumstances, Freeman thought these expressions were a role reversal.
Whilst he considered the day ahead, he was rotating his pencil in the fingers of his right hand, tapping each end alternately on the desk top, and observing his intruders from beneath lowered brows. Arran Cartwright sat dead still and matched his stare coolly, perhaps conducting his own evaluation. He was younger than he looked, Freeman decided, aged by a thick beard and webs of worry lines. When a man cared too much, he lost his hale to concern - this, the minister knew all too well.
"I hope, Mr Cartwright," he said eventually, "that you and your wife have thought this through very carefully."
"We have, Minister." The words came out clipped, economical, as if rehearsed.
"And you are aware that the process of disownership is a permanent and irreversible one."
"Am I required to answer that?"
"Please."
"Yes, I am," replied Arran.
Freeman slid a pair of parchments across the desk. "In that case, Mr Cartwright, I will need your signature and that of your witness on both sheets, if you please."
Cartwright took the proffered pencil and proceeded to sign each document firmly, without hesitation. He then passed them to his friend, who read his pre written declaration before signing. Yes, to the best of my knowledge the above signed is of sound mind and thought at this time. No, I have no record with the Church Law Enforcement Agency. No ... No, I do not know of any reason why this procedure should not be allowed to go ahead. Yes, I will stand witness for the above signed should any further proceedings be entered into.
The bulky friend finished scribbling and passed the pencil and parchment back across the table. He sat taller than before he'd signed, as though a weight had lifted from his shoulders.
Freeman checked the signatures, and then stamped both parchments with an ink press. He rolled them, waxed them, sealed them with the twin ball symbol of the moons in harmony, cased them both, and handed one to the ex-father. Inwardly, he let go of a big sigh. This was a relatively rare procedure, but common enough that he remembered it without reference to protocols. Some things, he thought, should never become routine.
"This is your copy. Keep it safe. At any time during the next year the church reserves the right to interview any member of your family regarding this matter and immediately revoke this settlement if new circumstances come to light. After one year, the agreement is forever sound. If possible, please try to see the boy delivered into Church custody within a week for individual assessment." He smiled, though it felt wrong. "I'm sure there will be no difficulties." He stood and offered a hand, which both men shook in turn.
"Thank you," said Cartwright. "You're a fair man. If anything ... untoward happens, I hope you aren't dragged into it."
What a strange thing to say. Affecting a casual walk, Freeman followed the two men until they left so he could listen to their conversation.
"I liked him, Don. I think he's a good man."
"You can trust the church, Arran."
A snort. "I trust you. Let that be enough."
A brief silence.
"It was the right thing to do, Arran. You really didn't have a choice."
"Hmm?"
"I said you did the right thing."
"Oh. Oh yes, I'm pretty sure I did."
*
Minister Freeman's face slammed against one of his bookcases with a loud thud. He caused several more as he crashed to the floor, priceless volumes fluttering in the wake of violence. His nose snapped, bleeding on several more bindings and across his wood slat floor as he was dragged back over to his chair and sat down forcibly. He shot a look full of hatred at the huge bald man who was holding him down firmly by the shoulders. Not that he knew who this person was; apart from some unimportant lackey with a fat round face and sunken eyes. Not to mention his giant fists, painted in my blood.
The all in black, moustachioed figure at the door wearing riding boots and a wide hat, now he was easily recognisable. He was also someone you never wanted to meet in his current capacity. He was on duty.
"Don't give me that look, Freeman," said Derwin Crescent, sneering. "I hate it when someone gets that 'rebellious turd' expression on their face." He leaned in, all fetid breath and menace, eyes gleaming like eager embers. "It just makes me want to hit it more."
Derwin Crescent was a nasty piece of work by almost anybody's standards, and he just happened to work for the government. Every major organisation needs one person to keep the cesspit smelling of perfume, Freeman thought to himself; somebody to do all the little unpleasant jobs such organisations inevitably consider necessary, but don't want anybody to know about. This was Crescent's function for the Lord Church of the Two Moons. Cloaked in mystery and violence, his reputation preceded him. Freeman took in the lean figure, long, skinny fingers, and pointed facial features. Who are you? The only confirmable fact regarding Derwin Crescent was that he never denied anything said about him.
"I don't understand," moaned the minister, tasting blood in his mouth. He sniffed hard and swallowed painfully. "The agreement was signed first thing this morning, before any official notice that the murder occurred."
Crescent nodded over Freeman's shoulder, and suddenly his forehead was being smashed down onto the desk. He saw the solid wood coming and closed his eyes, but that didn't stop the bright lights from bursting in his vision. His shattered nose ground together against the surface, blood mixing with snot and spittle. Freeman couldn't help but sob with pain. Then the back of his head hurt and reality tilted as he was pulled back up again by his hair. Derwin Crescent leaned forward. "I want that agreement rescinded, and I want all the documentation destroyed."
Freeman smiled, not at all sure why but following the whims of instinct. He looked through the window at the steadily darkening twilight. That was, of course, if it wasn't his vision failing after that blow to the head. He'd worked two straight shifts today. He was tired, so tired. "Drown in the depths Crescent, it'll never happen."
Another face smash, and then he was lifted bodily and thrown into a corner of the room. Somehow, as air wafted his hair and clothes, he mustered the presence of mind to brace his hand against the fall, but succeeded only in breaking his fingers on impact.
"You pathetic turdlump!" Crescent was twisting the end of his moustache as he shouted. "I want that depthsworn DOCUMENT!"
Freeman laughed - he couldn't help it. Choking on his own blood, welling up from within one of his lungs, he pointed with a back bent finger at his desk. "It's still on the desk, fool, in the out tray." The scroll case rested alone, awaiting transportation to the archives, rocking slightly after the violent motion in the room.
Crescent lunged towards the desk but paused when Freeman giggled sarcastically. The minister held a hand over his chortling mouth as Crescent stalked towards him. This was all just too funny.
"You're hysterical," said Crescent, bending forward and sneering. "I see it a lot in my line of work. In fact, I try to force people to it. You see, you've given up when you turn hysterical; one could say that's what it is. You laugh a lot, often in an annoying way, but you tell me what I want to know. So, Minister, I'm going to ask you once, and only once. What's so funny?"
"It doesn't matter anyway; Arran Cartwright has his own copy, and there's a witness."
Crescent's features froze in place. "Who?"
"Get dunked."
"Lenny, hold him."
"Fat, bald bastard! I bet you eat more in a day than I get through in a month. Ouch!"
"WHO? Last chance."
Freeman cackled manically. "That is one crap moustache."
A short, curved blade appeared in Crescent's hand from some hidden sleeve compartment, its three-inch length glinting in the torchlight. Freeman felt his head pushed back against the wall, held tight by the big brute. There was a flash, and searing flames penetrated a half-inch into the left side of his neck, two inches under the lower jaw. He wanted to scream, to yell insults, to laugh like an insane animal. The razor edge scraped across things inside his neck and his body flopped and jerked in an automatic physical reaction to immense neural pain. Tears streamed from his eyes, mingling with blood from several sources to drizzle from his damaged face. Freeman tried desperately not to move his neck, feeling the blade between the folds of his flesh, held firm against his life.
Derwin Crescent's eyes danced.
"Last chance. Who..?"
| Author Notes |
.
. I hope you enjoyed the chapter - more very soon! Mike :-) Schedule of characters: Bark & Parish - thieves who discover a prophetic text about a force called The Way that lies in jeopardy. Roger Dunbar, aka The Black Stallion - the most famous and successful Duelist ever. Rhyll - a Ralieri tradesperson, mysterious and friend to Roger Dunbar. Skull - Nasty bastard Duelist, sarcastic and intelligent. Preacher - Weedy duelist, adviser to Skull. Blood - Formal duelist, always in metal armour, companion of Skull. Barlon - A young wannabe fighter with a guilty secret. Grinda and Steff - Friends of Barlon. Arran Carwright - a troubled wagon builder, suspicious of authority. Melissa and Sarah Cartwright - wife and young daughter of Arran. Xenn - Arran's son, always in trouble. Don - Friend and confidant of Arran. Enigma - a mysterious duelist who fights with chains Derwin Crescent - head of secret police for the church government. Not a pleasant chap. . . |
By Fleedleflump
Don peered through his window at the early night sky, concern tugging at his stomach. The twin moons were still in their horn formation, a situation caused by the influence of the evil sea. At certain times, the power of the Moons was said to be weakened. They shrank and only small portions of them would shine with the holy light. It was the time in their cycle when they strayed furthest from the source of their power; their believers. During such phases, the movement of the waters affected the Two Moons, dragging them into close proximity.
He closed his eyes and prayed quietly to his inner self for strength. During the Twin Horns, for approximately five days, prayers could not be heard. The Moons, distant and weakened, focused all their limited strength on fighting off the evil of the depths. Don's prayers were useless, however often he repeated them. According to the Lord Church, if ever the Two Moons were induced to touch, a great cataclysm would befall the world.
Don, along with the majority of the population, had always believed this. Arran's lack of piety didn't usually worry Don, because he knew his friend's heart was true, but if ever there was a time for belief...
He sighed and took a slurp from his cup of spiced mead, closing his eyes to concentrate on the warmth spreading through his chest like a thick blanket on a winter's day. If sleep wouldn't come, he'd settle for the mild haze of inebriation.
Bang bang bang.
The front door! He stood from his 'astronomer's chair' in the back room and, knees creaking, headed cautiously into the hallway.
BANG BANG BANG!
With the light inside, his eyes couldn't penetrate the dark beyond the glass of the door. Instinct grasped at his insides, urging him not to answer - nothing of good import knocked on your door in the night. Oh well, no sense in hesitating now; he was clearly visible. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door.
A figure flew inside, knocking him to the floor and landing atop his form. A woman, he realised with little difficulty. His brief moment of panic at being struck so unexpectedly subsided when nothing further happened. The woman simply held on to his prone form, face pressed sideways against his ribs. She was apparently terrified, and muttering over and over into his chest.
"Thank the Moons. Thank the Moons."
Don used his foot to push shut the door and gently rolled the woman off him, suppressing a faint tightness inside. It was years since he last got so close to the opposite sex, and his body was responding regardless of the bizarre situation. He recognised her voice, and was trying to place it.
"Good evening," he said wryly, standing up. She looked at him finally, climbing to her knees as she did, taking his offered hand with a tight, tearful smile.
It was the minister's secretary from this morning, and clutched fast in her balled fist was what appeared to be an officially sealed scroll.
*
"Damn! In all the cesspits of shit!" The empty scroll case bounced from the floor, and Derwin Crescent stamped its ornate wooden design into as many pieces as he could manage. "Lenny!"
"Mr Crescent?"
"The document isn't here. Moons! What was that little turd plotting?"
"He can't really tell us now," replied Lenny. Anyone else would never have dared speak like that, but Lenny had worked with Crescent almost from the outset. He was loyal, all three hundred pounds and six feet of him. Crescent was taller (true, indeed, regarding all of his employees), but preferred to think brutally rather than act it. He introduced precision pain, but Lenny did all the heavy lifting.
Crescent smiled. "I must try to get hold of my temper. He just pushed me too far." He glanced briefly at Freeman's body, slumped against the wall with its neck sliced open. "Tough bastard, I'll give him that, especially for a cushy arsed Minister. I'm impressed." The black gloves came off his hands and he threw them on top of the body. His calling card.
"Okay. We're leaving, Lenny."
Outside in the street, Crescent sniffed in a lung-full of air and sighed it out in contentment, blowing a huge puff of vapour like a dragon. He beckoned, and a skinny shape detached from the black and approached from the opposite side of the road, becoming distinguishable from the shadows only when it was almost nose to moustache.
"Just because I couldn't see you sneering, Shadow, doesn't mean I don't know you were doing it."
The small, bird like face blinked its massive eyes. "Not at all. What with your work and all the pressure, I think you're becoming paranoid, Derwin. You should take a rest, maybe let me do your job for a while, then we-"
"Clam it. You're a Duelist. I could kill you now and most people would thank me for it, which is exactly why I'm not going to. I want you to go and see Arran Cartwright. No damage, no threats. Just don't let him leave the house, and try to find any recent official documents he has; I want them collected or destroyed, but for a believable reason. I don't care how you do it, just be friendly; use that industrial mouth of yours, and don't let him visit any friends."
"What's it worth?"
"Two more kills on your tally. If you fail, it's one more on mine."
"Accepted."
"It damn well better be."
Shadow melted and disappeared without a sound. Crescent turned and headed along the road, hearing Lenny's steps fall in behind him.
"You keep a tally, Derwin?" asked Lenny.
"Moons, no - not enough fingers. I lost count years ago. Besides, I'm no Duelist, so who gives a turd?"
"Some would say you qualify."
"Hey, I work for the government. I make Duelists, I don't join them."
Lenny smiled. "Where are we actually going, anyway?"
"We've got a witness who needs enlightening." They turned a corner, their footsteps echoing eerily in the dark. Crescent liked to make an impression, so he always wore heavy boots.
"Suits me," said Lenny. "That lot back there, in the office, it really got me going. There's nothing like violence to fire the blood, you know?"
"Yeah, I know."
They continued in silence for a while, casting an amusing silhouette against the ground. One fat, one slim, both tall. Crescent smiled, seeing the vast physical disparity between them. They made a perfect team, he thought. A look across at his colleague revealed a baffled expression, but Crescent didn't ask what it meant - he had planning to do.
"The only thing I don't understand," Lenny confided eventually, "is why it's so important that this Cartwright grunt doesn't disown his child."
Crescent glanced over, slightly annoyed in principal, if not on a personal level. "You're supposed to do what you're told without asking questions. 'Why' has no place in your vocabulary, and even if you got an answer, it wouldn't affect your actions. You do your job - we all do." They turned another corner.
"Understood. Sorry, Derwin."
Crescent sighed in defeat. "But since it's you, Lenny, I'll tell you what I know which certainly isn't much." He paused briefly. "I don't think these orders are from the normal sources; they come from up on high. I mean right up there. I'm not talking about the Council of Eight, or even the Prime Minister. I reckon it's the Moonfathers dictating the action this time."
"You're joking!" Lenny sucked in a breath. "That never happens. The Moonfathers don't take an interest in the physical world." He spoke the last with heavy sarcasm. "What's so special about this matter?"
"That's pretty much all I know," admitted Crescent, "but they shouldn't have walled me over further information - it got me interested. I visited some contacts. It seems this grunt Cartwright is going to be important somehow you know, fate and all that turd. Anyway, the Moonfathers see him as a potential danger to the future of the Lord Church, or their portion of it at least. They measure the best way to neutralise any potential he may have is to make him a Duelist, bit of the old Lupo Dexus. If he's not part of society, he can't do it harm. If he ever actually achieves Morta Siecle, he'll be past his prime, so the potential will never be realised.
"Of course, then they faced they next problem; how to make him a Duelist. Direct manipulation would draw a depthload of attention from the mystic community. That includes the Ralieri tradespeople, for starters. They'll be watching any being who sparks off omens like this Arran Cartwright fellow, and nobody really knows how powerful they are. So, rather than openly go for Cartwright, the Moonfathers picked on his wayward son. Did some meddling turd in his head," Crescent wiggled his fingers by one ear. "Stimulated aggression that was already there. Subtle, see? They talk to his thoughts, really mess him up. So with their help, the boy ends up murdering someone. Since he's under fifteen, his father is passed the blame along with the inevitable consequences."
"Duelism," filled in Lenny. "That's pretty nasty."
"Exactly, but the old wrinkling Moonfathers didn't count on the grunt disowning his son and blocking up the whole process like a capacitated latrine hole. They can't be seen to openly contravene their own rules. That, my friend, is where we come in. We're here to save the day by digging up some crap, as it were."
Lenny thought visibly for a moment. "Which is all very well, Derwin, but why didn't they just tell us to kill the man and save all this hassle?"
"I thought that myself, but one of my mystic informants said it wouldn't work. Some vague turd about tapping unused power resources. All mystic, finger jiggling stuff." He spat on the ground as a dirty taste filled his mouth. As he did, a house came into view, the light bold in one window, and he stopped walking.
"What?" asked Lenny.
"Better be quiet, let me think. We're almost there."
| Author Notes |
.
. I hope you enjoyed the chapter - more very soon! Mike :-) Schedule of characters: Bark & Parish - thieves who discover a prophetic text about a force called The Way that lies in jeopardy. Roger Dunbar, aka The Black Stallion - the most famous and successful Duelist ever. Rhyll - a Ralieri tradesperson, mysterious and friend to Roger Dunbar. Skull - Nasty bastard Duelist, sarcastic and intelligent. Preacher - Weedy duelist, adviser to Skull. Blood - Formal duelist, always in metal armour, companion of Skull. Barlon - A young wannabe fighter with a guilty secret. Grinda and Steff - Friends of Barlon. Arran Carwright - a troubled wagon builder, suspicious of authority. Melissa and Sarah Cartwright - wife and young daughter of Arran. Xenn - Arran's son, always in trouble. Don - Friend and confidant of Arran. Enigma - a mysterious duelist who fights with chains Derwin Crescent - head of secret police for the church government. Not a pleasant chap. Shadow and Lenny - Cohorts of Derwin Crescent . . |
By Fleedleflump
Arran sat and stared into his stone-work fireplace, chin resting heavily in his hand, and remembered the weeks of toil it took to hew the rough chunks into the shape Melissa wanted. There was glory in that, he thought -- in crafting something for the ones you love from the land, dragging function from the ground with muscle and determination. Against the politics and machinations he was playing with, it felt clean and honest. He thought about a young Xenn, hacking away at his father's side with the miniature pickaxe Arran made him, little face squeezed tight with concentration. And there it was again -- melancholy.
The day since his visit to the council offices was uneventful and standard -- a fact that might have reassured him, but he was not a man to hope lightly. Nothing, Arran believed, came so easily. There was a problem with being a pragmatist, he thought -- in times of anguish, he was left with no false carrot of hope to dangle -- no gentle optimisms. He found himself with nothing much to believe in but his own abilities, so at times when he was doubting himself, life's outlook was bleak indeed ...
Occasionally, he thought Don had a point with his harping on about the Two Moons, but Arran had difficulty coming to terms with the concept of complete religious belief. If the Two Moons represented the only true faith, why were there so many alternative religions in the world, all believing theirs was the only truth? In the past, there'd been freedom of religion. Now, the Lord Church of the Two Moons suppressed its competition, branding them heresy. Raleria was the only land to escape its influence, the Tradespeople exercising their ancient right to separated law. In fact, based on what he knew of them, Arran believed the Ralieri Tradespeople were much like him, putting stock in personal strength and the power of community. What, he wondered idly, did the skinny eight-footers turn to when they needed something to believe in?
Larka, came the answer.
"What?" he twisted in his chair, casting a gaze around the empty room. Then, he realised; what he 'heard' was not aural. He didn't even 'think' the word, as such. It presented itself, boldly, behind his eyelids. Yes, visual more than anything else, but combined with an immediate intrinsic knowledge of what the word sounded like and how to pronounce it. Arran sat back in his chair for some time, listening intently. He even closed his eyes at one point for several minutes, but in his rested position he found himself drifting sporadically towards sleep, so he gave up on that idea. Eventually, 'receiving' no further communications, he gave up trying. Larka? A strange word. His stomach tightened as he realised that, grammatically, it was probably a Ralieri word, and it came to him when he was thinking about them.
Arran shook his head, trying to clear the confusion. Maybe it was time for a visit with Don so they could put the world to rights. Just as the thought occurred, there was a loud knock at the door. Arran flinched, caught off guard. Perhaps he would be saved a journey.
At first glance there appeared to be nobody in the dark porch of his house, but as Arran opened the door a small man materialised in front of him, slinking from the shadows like a night hunter. He was perhaps five feet and four inches -- Melissa's height -- and as nondescript as a cloud, his physique and features fluidly undefined.
"Mr Cartwright?" emanated the figure, no mouth or, for the most part, even face being clearly visible.
"Yes." Confusion.
"My name is Raymond Shadow, I'm with the Lord Church Government."
"The, err, the Government?"
"Area of Duelism, to be exact. Investigations." The tone of voice lowered somewhat. "It really might be a good idea for you to let me in, Mr Cartwright."
"Oh," stammered Arran, "yes, of course." He stepped aside and the small figure slunk inside confidently as though he lived there. A large, heavy-looking black cloak covered his form, partly explaining why he was so difficult to make out. Two bony arms swept up, and a pair of skeletal hands pulled back the voluminous hood, revealing a small, crowded face. With a tiny mouth and disproportionately large eyes, blinking madly, Raymond Shadow now looked more like prey than predator, but something about him screamed warnings. Arran closed the door, never removing his eyes from the small man, who might have been comical if not for the decidedly bleak expression infecting his features. A sound from the stairs distracted Arran, breaking his momentary reverie. "The rest room is to your right, Mr Shadow," strange name. "Please make yourself comfortable."
"Thank you." The man passed from view.
Arran looked up at the face of his wife Melissa at the top of the stairs. She was worried -- distinctly, if her expression was a guide. Clearly, Arran's weren't the only instincts ringing alarm bells.
"What's happening Arran?" Her hands were clasped before her, wringing.
"A man from the government. I'll receive him in the rest room. You go back to bed."
"But I worry. I stay awake with worry."
Arran sighed to cover his own doubts, knowing he wasn't fooling his wife. "Well don't, love. Get some sleep; I'll take care of this. Everything will work out." She was clearly unconvinced by his words and not trying to conceal it, but she did amble back into the bedroom. Arran proceeded to meet his guest by the fireplace. A faint rustle from upstairs told him Melissa was leaning into the chimney so she could hear his conversation -- a source of comfort.
"Now, Mr Cartwright. What concerns us is an apparent difficulty regarding the manner in which you avoided taking responsibility for the recent actions of your son Xenn, or should I say ex-son." Shadow's face remained impassive throughout, no flicker of emotion betraying the intent of his words.
"Well, I wouldn't put it," began Arran, aware of the inference in the small man's phrasing, but he was cut off.
"You see Mr Cartwright, when a crime as serious as murder is committed, official notice is carried immediately to the concerned parties, and in this case those parties include yourself."
Arran was beginning to get angry. "It is carried immediately, once the body has been found, yes."
"Then you must agree,"
"Do not cut me off, sir," intoned Arran, hearing the anger bleeding into his tone. "I had not yet finished." A brief expression flitted across the man's face, perhaps irritation or contempt, or even a moment of temper. He hid it immediately, replacing any slip with a grudging nod.
"Thank you, sir," continued Arran. "Now, as I was saying, I was not informed of my son's misdemeanour," the cloaked man raised an eyebrow but smiled with it, "until my return here, after my meeting with church Minister Freeman. You can check with him if you want any verification. I already had the official document stating that I no longer have a son before any notification arrived."
"We have already been to see Mr Freeman. He was most... helpful, as I understand it. Now, that document." The man clapped and rubbed his hands together. "May I see it, please? It is somewhat central to this issue, so its authenticity must be verified."
Arran would have refused, but the man had let him speak, so he laid his suspicions momentarily to rest and retrieved the scroll case from the mantelpiece. He handed it hesitantly to his interviewer, trying to see any hint of the briefly-revealed malice in his face. Shadow popped the document efficiently from its concealment and scanned through the contents.
Arran sat down again, pressing his hands between his thighs. "Is there really that much doubt over my claims and rights in this case?"
"It merely seemed suspicious to us," replied Shadow, observing Arran over the top of the scroll with raised eyes, "that you should suddenly decide to disown your son -- a boy with whom you've previously shown remarkable tolerance -- mere moments before you were informed he committed a Duelable offence. An offence, moreover, for which you would take responsibility. A little too much for coincidence, wouldn't you say?"
"Not myself, no." He shook his head for emphasis.
"You see, Mr Cartwright, even now you are acting suspiciously." He was folding the scroll, rather than rolling it.
Watching, Arran was struck by a thought. "I'm not the only one. How many church officials make house calls, and at this time of the night? Is this not highly irregular?"
The spindly man paused mid-gesture. His eyes were almost glowing, as though his thoughts danced a visible jig to the thoughts clambering behind them. Then he smiled, but the expression went no further than his mouth. "Not for me, it isn't. Now, do you have a witness who can testify as to your stated actions and your general character?"
"Yes, my friend Don."
"Ah, of course. Friend Don. So that's who he was going to visit." The diminutive figure turned to squint through the window. "Well, I'm unsure of how much help friend Don can be. Given the light outside, he's probably dead by now."
The statement hung unmoving in the air as echoes faded around them like spent potential. Its quiet tone and calm delivery put Arran briefly off guard. "What did you just say?"
"My work here is about done." The man stood up. Then, with deadly fast and precise movements, he ripped the folded parchment into four and fluttered the pieces into the fire.
"What the..?"
"Sorry, Mr Cartwright, but I must insist that you not leave this house before dawn."
Arran felt his face burning as he stood, anger flushing through him like a torrent of fire. Shadow's eyes widened and he moved to run, but a huge hand clamped around his spindly neck, lifting him from his feet and ramming him against a wall. Arran could feel muscle and sinew wresting in his palm as he throttled the man. He knew the sensation of power, of inevitability, and experienced it through a pall of grey nothing. This was happening, and it would soon be over -- no doubt, not mitigation, and no pity. The black-cloaked figure was just a dangling flap of cloth when something slapped Arran hard across the cheek.
"STOP IT! ARRAN, NO!" Melissa's tears pierced the grey veil, their fear sparking something in Arran -- something more primal than the need for violence.
He watched his hand unfurl as a loved one's distress got through. Shadow hit the floor with a heavy thud and collapsed, croaking weakly. He met his wife's gaze and an understanding passed between them, beyond tears or threats or clamour. She nodded. Melissa looked about to say something more but Arran cut her off.
"Don!" he exclaimed, running for the door. Then, directed at the crippled man, "He'd better be unharmed."
| Author Notes |
.
. I hope you enjoyed the chapter - more very soon! Mike :-) Schedule of characters: Bark & Parish - thieves who discover a prophetic text about a force called The Way that lies in jeopardy. Roger Dunbar, aka The Black Stallion - the most famous and successful Duelist ever. Rhyll - a Ralieri tradesperson, mysterious and friend to Roger Dunbar. Skull - Nasty bastard Duelist, sarcastic and intelligent. Preacher - Weedy duelist, adviser to Skull. Blood - Formal duelist, always in metal armour, companion of Skull. Barlon - A young wannabe fighter with a guilty secret. Grinda and Steff - Friends of Barlon. Arran Carwright - a troubled wagon builder, suspicious of authority. Melissa and Sarah Cartwright - wife and young daughter of Arran. Xenn - Arran's son, always in trouble. Don - Friend and confidant of Arran. Enigma - a mysterious duelist who fights with chains Derwin Crescent - head of secret police for the church government. Not a pleasant chap. Shadow and Lenny - Cohorts of Derwin Crescent . . |
By Fleedleflump
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
"It's not that I doubt your honesty, Madam. I simply find it difficult to believe the Lord Church would ever advocate such activities, let alone fund them. It's just too damaging to its name." Don handed the shaking secretary another mug of his home-brewed spirit. "The church breeds good people."
"Most of the denizens of the church are good people, but the reins here are being held by the most powerful men on the continent. We might even be dealing with the committee of Moonfathers itself. Power can corrupt anybody -- wise people don't seek it. Church officials are only human beings, and most of them aren't very wise."
Don sighed. "What makes you think this violence is being directed by those on high?"
"Who else has the resources? That man back there -- the one I ran away from? Derwin Crescent -- about the least human person you'll ever hear about. He's an investigator, and he runs a team for the church law enforcement agency -- a kind of secret police, if you like. Something extremely significant is happening here, or they wouldn't have paid his extortionate fee. I have no idea why, but somebody high up in the government really wants your friend dispossessed and cast out."
"Monstrous. Simply disgusting." Don could feel the shock in his lungs, pressing. Leave it to people to corrupt a beautiful ethos. "But the Moons will never let it happen. They made sure you got away safely."
The woman leaned forward, clearly angry. "I got away because I saw them coming, and it didn't take a genius to work out what was about to happen. I got out before they even knew I existed. Freeman wouldn't come -- he believed, as you do. Now he's dead. Minister Freeman was a good man, true, but only as tough as his familiar environment. They'll have wrung the information they want out of him. You can believe whatever you like when you're alone and everything's peaceful, but right now this document needs protecting, and Derwin Crescent is almost certainly on his way here."
Don paused for a moment with his chin in one hand, feeling a deep line of consternation on his brow. The other hand clattered a march on the arm of his chair with idle precision -- something he caught himself doing when concentrating hard. Then his middle finger tapped and stopped. He looked up and drew breath, having come to a conclusion. "I think you have more faith than you profess, Madam -- it's what brought you to my door. If what you say is true, our top priority is getting that document into the hands of somebody neutral and above suspicion. The Moons bless our steps, but it's up to us to find the right path."
The secretary rolled her eyeballs. "Yes, okay. Whatever."
"Good. I'm glad we agree on that, at least. Now, who is the nearest nobleman, and is he an honourable and neutral character? More to the point, is he seen as one?"
The secretary nodded. "Lord Elm owns estates to the North West of here, bordering the town and forest. He's a high-flyer in his element -- high society -- so he has connections across the board. What's more, he's officially an honorary denizen of the Lord Church. His vassals like him too, if that's important."
Don nodded. "It is to me. And would he not also arbitrate in disagreements between workers on his lands, making him a judge of sorts?"
"Yes, of course. I hadn't thought of that. I've met the man several times. He seems a fair and kind person -- not all of them are."
"Perfect, then." Don clapped his hands together. "That's one part of the problem solved. Now all we need to decide is how to get the document to him at this time of night, and what to tell him about the situation."
The secretary put down her empty mug and looked at him, her hands once more steady. "It's best if I go." Her eyes were slightly wide, but she seemed determined. "I'm an official employee of the church and urgent business doesn't wait for dawn. Added to which, Derwin Crescent hasn't seen me, so I'll be safer on my own than any other way."
A heavy breath settled in Don's chest. He didn't like it, but her approach made sense. He nodded and they both stood. "If you need anything else from me, or to mention my name to Lord Elm, do not hesitate."
"Thank you for calming me down. I needed to get away -- to clear my thoughts. I'm not sure exactly what brought me here but I was letting my feet do the deciding. Somebody needed to warn you about what was happening, anyway. Whichever slant you put on it, you're a target. It might be an idea for you to get out of here, at least hide until it's safe."
Don smiled. "I have no fear for myself, lady. The Moons will protect me."
A sigh. "Why do you believe so deeply when so much evidence suggests you are wrong to?"
"Religions don't just spring up from nowhere; belief doesn't simply leap into existence. It must have started somewhere, with a kind of sign. Besides, my link with the Two Moons is far more personal than you, or anybody else in Reefen Harn, knows. Please don't question my judgement in this matter."
The look she gave him was a sombre expression, but also one of acquiescence. "In that case, good luck, and I hope we both survive to meet again." She turned to go, but dropped the all-important scroll.
Don bent to pick it up for her...
And survived as a result.
The shutters to his side splintered, something brushed his hair, and a cracking sound snapped from the far wall. A fast glance showed him a crossbow bolt splintered into the wood panelling on the opposite side of the room. At the same time, an almighty crash shuddered against the front door. He didn't waste time, grabbing the document and ramming it at the wide-eyed secretary.
"Go! Take the back door, now. RUN!" She didn't need telling twice. Her shaking hands snatched the scroll and she bolted through to the back room. Don turned and headed for the fireplace, ducking down, everything clear despite the sudden attack. Adrenalin surged into him, clarifying senses and heightening perceptions. A look over his shoulder revealed a huge man entering from the hallway, a makeshift club pulled from a tree clutched in one hand. Behind him was a lean figure with a thin black moustache, reloading a crossbow as he walked. Don stopped looking and lunged for his fireplace.
A 'snap!' sounded, and blood sprayed on the wall in front of him, a red-drenched bolt buried in the pine. Spattered blood burst from the impact in a blossom of gore. Agony rammed a spear of shock through this stomach and weakness flushed his veins. As he reached his destination, collapsed, and rummaged in the unused coals, Don heard voices behind him.
"Ha! Got the lucky turd that time. You finish him off, Lenny. I'll fetch that bitch before she gets too big a head start."
Don still wasn't looking, but he heard fast footsteps heading into his back room. A slow, heavy set moved in his direction, accompanied by the steady smack of branch against palm. He searched frantically until his hand closed around a leather-bound haft. The grip settled into his closing fist like the handshake of an old friend. Energy surged through Don's wrist, writhing into his veins like snakes -- simultaneously shocking and exhilarating. Coals shifted and dust puffed and something beneath them gyrated, adapting to its master's touch. Long-buried memories crackled in his mind like fireworks.
This was his weapon, bequeathed by tradition and ritual -- an ancient, personalised article of war he'd kept hidden in the cold fire for almost twenty years. There was a thud as a foot came down next to his head. He heard a brief intake of breath, the foot settled as the weight above it rocked, and just on the verge of hearing was the slight creak of braced chest muscles. This was quite definitely close enough.
Don twisted his upper half with all his might, turning his body. An axe-filled hand burst from the fire, spraying dead coal and dust in a cloud of determination. The giant was standing astride him, both hands brandishing the branch above his head, and he had time only for a brief look of surprise. Had Don's axe been a common weapon of metal and timber, stored over the years in a dusty grave, it might have caused a dangerous leg wound. The best he'd have hoped for would be to escape and leave his attacked with a rust infection. Instead, the metal blades glinted like liquid fire as they reflected the house torches. It sheared straight through the huge guy's left leg at the thigh, destroyed his groin, deflected from the inside of his pelvis, and buried its head fully in his lower intestines.
The attacker roared in surprise as his body flopped sideways, intestines bursting forth like an explosion of eels. He tottered momentarily, and then crashed into the wall. His disembodied leg fell across Don, heavier than it had any right to be. As the dying man slid to the floor, he screamed an ear piercing gurgle, breathed a huge gulp of air, and screamed again. His hands clasped at his spilled organs, groping in the mush of their destruction, grappling in desperation as he tried to squeeze them back in place. Another scream sheared through the air. He didn't seem about to stop.
Legs slipping in a lake of gore, Don dragged himself desperately towards his fallen enemy. He was drenched in blood and thick loin matter, the smell clagging into his nose like a punch to the face. Dizziness yanked at his consciousness but he knew he couldn't stop. He needed to escape before the skinny man -- presumably Derwin Crescent -- returned. The big guy's screaming would draw his companion back if Don didn't act. He grasped the fallen branch club as he reached the keening man. Exhausted and groaning, he forced himself to one elbow, heaving the branch over his head. With every ounce of strength he could manage, he smashed it down on his enemy's agonised face. Spiky shoots punctured the cheeks and brow, then the branch core connected with a wet snark! The thick skull caved, bursting its contents in a thick mush, and Don averted his eyes as an eyeball rolled across the floor, his stomach heaving. The branch fell from nerveless fingers and he rolled to his back, away from the grisly mess.
Back against the sticky floor, he forced himself to breathe deeply for a while, avoiding the fast, shallow breaths his heart wanted him to make. Doing so caused intense pain in his side but he knew survival depended on slowing his system. Age-old training took over, allowing him to find the calm at the heart of his emotional storm. He tried to examine the wound, although with all the blood on him, ascertaining the extent of the damage was difficult.
The crossbow bolt went straight through him -- that much he already knew. The hole was slightly above the hip, on his right side. He'd seen injuries like this before and knew a man might live or die. It was not necessarily fatal, but with all this foreign blood in the wound, an infection was almost guaranteed. He was still breathing but it hurt if he went too deep. Old knowledge and terrible experience suggested his stomach may be affected, although not too badly -- if his stomach was punctured, he'd be screaming uncontrollably.
Resolving to probe details later, Don pulled off his shirt and tied it as hard as he could for a bandage. While he could still move, he could still get away. Where the lady was concerned, he could only hope she ran faster than Derwin Crescent. He pulled himself upright, bracing a hand on the mantelpiece. Sudden gut pain made him gasp sharply, and a red patch spread on his makeshift wound dressing. He'd torn something inside. He tried to take a step, but another pain occurred to him -- a pain far more frightening than the other. Subtle, this time. A slight stinging, just inside his hip and next to the wound. Such a gentle aggravation, but the results were disastrous.
Force slammed into his wound from within. Bile fountained up his throat, disgorging a spray of burning spew through his nostrils. His 'bandage' bubbled outward as it was jetted into from behind, and copious amounts of rich coloured blood ran down his leg like uncontrolled river rapids.
Depths-be-damned!
Don collapsed once more to the ground, weakness sweeping over him like a wave on the beach at high tide. He made an inarticulate noise and rolled his head from side to side, mouth lolled open. A thousand words queued up to emerge from his mouth -- regret, frustration, fear. None of them would issue, leaving him gagging impotently at the knowledge of impending death.
As darkness encroached, a crash sounded from the door and the secretary, nose and mouth stained red, was propelled off balance into the room. She slammed against the wall next to the window and flopped to the floor, a stuffing-less child's toy. Derwin Crescent strode into view, pushing a rolled scroll into his belt. He moved over to the woman, sniffed, and stamped with great deliberation on the centre of her back as she lay, helpless, on her stomach. Her mouth and eyes opened wide as the sharp crack sounded and her body spasmed inarticulately. She gyrated for a few moments, and then was still. The violence of the act tore through the veil of vagueness covering Don's consciousness. A sense of clarity pervaded him as he focused on the enemy. Though weak, he found himself able to move, and grasped feebly at the axe handle, sticking towards him at a half right angle. The movement caught Crescent's attention, and his eyes widened.
"Lenny!" The thin man's eyes burned as he took in the grotesque scene. Don grasped the axe hilt, wrenched it from the body and flung it at the enemy all in one desperate motion. The heavy weapon barely left his fingers before it clanked to the floor, nowhere near its intended target.
Derwin Crescent's nostrils flared and the spark of insanity danced in his eyes. There was no talking or boasting, no cry of triumph. Instead, he simply raised his crossbow, expression grim.
| Author Notes |
.
. I hope you enjoyed the chapter - more very soon! Mike :-) Schedule of characters: Bark & Parish - thieves who discover a prophetic text about a force called The Way that lies in jeopardy. Roger Dunbar, aka The Black Stallion - the most famous and successful Duelist ever. Rhyll - a Ralieri tradesperson, mysterious and friend to Roger Dunbar. Skull - Nasty bastard Duelist, sarcastic and intelligent. Preacher - Weedy duelist, adviser to Skull. Blood - Formal duelist, always in metal armour, companion of Skull. Barlon - A young wannabe fighter with a guilty secret. Grinda and Steff - Friends of Barlon. Arran Carwright - a troubled wagon builder, suspicious of authority. Melissa and Sarah Cartwright - wife and young daughter of Arran. Xenn - Arran's son, always in trouble. Don - Friend and confidant of Arran. Enigma - a mysterious duelist who fights with chains Derwin Crescent - head of secret police for the church government. Not a pleasant chap. Shadow and Lenny - Cohorts of Derwin Crescent . . |
By Fleedleflump
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
Arran was in a kind of frenzy as he sped towards Don's house at a flat out run. The visit from Shadow meant somebody was onto his scheme, and Don was the only person holding Arran's story together with his witness statement. His urgency increased when, through the damaged, hanging shutters, he saw a thin, mean looking man in black clothing raising a crossbow. The weapon was aimed downwards, in the direction of the fireplace. Never pausing for thought, Arran roared a hoarse battle cry and leapt between the splintered shutters, straight through the window.
Remnants of the wood flew in various directions, jagged ends cutting rents in Arran's skin, but he didn't notice, so caught up was he in his fit of rage. In a cloud of fragments, his large form sailed over the prone body of the secretary and, still two feet from the floor, collided with his target's right side. They both fell sprawling and the crossbow clattered on the floorboards. The thin man's head thunked against the wall opposite the window and he groaned groggily. Arran, having been shielded, was unhurt and boiling over with rage. Staggering, he held onto the thin man, rage blurring his vision as the guys tried to fight. They circled and grunted until pressing once more against the wall. Arran grasped the other man's head front and back. The neck was just a joint, much like a wagon's hitch, and he knew how to break it with the right pressure.
But the manoeuvre must have alerted his target's instincts. He wiggled and dropped from Arran's grasp, slipping out from under the bigger man to crumple on the ground. Without a pause, he staggered to his feet and bound for the door. Arran lunged for the dropped crossbow, twisted, aimed and fired ... just as his target dove through the doorway into the porch, legs flailing behind him. Shattered wood fragments burst around the man's calves as a section of the door frame was obliterated by the steel tipped bolt, mere inches from his feet. With a cat's speed and dexterity, he scrambled upright and bolted into the night.
Shaking for any number of different reasons, Arran turned to Don and felt a chill run through him at the sight of the massive, spreading pool of thick blood.
His ice white friend was sitting in the middle. "I'm just about dead," he croaked.
"No!" came the inevitable denial.
"Come on, Arran," the words were accompanied by a running red smile, blood settled between the teeth like crimson outlines. "We both know the human body doesn't function well with no blood in it."
Arran dropped to his knees, the weight of many things driving him down. The crossbow was an unwelcome presence in his grasp so he threw it to the side. His hand felt like somebody else's, cold and pale like a dead thing. His breathing turned shallow and his thoughts were blitzed into disarray, leaving his mind numb. Unable to understand, through the shock, through the grief, what his reaction should be, what his reaction was, Arran Cartwright gawped uncomprehendingly at the mess in front of him as blood soaked into his knees.
Don was looking at him with pleading eyes and urgency in his expression beyond the obvious pain in his body. He rasped weakly, then flushed and wrenched himself sideways slightly. He coughed a great glut of blood onto his chin and it seemed to loosen his throat.
"Arran, for goodness' sake, for my sake, go after Crescent. He has the scroll. He'll make you a Duelist."
Perhaps his friend's determination got through, because Arran found himself once more able to breathe easily, although he still wasn't sure what he was meant to be feeling. "That hardly seems important now, Don."
"It is important. It is. They've gone to this much trouble; believe me, it's important." The words sounded forced out though an unwilling voice.
"No. It's not."
There was an extended silence between them. Don choked a chuddering pulse of blood from his mouth, his breath wheezing and wracking from his body.
When the fit passed, he sighed. "You're not going after him, then?"
"No," a catch, "I'm staying here with you. Somebody needs to invoke your deathrite."
"But you don't believe, Arran."
"You do, and that's what matters here."
"Alright then," croaked Don in almost inaudible resignation, "in that case, I have something you must do for me. A last wish, if you like, but to more than just myself a highly important one. Do not ignore this, Arran. It's the most important thing I've ever asked you to do." They held gazes for a moment and both nodded. "Attend me, Arran Cartwright. Attend me."
He held out a hand and Arran grasped it. Old friends, bonded for one last moment.
"I attend you."
*****
Melissa turned the ancient double bladed battleaxe slowly in her hands, amazed at how light it was for such a size. Engraved runes flashed at her, side after side, side after side, hypnotic yet static. They twined the blades and curled down the haft like eldritch snakes, mysterious and sinister. It took all her concentration to continue rotating the weapon, not to stop and stare at the clipped symbols, despite the knowledge she couldn't read them. Between the blades, on either side, was a raised circle embossed with representations of the Two Moons, one above the other in the formation known as the United Brothers. It was the only constant symbol. The Runnwood haft, polished with its burgundy red leather grip, showed no signs of wear, despite being obviously the original for the blade and therefore no less ancient. Truly, a weapon of divine blessing. She smiled; if that wasn't the ultimate irony, what was? Despite the circumstances, Melissa found herself fascinated.
A sigh drifted from her - it was still difficult to comprehend, to believe. She glanced at Arran, hunched in a chair across from her in the living room. He came in, related his story, handed her the battleaxe and slumped down, brooding, silent ever since. Melissa had little to report in return. The man calling himself Shadow, upon being helped up, pushed her away angrily and stalked out, apparently livid at having been caught off guard. Melissa shook her head slowly and laid the axe down gently across her lap, resting her folded hands upon its metallic coldness.
"I still can't believe it -- Don, a Knight of the Moons!" She could hear underlying wonder and awe in her tone. "I thought they didn't operate any more. There's been no turmoil to calm, no war to fight for more than fifty years. From what I heard, their unit was disbanded, their barracks claimed for alternative uses."
Arran looked up finally. "Don didn't tell me very much -- he was dying at the time." Melissa tried to ignore the flat, emotionless sound of his voice, hoping she simply misinterpreted. Arran was given to black moods and low phases. If anything was going to send him spiralling down, Don's death would be it. "From what I gather," her husband continued, "the Knights split from the main body of the Church around sixty years ago when a small group of Moonfathers, to whom they were faithful, broke from the Committee of the Faith, claiming the Lord Church was veering from its archetypal course. The renegades took the Knights with them and continued their work independently. Apparently the government, though no doubt not for want of trying, never discovered the Knights' new base of operations. Instead, they officially disbanded the order, publicly reclaimed the barracks, and probably spread those rumours of criminal gangs masquerading as knights which we still hear today."
Despite herself, Melissa found a smile forming on her lips. "I take it, from all those 'no doubt's and 'probably's, that Don himself didn't accuse the Church government of any wrongdoing?"
"I just filled in the blanks for him. Don trusted too much, that was his problem."
Melissa leaned back. "It's also the reason why you loved him so much, though, isn't it?"
Although she tried to hold his gaze, Arran turned away and for a long minute, thick silence reigned in the room. Even the fire made no sound -- a minute out of time, with no interference from the physical or any other world. Even thought seemed to cease momentarily.
Then it was over as Arran spoke again suddenly. "No, Don... he didn't blame anybody. To him, motive was always the most important factor. He said both the Knights and the government did what they felt was necessary through good intentions, so there was no blame to assign. I don't agree, but that's neither here nor there."
Melissa sighed again, deeply. "Okay, but what I don't understand is why Don gave his axe to you. What is it the legend states? Something about a knight knowing his successor upon sight, and bestowing upon that person their ancient mantle and weapon when appropriate. How are you supposed to do that on his behalf?"
"Don said I would know the right person by their eyes, and they would know me. He granted me the authority to fulfil his life's purpose, but I have no idea how."
"So his soul can finally be at rest," finished Melissa as the stories slowly came back to her. "Forgive me for saying it, but I never believed in any of that."
Arran smiled. It was one of his haunted smiles that told her everything -- his intentions, his passion, and his resolve. Unable to respond in any other way, she felt herself crying silently, the tears so forceful they dripped from her chin and fell between her breasts. Arran got up.
"I'm going to bed. Are you coming?"
She shook her head and he left. Melissa Cartwright cried to herself and waited patiently for the authorities to knock on her door. When she felt sleep tugging at her consciousness, it was a welcome reprieve.
*****
LETTER
My beloved,
I am sorry for taking the coward's approach, and leaving this as you sleep.
I cannot explain the lack of tears at the death of my closest friend. I have no way of comprehending what I feel at this moment, what I am to feel from here forward. I have also no way of knowing the rightness or wrongness of my prevailing emotions. It seems that, in this instance, of this occurrence, I have no feelings, I have only knowledge.
I know something burns within me over which I may never possess control. I know that, whilst he kept a part of himself from me, I loved Don more than I ever could a brother, and was so close to him, I knew his true essence totally, without mar. I know at some point I will grieve for him, though I cannot until my life is once more free from turmoil.
Finally, I know I will endeavour with all my energies to fulfil Don's dying wishes. Though reason and sense may block me, though darkness may seek to trip me, though evil may seek to subvert me, I know my path will never steer me awry. I have only to look into my soul and consult its partner, and I will find the strength. This, I know. This is my destiny.
Please forgive me, and have the strength to read me truthfully.
I will love you and Sarah always,
Arran.
| Author Notes |
.
. I hope you enjoyed the chapter - more very soon! Mike :-) Schedule of characters: Bark & Parish - thieves who discover a prophetic text about a force called The Way that lies in jeopardy. Roger Dunbar, aka The Black Stallion - the most famous and successful Duelist ever. Rhyll - a Ralieri tradesperson, mysterious and friend to Roger Dunbar. Skull - Nasty bastard Duelist, sarcastic and intelligent. Preacher - Weedy duelist, adviser to Skull. Blood - Formal duelist, always in metal armour, companion of Skull. Barlon - A young wannabe fighter with a guilty secret. Grinda and Steff - Friends of Barlon. Arran Carwright - a troubled wagon builder, suspicious of authority. Melissa and Sarah Cartwright - wife and young daughter of Arran. Xenn - Arran's son, always in trouble. Don - Friend and confidant of Arran. Enigma - a mysterious duelist who fights with chains Derwin Crescent - head of secret police for the church government. Not a pleasant chap. Shadow and Lenny - Cohorts of Derwin Crescent . . |
By Fleedleflump
"Who implemented this ridiculous, ruinous sequence of events?" It was gravel speaking, or sounded as such. The rough, deep voice reverberated throughout the enclosed chamber, a room of indeterminate size. Indeterminate because, although twenty-one faces were visible, facing each other in a perfect circle, nothing else was. The unknowing observer might think, upon this sight, that the faces were in fact lit from within. That is, if the observer lived long enough to have any thoughts.
"I... I did, master," replied Benedict. His was a young voice, which he knew didn't serve him well in the current context, but he was mature enough. "Although, I think 'implemented' is a strong word for what little I did."
"And when were you epoptised?"
"A mere two years ago, master. This is my first interest of any particular significance." Benedict gulped, hoping it didn't show in his visibly lit face.
"So why did you not come to me?"
"I thought... That is, I believed my skills would be sufficient and you need not be pestered, Master. I did not do much -- in fact, I did no incantations at all. After casting the omens surrounding the matter I merely sent Derwin Cres-"
"You are a fool, boy. Destiny is a cunning foe, and your youthful enthusiasm makes no recompense for your stupidity. By your impetuous actions, you managed to set in motion the very sequence of events you sought to prevent. You were supposed to intervene, did you not understand that? You were played for a fool by something -- or someone -- vastly cleverer than you. Now the Lion is realised. The arrow has been fired. Have you any idea how much more difficult it is to deflect the arrow than to break the bow?"
"Master, I..."
"An it please thee, sire," a smooth interruption by a rich, deep female voice. "Thy bouffant pessimism does nowt but profane one of such lofty stature. Surely, did thee not exaggerate thine worries for benefit of no more than a favoured metaphor?" Her words slithered through the black air, curling their way into the ears of those present. Benedict felt himself shudder at the sound of her voice.
"What is your point, Arianda?" The voice, if possible, was even colder and deeper than previously.
"Unknown score upon the world, mine friend, and yet thy temper is fragile as ever it was. Well, do I mean. The Lion hast not the knowledge of his own intrinsic potential. If it is yet thus three Mooncycles from now in time, then his potential is wasted -- thus will we be freely able to leech of it."
"True, Arianda, but there are those who work against us and they need only tell him."
"Only so do you assume. The benefits may yet prove to be different from such portents' usual fruit. Mistake me not, I think of us are there none who ever encountered such power as wields this man. To trouble thyself over battle 'gainst such feeble heretics as defy us unbefits you, master. I have of mine own manipulations to thought, and well would you do to heed me."
The silence eddied her words like a storm, leaving its hosts to mull their meaning. Benedict knew a fear he'd not before considered -- that not all Moonfathers may have everyone's best interests at heart. He said a silent prayer to the Moons that Arianda's machinations might be banished from the meeting, but the thoughtful echoes of his comrades did not encourage hope.
"Tell me your plan, Arianda," the voice said eventually. "I see you have some idea what is actually happening here. Share it. Tell us what you believe."
Twenty One faces drew closer together, their expressions ones of stoic sobriety. Inside, Benedict's stomach knotted. The darkness of the room flowed about them protectively. Muffling sound. Clogging smell. Blinding vision.
* * * * *
Roger Dunbar sighed as he whittled a piece of pine. It was a sigh of contentment above anything else. The midday was bright, the rock upon which he perched was warm, and the gentle breeze whistled melodically in the mountain surroundings. The phenomenon known as the Singing Pass had been seducing travellers throughout the ages. Legend had it, the Moons dragged the mountains from the ground for company. Most people would have looked from Dunbar's eyes and simply seen grey stone. The Black Stallion looked and he saw a thousand shades of grey stone, and a thousand more, all arranged in concentric patterns -- spurs, peaks and valleys -- a perfect, peaceful metaphor for tarnished, chaotic life itself. One day, this gave hope, such comparisons would work the other way around.
Inspired by the sight, the old man sent a spray of wood chips flying through the air, smiling to himself as he did so. He was the retired warrior, whittling his wood with a wise expression on his face -- one of the all time great cliches. A greater passion for him was drawing or -- even better -- penning verse, but either activity was difficult whilst on the road. Instead, a spare branch and his hunting knife could provide ample outlet for his creativity. His basic shape formed, Dunbar gripped his knife blade and used only the point, guided closely by a firm thumb, to carve the detail.
Small pine filings soon covered his old brown leather trousers and cream hide jerkin. The only thing he kept clean, with a constant brushing hand, was his black sword belt, holding the scabbarded broadsword of historic infamy. The scabbard was a gift from his greatest friend and a treasure by anyone's standards, studded evenly with fully thirteen diamond studs, each mounted on a red silver star. A Duelist achieving Morta Siecle and granted freedom was awarded one such stud. The Black Stallion , subsequently, spent almost forty years of his life adding to that tally as a registered Hunter Duelist, and the last five years hoping to die, knowing he would not.
A faint scrape sounded from behind him on the mountain trail, and he ceased carving but made no attempt to move. Any enemy so stealthy would have seen him dead long before now. He simply waited, listening intently for any further sounds, poised to move in an instant at the slightest added threat. He did not have to wait long before a sibilant, guttural voice spoke out from close behind him.
"You whittle with skill, sir, unlike some others I have encountered." Dunbar grinned as he turned, holding up his rough carving of a mounted Ralieri figure against mountain scenery -- suspiciously familiar scenery.
"And you've been influencing my thoughts again, you ugly, shark faced shitlump! Some vices never die."
"Hssst! Most vices never die, and some humans defecate far more effectively from their mouths than any other orifice."
The ageing man chuckled. "It's been six years Rhyll, and you still look exactly the same."
The eight foot tall Ralieri dismounted his huge roan and his upturned mouth flattened into a broad smile. "Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for you. Your face resembles a sun-rotted peach. Although," he added as he was crushed in an enthusiastic bear hug, "your prodigious strength seems to have remained untainted."
Roger Dunbar chuckled again as he sat back, his alien friend taking up residence on a rock facing him. Despite the passage of time, he felt immediately at home with his lifelong companion. Still, this meeting was not for happy reasons. "So, you felt it too, Rhyll? I doubt profoundly you left your homeland simply to annoy an old man."
Rhyll's mouth became the upturned V that was the hallmark of his race. "Indeed. Light-heartedly as I may appear to treat it, there is a great danger in the air."
"In what form?"
"The Way has been interrupted. Destiny has gone awry, and without its guiding hand, humankind will flounder in the face of its chaotic nature."
Dunbar blinked. "You think well ahead of me, my friend."
Another grin. "This is not unusual."
"Alright, we'll start from the beginning. I know you're waiting for me to ask. What exactly is 'The Way'?"
"A very bad translation of the original Ralerian word, for a start. The Way is like a description of how things should be, but more than that, it governs what is to be, with an element of leniency mixed into it. You would probably call it Destiny -- the detail, the minutiae, can be controlled by individuals. The bigger picture, however, and any form of evolution, is governed by The Way."
The Black Stallion grunted. "So this is what kept me alive the last five years -- this disruption to the appropriate way of things?"
"It has done nothing of the sort, my powerful friend. Only you have the ability to do that. Your survival probably has more to do with your huge ego than anything else."
"No, no. I felt something during that half decade. I knew I wouldn't die, and a few days ago I knew it was time for action. I even had a fair idea of where I should be heading."
Rhyll smiled. "Someday soon, I will try to explain to you about yourself. For now, our concern must be that you understand the principles of The Way. In order to do this more effectively, I will tell you what I know in reference to your own culture. Whereas we Ralieri take our guidance directly from our link with The Way, you humans rely on certain members of your society to relate its path to you. This is through centuries of acquired habit rather than necessity, but such is a discussion for another time. Most recently - the last few ages - your race interfaces with the Lord Church of the Two Moons."
Dunbar held up a hand. "Hold on Rhyll. You know I'm not a religious man."
The alien's head nodded. "And at the moment you are quite right not to believe, but the point is you are in the vast minority. You see, the only humanly force which can influence The Way is belief. Belief and faith feed concepts such as love, luck and chance, hope and pessimism. Humans are driven very much by feelings above reason -- it's both a boon and a downfall -- and it makes your kind susceptible to corruption, intentional or otherwise. Your church has been believed in for so long now that it does in fact virtually govern the destiny of the human race. As a whole, you look to it for guidance, ethics and morality. It is only fortunate for us Ralieri that you humans consider us totally separate. There are rather more of you than us, and all those humans generate an immense amount of belief."
"So you're saying that, for humans, the Lord Church basically is The Way."
"Put crudely, yes. Now, in theory, The Way can never be disrupted because it is a natural force, not a personality. Only destiny can disrupt destiny, which a raw force will obviously never do -- it is incapable of duplicity. However, when The Way has been manifested physically, such as in the form of your church, the uncertain nature of man gains control and makes it possible for a physical occurrence to damage the entire process."
Dunbar nodded. "This is starting to make sense. Through a fault in its design, The Way has come under the control of people when it's supposed to be an independent entity, and those people have buggered it up."
Another grin. "Such eloquence, human, but yes. You have the basic idea. A human or group of humans is quite capable of duplicity. In fact, it is a fundamental part of their shared character. Humans are naturally self destructive creatures, and as such they are also destructive towards that over which they have control."
"Has any physical occurrence already taken place? Was it a vow of some kind, because I'd swear that was what alerted me?"
"No, it was not a vow, but it has occurred. A Knight of the Moons has been killed before he was able to pass on his mantle and weapon to his natural successor. This could not have happened but that it was an agent of the church who carried out the deed. You see? The physical manifestation of destiny damaging itself; The Way is vulnerable only to its own influence. Now, because it was the Lord Church which betrayed it, The Way is trying to realign itself through the Knights of the Moons."
"Wait a minute," butted Dunbar. "Weren't the Knights disgraced some time ago?"
"Officially, yes. Do not believe everything you hear. That is, after all, how this ridiculous mess came about in the first place. Now, shut up and listen."
Dunbar laughed and play-punched his friend on the shoulder. "Watch it, you ugly bugger."
Rhyll winked. "Unknowingly acting as an agent for The Way, the dying Knight imbued another with the power to pass on the necessities on his behalf. If this is allowed to happen then The Way can resume. Destiny will be back on track."
"I'll admit, it all makes a kind of way over my head sense, but where do I fit in? What role am I to play?"
"If you were alerted by a vow, then it will be one which affects this scenario, and therein lies what you must do."
Dunbar winced in concentration. "It doesn't sound very difficult, two people merely needing to meet."
"That is not the point. Many people are involved here, and many great forces are in play, but few know all the details. The man entrusted with delivering the mantle will have a huge aura of power surrounding him to anybody who knows how to look, as will the one set to receive it. The fate of mankind quite literally rests on their shoulders. People will see them as a threat simply because of this aura, and others are bound to try to steal from its power, never realising they are effectively plotting to destroy themselves. No no, my friend -- both men are in grave danger."
"Okay, I'll bite." The Black Stallion squeezed the haft of his famous sword, knowing he'd soon be wielding it in anger. "What's the plan?"
"Their meeting must be hurried along, and we must help it happen. Whilst The Way is disrupted, it can be tampered with. Even barring this danger, within a cycle or two -- eighty days at the most -- the level of disruption will become so great, the damage is irreparable. The power of the men will be rendered meaningless."
Dunbar smiled. "Say that in my language."
"In your language? Well, I think that calls for a theological metaphor. In your language, the Two Moons will be made to collide."
"Phew, and there I was, sitting comfortably on my rock, thinking it was a pleasant day."
| Author Notes |
.
. I hope you enjoyed the chapter - more very soon! Mike :-) Schedule of characters: Bark & Parish - thieves who discover a prophetic text about a force called The Way that lies in jeopardy. Roger Dunbar, aka The Black Stallion - the most famous and successful Duelist ever. Rhyll - a Ralieri tradesperson, mysterious and friend to Roger Dunbar. Skull - Nasty bastard Duelist, sarcastic and intelligent. Preacher - Weedy duelist, adviser to Skull. Blood - Formal duelist, always in metal armour, companion of Skull. Barlon - A young wannabe fighter with a guilty secret. Grinda and Steff - Friends of Barlon. Arran Carwright - a troubled wagon builder, suspicious of authority. Melissa and Sarah Cartwright - wife and young daughter of Arran. Xenn - Arran's son, always in trouble. Don - Friend and confidant of Arran. Enigma - a mysterious duelist who fights with chains Derwin Crescent - head of secret police for the church government. Not a pleasant chap. Shadow and Lenny - Cohorts of Derwin Crescent Eldar - Head Moonfather, spiritual leader of the church Arianda - Scheming lady/Moonfather Benedict - Rookie Moonfather, young and idealistic . . |
By Fleedleflump
Thud, thunk. Giggle.
Preacher sighed as he sat in his 'office' cave, attempting, with little success, to concentrate his thoughts. The idea of insulating the door of The Bone Lord's bedchamber against acoustic leakage was a good one. Skull had not, however, thought about how thin some of the walls were. Given the loneliness of his nights, Preacher found himself keeping quiet about the sounds leaking into his room. Right now, he regretted that decision. His master, it seemed, had chosen a new favourite concubine. Far more than the arousal of Zita's evocative cries, the sounds this new girl made merely caused Preacher annoyance.
Ooh! Ride, you naughty man, ride!
Zita... therein lurked Preacher's current problems. He could only be thankful Skull was satisfied with the information as part of his daily prophecy, not realising how much more his assistant was withholding. If The Bone Lord discovered Preacher allowed a being of such power to slip away from right beneath their noses, his fury would be felt from the Deadlands to Raleria.
Damn, but she was just another concubine! Why should he have investigated her -- what reason did he have? Zita never gave any indication she was anything other than what she appeared to be. But that wasn't entirely true, and wasn't the point anyway. He should have checked her, regardless of reasons, especially with those eyes of hers, never resolving themselves into a single colour. Oh, why did he never think to cast her omens?
He knew the answer, of course, and its recognition infuriated him. Why? Because she beat him too -- beat him with her walk, her body, her talk, her sounds. She found his weak point and exploited it mercilessly. Then, like every other weak fool around him, Preacher fell under the power of the seductive spell she wove.
Yap yap, woof woof! Bad dog!
Preacher grimaced and forced from his mind all traces of anger and regret while he tried to block his ears against the ridiculous noises coming through the wall. He examined the situation coldly, with only his thoughts. Just who was Zita to exude such an aura? That her influence announced itself now, during his current investigations, meant she was involved in the affair of the Lion and the young man. Somehow, her being was intertwined in everything going on. Barring her identity, Preacher had one pressing query. Would she prove to be a help for his designs, or a hindrance?
The report of metal footsteps approaching the doorway shattered his concentration, and he wore an expression of annoyance when Blood entered the room without so much as a polite pause. The erect military figure did pause when he caught sight of the glare, and cast an uncertain glance in the direction of the bedchamber.
"I bring grave missive," he said eventually, his thick brown moustache quivering on his square face. "Is our Lord indisposed?"
Ra, ra! Pump that love tendon!
Preacher fought down a smile at the sight of Blood desperately feigning selective hearing. "Ah... yes, he is. Aren't you supposed to be on your way to Reefen Harn?"
Blood gave the small man a piercing look, paused, and then apparently decided to answer anyway. "I found a body by the side of the main road, of a Duelist named Claw."
Preacher's interest began to rise, but he decided to play it cool all the same. "Why is that so grave -- a dead Duelist is surely not an unusual discovery?"
Blood's eyes flickered in annoyance. "It would not even usually have given me pause, but the body coincided with the tracks of the concubine Zita, left by her upon her departure two days ago."
A tingling in his abdomen left Preacher fighting to keep the excitement from his face. "Fascinating indeed," he said without a hint of falsehood. Then, seeing Blood unsure whether to say any more, he continued, "it would probably be a good idea if you departed on your journey. If the Bone Lord sees you, he may not pause for questions before he becomes angry."
Blood nodded and turned to leave. "You will pass on my missive to Lord Skull?"
"I certainly will." When I want him to know. "Oh, Blood?"
"Yes?"
"How was the Duelist killed?" Who is Zita?
"Strangulation."
"Ah." No help.
"That is, strangulation with a chain."
Power of the Moons! Excitement squeezed Preacher's chest like whipcord. He leaned back and tried to control his breathing, a glance at the doorway leaving him glad he was now alone. Death by chain. Only one Duelist in the known world used chains and actually won any duels with them. Enigma!
The deadly lady of mystery, who victimised a certain Duelist and waited, often for months, before moving in for the kill, was almost a myth. Some didn't believe she'd ever existed. Preacher didn't know why, but he did know her very existence baffled those of a mystic leaning. That included -- reportedly -- the circle of Moonfathers. But as he thought further into the matter, Preacher's excitement changed steadily to the deadweight of fear. Nobody ever came close to beating Enigma. Many who saw her fight considered her immortal. This created questions. Why did she leave the cave complex meekly after residing there for over a year? More to the point, keeping that residence in mind, why in the depths were Skull, Blood, and himself still alive?
* * * * *
The Moonfather gazed pensively over steepled fingers from behind his desk, a look of diamond fixed upon Arran Cartwright. The cold, unmoving eyes made uncomfortable viewing, so Arran settled upon glancing around the Abbey's sub-office while he waited for the Moonfather to finish trying to unnerve him. The oak desk was exquisitely formed by, in Arran's judgement, a true master of woodcraft. His own considerable skills could never have matched the smooth lines and perfect dove-tails of the desk, which only a nobleman should be able to afford. A full length polished bronze mirror stood to his left against a wall, shining all the more brightly for the sourceless gloom around it. Red velvet adorned almost every piece of furniture in the room, and musty bookshelves added to the feeling of cloying enclosure. Despite the warm look, however, the air was refreshingly cool, and Arran marvelled at the ability of the two door guards behind him to project no presence. If he hadn't known they were there, Arran would never have believed two people stood behind him.
His hands, clenched behind his back by straight arms as he stood in front of the Moonfather's desk, began to sweat. He shuffled his feet, and then snapped angrily to attention when he realised the mystic's attempts to unsettle him were working. A strange scent accosted his nose -- emanating, he noted, from a vial on the desk. It threatened to make him sneeze, but he refused to give in and settled for a painful sting. Finally, the Moonfather breathed out a big sigh and settled into his chair, running a hand over black hair so flat to his head, it could have been painted on. Then he smiled.
"I am Father Drangore. You have been delivered unto me so you may be re-issued with an identity suited to the aura of your soul. Your previous name is history and nothing more. Do you feel contrition?" The last was intoned more than it was spoken.
Arran sighed and couldn't help but smile at the absurdity of it all. "Of course I feel contrition. Lord."
The Moonfather almost looked to be fighting off a smile himself. "In that case, Duelist, step forward, that you may be granted a chance for redemption." Arran paced forward until he was standing right in front of the desk. "Now, kneel that I may imbue upon you the means by which you can be identified." Arran sank to the floor and bowed his head forward so he was looking down directly at the Oak wood. It was so close, he could make out every fault-line, every tiny knot in its surface, the stories of many generations drawn out in nature's intricate tapestry. This desk was older than anyone here -- the problems of one wagon builder were nothing against its ancient wisdom. How many fates, Arran wondered, had been decided in the presence of this piece of furniture?
The Moonfather stood with a rustle, his loose satin robe shimmering in constant flux from rich purple to azure blue and back again as it moved. He opened the strange-smelling vial and dipped his fingers in, coating them in a red chalky substance that he rubbed into the palm of his right hand. "Prepare yourself," he said in a formal tone, and placed the hand flush against the left side of Arran's forehead.
Blazing colours in a spectrum of chaos, spinning and flashing, thumping, pounding, hounding his mind to the maximum boundaries of its perception. Racing in a tube of light with no source, lurching him back through a multi-coloured visage of pain to the brain in a tunnel without sides. Slowing down as the colours turned to few then to blue then to black then a sluggish halting of his splintered awareness running into one again.
He floated. No vision, just thought. No hearing, just imagination. BANG! An amazing explosion of knowledge of a picture. No -- many pictures, all overlaid, jumbled, moving together without pause. No, being sorted -- eliminated or stored, filtered until there were but a few remaining. Each was moving, an animated image -- no, not an image for his eyes weren't working. Each was a segment of knowledge, a memory -- he was watching pieces of his life. No -- he was experiencing pieces of his life -- all the most poignant, all the most vivid, played out in exaggerated form for a theatre audience on its premiere. Then, as the images coalesced, dwindling, towards something like agreement, there was resolution. Mind twirling in a maelstrom of wonder, he was sucked into one of the memories. Finding himself free of emotion, he observed, fascinated.
*
A child, looking up at his father as they stood in a monolithic stone building that could only be a church. No more than eight years old, he surveyed the world around with serious eyes and an un-childlike, stern countenance. Me, thought Arran. The father figure was lecturing, a strict finger poking each word at his son, but none of the sounds were coming out, as though the man was miming. The boy nodded and turned, heading for the front of the Nave where a dais stood just proud of a stage, bearing an ancient tome opened upon its brass surface. The silence of the vision was ominous but fitting, a tribute to imminent sadness, he thought, because something in the sobriety of the scene raised dread in his gut. Arran counted the footsteps of the boy moving between the pews, whispers of familiarity taunting his mind.
As he reached sixteen, his gaze was drawn across to the large double doors. They opened on cue to the force of a booted foot, admitting six armoured men, who marched in perfect order toward the father. They were shouting at him as he shouted back, gesturing all around them at the walls, ceiling, pews, stage. Four passed by the red-faced man, the other two taking firm hold and dragging him toward the exit. Two more split up and commenced sloshing liquid from rubber pouches, liberal splashes across every available surface. The final two marched to the boy and grabbed his unresisting form, lifting him bodily and carrying him from the church.
Outside in the spire yard, the boy sat uncomfortably next to his trembling, sobbing father. As the liquid was ignited from a safe distance by thrown torches, the boy's expression was one of confusion. An older soldier took him aside, showing him the badge on his sleeve of two moons, one above the other in the sky, and administered a silent lecture just as the father had moments before. Then he patted the boy on the shoulder and walked away into a haze of smoke from the now blazing church. The boy looked repeatedly from his father to the soldier for several minutes, then down at himself. He still looked confused.
*
Arran collapsed to his back in the Moonfather's office, gasping for breath, his chest heaving with pain. The mystic looked shocked.
"I am sorry, I had not realised how deeply your thought patterns run. The process interfered with your own feelings, causing you pain and breathing difficulty. I will sedate you for the second stage of the process but, for now, you may take a brief rest."
Arran clambered up from the floor, nodding his thanks when one of the guards pulled him up a chair. Glancing at the mirror, he saw a five-pointed red star, perhaps three inches in diameter, now adorning his left forehead. He ran a finger over its surface, feeling a slight friction, a subtle looseness, but could find no trace of anything having come off on his finger. He sighed then, angry at himself for becoming fascinated in this situation when he should be irate. Granted, he gave himself up, but he would never forget the underhand dealings of Derwin Crescent, and was determined Don's death would be avenged.
"Please do not become angry, Lupo, it adds no end to the difficulty of the process, for both parties." The Moonfather walked over, his eyes kindly, and placed his palm upon Arran's hea-
*
"Awake now, Duelist, and attend me."
Arran roused to full consciousness, realising he'd been asleep but left with no sensation of time having passed. He still sat in the chair, the shimmering Moonfather before him. He looked at the man's eyes, and found them once more devoid of emotion, colder even than before. All trace of sympathy was gone. Blinking, he once more placed a questing finger to his forehead, feeling a smooth, cool patch in the centre of the star. His completed tattoo. It felt heavy, pulling on his skin, and he hoped fervently the sensation would not last.
"Am I finished here?" he asked, angered by that chill stare.
A nod. "You are finished. You witnessed my reading of your past, and I have now surveyed your future. I know who you are to be, I have seen your deeds, and I have been given no choice of judgement in this matter. It galls me, but from now until such a time as you die or achieve Morta Siecle," he paused to pinch the bridge of his nose, head bowed.
When he looked up again, there were tears glistening in his eyes. "You will be known as the Lion." He fairly spat the last word, and Arran was shocked by this sudden turnabout in attitude.
"I will live by my word, by my honour, and I will die only by that of others. This I swear, as the Two Moons are my witness, for evermore." Normally, the enunciation of such words would have tasted sour, but his worried mind simply wanted the ceremony to be over. A Moonfather was not an enemy any sane man sought.
The Moonfather nodded. "Begone now, Lion, for your are no longer part of society. You will be provided with a weapon of your choice and provisions for five days' sustenance. Within these provisions will also be your Duelist medallion, and a stamp with which you may imprint your identity on the captured medallions of those whom you conquer. These can be handed in at any Church of the Two Moons, where they will add to your official tally. After this, you will be given nothing, and you will begin paying your debt. Do you understand?"
"Yes," replied Arran, as he was lead from the chamber. He understood all right. He understood this was all he could expect to be. He understood the government was sentencing him to death, too afraid to inflict the sentence directly. An image of Don, kneeling in a lake of unfairly spilled blood, spiked into his mind and he felt a humourless smile twist his face. He understood revenge would be his.
As Arran was lead outside into the angry light of dusk, he felt his passions rising once more at the way he'd been treated. Knowing there was nothing he could have done about it did nothing to curb his anger. The church government was doing its usual thing -- sticking to a dogmatic set of regulations that already proved themselves to be ineffective. What made it even worse was knowing his anger was misdirected. The senior officials and, Arran suspected, even some of the Moonfathers, were corrupt, but the vast majority of church officials were honest men and women who truly believed they worked for the good of the land. How could he justifiably take it out on them? As they walked, townsfolk crossed the road to avoid the Duelist and his escort -- people Arran had known for years ignoring him or glaring as if betrayed.
It's still me! He felt like shouting. He was no different. The only change was in his name. Then he saw a discarded copy of the daily news circular -- a government publication -- lying in the gutter. A crude portrait of him adorned the front page, the headline proclaiming his conviction of a capital offence. Arran was willing to bet the report didn't mention anywhere he wasn't guilty of any crimes, and was charged based on a technicality (not to mention the murder of his closest friend and deceit of the higher Church government). It did, however, provide him with an insight into how the Church maintained power and popular support. Being the only source of news, the circular was simply believed by everyone. From their point of view, what it printed was the truth. Arran shook his head, remembering with bitterness how he himself never questioned the daily circular, despite his suspicion toward the government, simply accepting whatever was printed in it.
They reached the Church blacksmith, only a short walk from the office, and Arran was lead into a room at the rear.
One of his two guards spoke for the first time. "You may take one weapon, or one pair of weapons, nothing more."
There was an impressive array of tools -- some beautiful, some decorated, others merely effective -- all instruments of death. Such imagination goes into these things, thought Arran, such enthusiasm displayed where killing is the ultimate purpose. Most of the weapons were swords, but his experience with them was limited to once, as a child, playing with his father's military issue weapon. He'd never used one in anger. Then a war hammer caught his eye -- one handed, hefty, with an anvil-shaped head. He tried it for weight. Perfect!
The Lion had chosen his claws.
He turned back towards his guards, envisioning the war hammer embedded in the head of the nearer man. He studied the thought, both vindicated and horrified by it, and then filed it away for later. He followed the men outside once more. One of them handed him a pack, filled with his provisions. He was allowed only a brief trip home, during which his family were kept away from the premises, to collect any small possessions he wished to have which held neither value nor identity. Taking a tiny opportunity, Arran grabbed Don's axe and pushed it down into his pack, hoping the soldiers would not much notice the change to its shape. He wasn't sure he'd meet Don's successor on the road as a Duelist -- indeed the thought seemed absurd -- but it seemed unthinkable to leave it.
The guards escorted him to the town borders without another word spoken. Arran Cartwright shed a single tear for his family, gazing back across the town of Reefen Harn. Turning, he walked away purposefully into the double moonrise.
| Author Notes |
.
. I hope you enjoyed the chapter - more very soon! Mike :-) Schedule of characters: Bark & Parish - thieves who discover a prophetic text about a force called The Way that lies in jeopardy. Roger Dunbar, aka The Black Stallion - the most famous and successful Duelist ever. Rhyll - a Ralieri tradesperson, mysterious and friend to Roger Dunbar. Skull - Nasty bastard Duelist, sarcastic and intelligent. Preacher - Weedy duelist, adviser to Skull. Blood - Formal duelist, always in metal armour, companion of Skull. Barlon - A young wannabe fighter with a guilty secret. Grinda and Steff - Friends of Barlon. Arran Carwright - a troubled wagon builder, suspicious of authority. Melissa and Sarah Cartwright - wife and young daughter of Arran. Xenn - Arran's son, always in trouble. Don - Friend and confidant of Arran. Enigma - a mysterious duelist who fights with chains Derwin Crescent - head of secret police for the church government. Not a pleasant chap. Shadow and Lenny - Cohorts of Derwin Crescent Eldar - Head Moonfather, spiritual leader of the church Arianda - Scheming lady/Moonfather Benedict - Rookie Moonfather, young and idealistic . . |
By Fleedleflump
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
A whirling chain ensnared her neck, her feet were weak, her head was light, her senses scattered as she was yanked off balance, the sickening hard grip of wrapped metal squeezing her throat. As she staggered and half-fell, Seeker lashed out backwards desperately with her sword and was gratified to hear an exclamation of pain from Enigma, her death warrant. 'I'm on my knees,' she realised, and threw herself back with an almighty push from her legs, slamming into the other woman. They both lost balance and rolled in the dust at the roadside. For the first time since the duel began, Seeker believed she might have a chance of winning, the wagon wheel of hope rolling across her diaphragm as the chain around her neck loosened its grip ever so slightly.
Seeker gyrated, throwing herself into the air and coming down hard on Enigma. Then she pushed into a crouching fighter's stance, turned, and looked... into a gaze of pure anger. The kind of anger that sees through a mist of red and recognises only death. Enigma was in a sitting position and, impossibly after the pounding she just took, rising. In her hand was clutched a rock with a grip that shook her fist. In her other was a chain end, being pulled.
As iron once more closed off her windpipe, Seeker fought for breath and fell back from the dark apparition before her until she was dangling by the chain, pivoted on her unmoved feet, legs bent and knees wide in front of her, Enigma between them. Lights danced like blossoming motes. The sound of the sea roared in her ears. Her head shook slowly from side to side uncontrollably, her mouth gaping and gagging. Her vision flickered as she watched the rock-filled hand rising, coming down with sudden extreme force into the centre of her sight. Once. Twice. Everything went black. Thrice. Seeker felt her own face cave in, her thoughts shrinking back in horror, noting through some sick instinct the further blows raining down upon her broken head. Again. Again. Nothing.
*
The rock thudded to the sandy earth, coating itself with dust.
A dreamlike substance was her only air. She breathed the thickness absently as she killed off Seeker with a sense of hazy detachment. The faceless body crumpled at her feet. Bereft of life. Bereft of identity. Not that this made any change. Bereft of identity -- what was that? Nothing. They knew not what it was like to be as her; to live without a destiny, without a goal, with no meaning.
As she stood, limp atop victory, Enigma felt her mouth utter the words. "Death is the only mystery." It was true. The only thing nobody could experiment with, try out as an experience to be studied. Everything else was just a distraction created by the mind, a matter on which to dwell so you could avoid thinking about life and its utter futility. Illusions were easy to create when you had a future, a life's meaning. When you had none, there was no grounding for such distractions.
Enigma sank mechanically to her haunches, her hand searching of its own accord for Seeker's Duelist medallion. Oh, to have a reason for being alive. At first, Enigma considered it a joke -- so what if she had no readable future? Did not each individual fashion their own? Through many long, hard years she learnt differently. A Moonfather she seduced told her a force called The Way -- the why and how of it lost her totally -- governed life, and every living thing had a purpose to its existence. Except her. He laughed then, and asked her what it felt like to be the living exception to prove the rule. Three days later he was dead. Not by her hand, but those of the circle of Moonfathers, who executed him for breaking his vows of celibacy.
The cool metal of her foe's identity nestled in Enigma's hand, snug to her palm, somehow free of any bloodstains. She squeezed it hard for a while, but cold reality would not return, so without looking, she stamped its reverse side with her blank star and continued musing.
A small-town mystic, friend to the Ralieri and frequent trader with them, told her it was quite possible for a being, especially one as capricious as a human, to avoid fulfilling their meaning. Even without knowledge or intention, ignorance combined with stubbornness could lead to them missing the vital opportunity by ignoring their true desires. Dreams, he said, were what guided you on the way; warnings you were not following your meaning, your true calling in life. Only through fulfilment of all desires could a being ever experience true happiness. Enigma never had dreams, but neither was she happy.
Over the years that followed, she became adept at recognising people not in tune with their roles. They were usually taciturn individuals, going through life like mindless golems, spreading their dissatisfaction. They sniped and complained, seemingly never realising it was their own unwillingness to follow their hearts' desires that caused their affliction.
Enigma felt her mouth twist into a sneer. She hated them. How could they not see the precious gift they so glibly wasted? In the broad community of duelists, some were exactly where they should be. Hardened killers, The Way guided them to the exact life they suited. Those people, she respected, and fought only when they gave her no choice. Others, though, duelled because, for no good reason, they were too stubborn to avoid it. Such people, trapped as outcasts, unwillingly violent or -- worse -- violent for pleasure, needed saving from themselves.
The chain was the best tool for that, and Enigma wielded it with precision and an utter lack of mercy. When your life has no meaning, you have to stick to the one you choose.
She chuckled suddenly at the irony of her existence -- increasing the world's happiness by killing people, most of whom were ignorant of their own crime. She slipped the newly acquired medallion into her pack. A gust of gritty wind whipped her hair into a lighter colour and made her mysterious eyes run. Real life gave her a slap in the face.
"I'm back," she mumbled, rising to her feet.
A piece of meat was left by the roadside. A broken dream wandered away.
| Author Notes |
.
. I hope you enjoyed the chapter - more very soon! Mike :-) Schedule of characters: Bark & Parish - thieves who discover a prophetic text about a force called The Way that lies in jeopardy. Roger Dunbar, aka The Black Stallion - the most famous and successful Duelist ever. Rhyll - a Ralieri tradesperson, mysterious and friend to Roger Dunbar. Skull - Nasty bastard Duelist, sarcastic and intelligent. Preacher - Weedy duelist, adviser to Skull. Blood - Formal duelist, always in metal armour, companion of Skull. Barlon - A young wannabe fighter with a guilty secret. Grinda and Steff - Friends of Barlon. Arran Carwright - a troubled wagon builder, suspicious of authority. Melissa and Sarah Cartwright - wife and young daughter of Arran. Xenn - Arran's son, always in trouble. Don - Friend and confidant of Arran. Enigma - a mysterious duelist who fights with chains Derwin Crescent - head of secret police for the church government. Not a pleasant chap. Shadow and Lenny - Cohorts of Derwin Crescent Eldar - Head Moonfather, spiritual leader of the church Arianda - Scheming lady/Moonfather Benedict - Rookie Moonfather, young and idealistic . . |
By Fleedleflump
It was a dark night, as I recall. The darkest, as it turned out. The wind moaned angrily through chimneys and the beneficent light of the Moons was obscured by the spawn of the depths as the unseasonable storm rampaged through Makerest. And there I was, huddled with the rest of the village in The Moon and Traveller, buying liquid respite from the cold and sheltering in the warmth of communal spirit. Mostly it was warm, anyway. I was there by rote, as were most of the patrons, and yet comfort touched me. Even at the worst of times, even on the most heinous night, cold could not harm Makerest, and fear won no victories.
"Hey, Barlon, stop moping at the window and get over here!"
Grinda was his usual subtle self. I smiled at his boisterous gestures and lewd comments, and moved to join him, pushing people gently out of my way as they pressed into the tavern. The Moon and Traveller was barely big enough, but it could house the village when required. I joined Grinda at the bar, where he was holding court. About half the young ladies of the village sat around him, giggling or goggle-eyed, gasping for his attention, flipping their hair at him and leaning forward in their dresses, as low cut as their parents would allow. I tried but failed to maintain my smile. Being a couple of years younger than Grinda, his antics never bothered me until fairly recently. Before, I saw the laughing and the happiness, the joy he brought to and received from his chosen girls. Now, I saw the broken hearts, the tears, and the visits to the local herbalist the following morning. Striding above it all, ever confident, ever blind, I saw the abiding shallowness of Grinda, and the vast gulf of emptiness inside him.
Yet, we were still friends, and as such I did broach the subject with him. The few times I pinned him down to a serious conversation, he failed to hide the fear behind his bravado. His mouth said he was enjoying his life as any normal young man would, his eyes said he was lost. This only made me more determined, my loyalty more profound. I believed Grinda could find true fulfilment. Not by taking responsibility for his actions -- he was already quite proud enough of them -- but by admitting to himself the real reason he took them.
"Grinda, you scoundrel!" I shouted, patting him on the back. "I see you're corrupting our ladies again."
"Only the ones who want to be corrupted, Barlon."
I forced a chuckle and surveyed the ring of doting girls. "Hi there, Jenny, Claire, Vickon. How's the boyfriend, Louisa?"
My victim glared at me for making her blush. "He's not here."
"So I see." I grinned at her, just to rub it in. "So girls, horrid weather we've been having isn't it?" I got a set of blank stares in reply, and held up my hands in submission, noticing Grinda's sideways glare. He was evidently working on Louisa that evening. "Okay, I'll just go die someplace. Where's Rhianne?"
Following several pointing fingers, I left them alone. It remains a mystery to me that young women respond so positively to the antics and so called charms of people like Grinda. They claim to know what such people are like, and just to be after a little fun, yet they are the ones who end up sobbing to their friends when they've been left in the lurch, feeling betrayed or pregnant. It's as if they each secretly believe they are the one who can tie him down where so many others have failed, that their feminine wiles are superior. Grinda just enjoys them all the more -- he even ridicules them for believing he wants a relationship.
At least they're not all like that, I thought, spying petite Sophie sitting with her family, laughing over her sap juice at the jokes of her uncle. Now there was a girl happy to stay young while it was still viable. She looked up and smiled shyly at me; I nodded back. The other girls called her stupid -- an accusation I wasn't in a position to judge -- but I did point out she was more sensible than the lot of them put together. Where was Steff, I wondered? He was somewhat enamoured of little Sophie, and by my reckoning was the only young man in the village her parents might approve of.
Finally, I saw Rhianne, sitting at a table as far away from Grinda as she could manage, chatting animatedly with her sister. The ray of light in my life of darkness. Despite the foul weather and Grinda's usual antics darkening my mood, the sight of her as I approached through the smoky and crowded common room cheered me up immensely. Her conversation fell quiet as I approached, something I was used to and glad about -- I didn't want to know what her slightly older sister thought of me. Her mouth only stopped moving when I was in earshot, and whilst she changed her opinions every day, I'd lay odds they were rarely complimentary when it came to me.
As I sat down, a disturbance by the door caught our attention. A large man burst in, drenched and dripping rain water, face as red as dusk. At first I didn't recognise him, but when he removed his hat I could see it was Tom, the horse breeder (secretly known simply as the breeder --his six grown children explained where he got the name). He looked angry -- very angry, as he headed to the bar and asked for a bottle of Depthwater, the local spirit. I turned back to Rhianne as he up-ended it over his open mouth... To be met with a kiss that took me completely off guard, not that I was complaining. She laughed as she withdrew, happy to have got one up on me. I laughed with her, grabbing her under the table, and a prolonged game of footsie ensued as we each tried to kick the other into submission. Rhianne's sister tutted and wandered off, a look of disgust on her face. I laughed all the more.
"I think we've finally found a way to get rid of her."
"That's my sister you're talking about!" exclaimed Rhianne in mock affront, ending our game with hard kick to my shin for emphasis.
"I'm sorry," I said, pretending to be serious, "it's just that secretly I'm in love with her rather than you, and I find it hard to show my true feelings."
She kicked my other shin, harder. In the background, I heard old Tom break off from angry muttering to order another bottle of spirits. Rhianne and I spoke loved up lies to each other for a while, and I moved in next to her, loving the never-too-familiar feeling of her softness in my arms.
"We're in public, you know," she mumbled.
"Yes we are, and I'm proud to be showing you off," I replied. She grinned and snuggled into my chest, and I smiled at the looks we got -- embarrassment from the younger people, and distaste (jealousy) or sentimental smiles from the older ones. When Rhianne pulled me into a kiss, I didn't resist. An altercation across the common room failed to distract me. I had much more interesting things to do and think about, and after a couple of minutes, the shouting died down. When we finally parted, the need to bask in community warmth was fading away behind something more vigorous and urgent. I drained my drink and addressed my lady. "Shall we depart, fair maiden, through this beast of a storm, to shelter together in my hideaway?"
"Why yes, my noble gentleman, pray, spirit me away." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Just don't let my sister see us go."
I grinned. "You needn't worry about Jessy -- she's heavily involved in a good gossip somewhere. Now, let me say goodbye to Grinda, and we'll be on our way."
Rhianne nodded. "I'll get our raincoats." She strode purposefully away, and I took brief moments to admire the view of her from behind. Looking around for Grinda, I couldn't see him, or his doting females. The vague memory of the shouting came to me, and I went cold right through. I couldn't see old Tom either. Just then little Sophie came over, a worried expression on her face, glancing over her shoulder at her father, who was gesturing for her to go back.
"Did you see where Grinda went, Sophie?"
She nodded. "I thought I should tell you sin," she blushed, "since you didn't see. Tom chased off the girls, and went for Grinda with a fist, but he just dodged and laughed at him, then grabbed his coat and left. The bar lady told Tom he should leave too, and he rushed out." Sophie's father appeared behind her and touched her shoulder, sending her back to their table.
He fixed me with a stern stare, but not a hostile one. "Better go after your friend, lad. He may be in trouble."
I nodded. "Thank you, sir," and leaned around him to call thanks to Sophie. I couldn't see Rhianne and decided she must be in the cloak room. Urgency was yanking at my stomach as I cast my mind back -- the shouting really was very angry. I left without her, running as fast as I could make myself. Outside, the storm hit me with incredible ferocity, slamming me back against the wall of the tavern. The rain soaking through me in seconds, colder than the Depths. As the gust abated, I looked down. The tracks would be easy to follow -- two sets led away close together, one set heavier and more widely spaced than the other. Tom was chasing my friend!
Running was difficult, the ground having been turned to thick mud, and the tracks appeared only briefly to have joined the main gravel road, which made for easier going. Then they alighted once more into the quagmire, churning a trail behind the stables at the South end of the village. My fear grew, and I quickened my steps as best I could.
It was dark behind the large wooden structure, no lanterns hanging to penetrate the night. As I rounded the corner, I could barely make out two figures, looking like shadows within murk.
"You'll not be ruining my daughters' lives any more, you bastard. I'll see to that!"
"Pah! They came after me! They wanted it, and I gave it. What are you going to do about it?" Despite the brave mocking words, I could hear the fear in Grinda's voice. Silently, I cursed his belligerent tongue.
"Hey, what's going on?" I shouted above the driving, hissing rain, hoping to take the situation off the boil.
"Who's that? Stay out of this!"
"Barlon!" Relief. "This old bastard ran at me from behind and chased me back here." Looking again, I could see Grinda was trapped against the fence of a paddock, stuck in a corner. Thunder clapped as Tom turned toward me, a fitting metaphor for the expression ravaging his face.
"He spoiled my daughter Alice. Two nights later, he's abed with her best friend. Now she won't leave the cottage, and this piece of dung is going to pay." As he spoke, a flash of lightning struck nearby, destroying the branches of a Runn behind me and blackening the trunk. The lightning was reflected in his hard eyes, and it glinted from the small bit hammer in Tom's hand. I wanted to shout at him, to scream this was nothing unusual, it was simply Grinda's way, but I was talking to a grief-stricken father who just drank two bottles of the strongest spirit in the land. My words would only inflame him the more -- he already knew I was Grinda's friend, and would say anything to save him. It seemed Grinda messed with the wrong family, and if he wasn't careful, it would be the last mistake he was ever allowed to make.
Before I decided on a course of action, Tom turned back to Grinda, raising the hammer over his head. I ran forward, but not in time to stop it coming down, smashing into Grinda's arm as he raised it in defence. Tom swung his arm back again and I did the first thing I thought of; I grabbed his wrist.
"Hit him again and by the Moons, I'll put you down for good." I wasn't sure what was behind those words, only that I meant them. I was very aware of the ever-present hunting knife on my belt, resting its weight against my hip.
Tom, however, didn't believe my words. He sank his free elbow into my cheek, knocking me to my back in the mud. I fell hard, and the driving rain slashed into my face, obscuring my vision. Then another flash of lightning crashed down close by, and I witnessed a view that will always haunt me. Old Tom knelt above me, his bit hammer brandished above my face. I couldn't move, couldn't breathe, and couldn't comprehend. Then he grunted as Grinda kicked him from behind, lashing out backwards in response. My friend jumped out of the way, slipping and losing his footing. My hand swept to my belt. Tom once more raised his weapon.
Without thinking, without feeling, and still without comprehending, I reacted.
No! This is a dream! It is not really happening. It did not happen; not to me. It couldn't have. I AM NOT A KILLER!
The flash of silver. A lightning instinctive reaction. The rending of flesh. Blood. Death.
Tom collapsed beside me, his life mixing with the mud, swirling in eddies as it ran into pools of rainwater. The smell of blood assailed my nostrils, a coppery tang, and I must have passed out, only to be woken moments later by Grinda, shaking me.
"Thank the Moons! I thought he'd killed you."
"No," I replied, "quite the reverse, I'm afraid."
Grinda turned to look at Tom's body. "SHIT! I mean, shaft me, Barlon, but did you have to go for his heart?" I couldn't answer, any more than I could tell how much of the water dripping off his chin was tears, and how much rain. It was a close competition, I fancy.
After that, haziness. I remember getting slowly to my feet. I remember a brief, urgent conversation with Grinda as we huddled in the belting rain, shouting over the hiss and the thunder. And I remember stuffing Tom into his salt vat and closing the lid before we churned up the ground some more, not trusting the rain to do a good enough job.
Okay, okay! A memory, not a dream. A memory. A memory. I'm sorry. Truly. So sorry.
| Author Notes |
.
. I hope you enjoyed the chapter - more very soon! Mike :-) Schedule of characters: Bark & Parish - thieves who discover a prophetic text about a force called The Way that lies in jeopardy. Roger Dunbar, aka The Black Stallion - the most famous and successful Duelist ever. Rhyll - a Ralieri tradesperson, mysterious and friend to Roger Dunbar. Skull - Nasty bastard Duelist, sarcastic and intelligent. Preacher - Weedy duelist, adviser to Skull. Blood - Formal duelist, always in metal armour, companion of Skull. Barlon - A young wannabe fighter with a guilty secret. Grinda and Steff - Friends of Barlon. Arran Carwright - a troubled wagon builder, suspicious of authority. Melissa and Sarah Cartwright - wife and young daughter of Arran. Xenn - Arran's son, always in trouble. Don - Friend and confidant of Arran. Enigma - a mysterious duelist who fights with chains Derwin Crescent - head of secret police for the church government. Not a pleasant chap. Shadow and Lenny - Cohorts of Derwin Crescent Eldar - Head Moonfather, spiritual leader of the church Arianda - Scheming lady/Moonfather Benedict - Rookie Moonfather, young and idealistic . . |
By Fleedleflump
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
Barlon awoke in sheets drenched with sweat, his thoughts barely coherent. The nightmare again; familiar now, but never losing its effectiveness. He allowed himself to cool before dressing, and then ate something without even registering what it was. Heading to his shed at the rear of the cabin, he checked on his merchandise.
The furs dangled like hanged men around him, swinging slightly at his disturbance. As a child, learning his uncle's trade, he found such sights upsetting. He would look at a skin or fur as it cured and see the animal it once was, bounding in the forest, full of unadulterated happiness. Now he found the shed a comfort. It reminded him of innocence and security, and was one of the few places he knew in his heart was his. The hanging trophies were now his livelihood.
Surveying the scene, he sighed in frustration. Not enough. Not by far. Business was good recently, his trips to the weekly market at Fallyharn profitable, but the sharp edge of that blade was long hours spent trapping in the woods behind his cabin. Pleasing as he found his profession when alone and introspective, lately he didn't want to be without company for long. Barlon sighed again. Vulnerability -- a difficult sensation, especially for a man who needed to spend hours at a time lying under a bush or crouching in the branches of a tree. His eye caught sight of the Furhog carcass, looking back at him, and he smiled for the first time that day. One month back, he caught it, and it was a prize specimen. Furhogs were extremely rare and even more hostile. It was worth several moons' income to Barlon, but he was loath to sell it, as any self-respecting hunter would be. That resolved him to get working -- if he didn't go out this morning and catch some more, he'd have to sell his Furhog hide.
Heading back into his kitchen, he grabbed some bait, then returned to his shed for his utility belt and traps. Feeling ambitious, he also grabbed his bow and a couple of strings, choosing his expensive narrow hunting arrows, designed to cause as little tissue damage as possible. Upon exit, he saw his scabbarded longsword through the window, and promised himself some practice later.
*
Barlon was a happier man as he moved under the early afternoon sun, industriously slicing limbs and heads off the straw practice dummies. He and Rhianne made them together, fashioning the faces into approximations of people who'd annoyed them recently. He lost himself for a while in the action, revelling in childish fantasies. He was Barlon the Mighty, warrior hero, and his sword bestowed justice upon the wicked. Chuckling to himself, Barlon grabbed a straw head with its button eyes and flung it high into the air, bracing over-dramatically with his weapon as his eyes followed its arc. As the head came sailing down he leapt and twisted, the blade shining in the bright sun, and connecting neatly with the target at the apex of his swing. Barlon was amazed -- he'd never even hit it in the past, and this time managed to cut it cleanly in half. Well, nearly. He sheathed his sword, content.
Feeling at one with the world, he jogged to the nearby stream to freshen up, then headed down into the village to see who was around. Grinda was apprenticed to the local carpenter, so he would currently be lunching. Steff got by performing odd tasks around the village, sometimes spending extended periods in Fallyharn, the nearby town, doing depths-knew-what for his money, so he would often be around at this time too. As he approached the high street, he saw Louisa coming the other way. She saw him looking and smiled, obviously having forgotten she didn't like him, and pranced past. Her hips swayed, her bust bounced, her long blond hair billowed, and Barlon had to admit he could see what aroused Grinda's interest.
Unfortunately, thinking about Grinda steered Barlon's thoughts down a path he'd been trying to avoid. His friend was acting as though nothing happened, and Barlon was trying desperately to follow suit. Unfortunately, his mind kept trying to analyse the events surrounding the accident (as he currently thought of it). As far as he could remember, he covered his tracks thoroughly, but he wasn't so sure about Grinda. It was only going to be so long before the body was discovered, and friend or not, Barlon didn't trust Grinda not to point the finger of accusation straight at him if caught. There seemed to be no way out.
The door of The Moon and Traveller banged as Barlon opened it unintentionally hard on his way in. The noise attracted more attention than he wanted. At least the place didn't go dead silent, he thought to himself, as he returned several smiles and acknowledgements. Glancing around, Barlon saw a group of people leaning at the bar, none of whom he particularly knew or liked. Further reconnaissance revealed Steff sitting in a quiet corner, sharing a drink with little Sophie. Aha. Barlon smiled and headed to the bar, deciding to give them a little more time before he interrupted.
"Ale please, Wenn," he said to the barmaid, giving her a friendly wink. She smiled, an expression that exuded from every part of her being, and poured his drink. She totted up a mark on the slate behind the bar next to Barlon's name. Wenn was in her mid-thirties and made for her job -- friendly, buxom, and most importantly single. Her ginger hair gave her star attraction in the village and her hourglass figure kept many men drinking longer than they normally would. "Hey Wenn, how long have Steff and Sophie been sitting together over there?"
She grinned at the chance to spread some gossip. "Quite a while. Long enough to make it interesting."
"Thanks." Barlon leaned his back to the bar and cradled his drink, sipping occasionally. Steff had spotted him over Sophie's shoulder, and Barlon was awaiting a signal. They made a nice couple, he thought. Sophie looked more relaxed than she ever did normally, and Steff's smile actually seemed genuine as opposed to the sarcastic twist of the lips he usually wore. Eventually, Steff finished a speech, sending Sophie into fits of giggles, and he beckoned Barlon over.
"Barlon," said Sophie as he reached them, "save me from this wicked man. He's filling my innocent head with nasty rude thoughts."
Barlon sat and folded his arms. "I hope you haven't been poisoning her mind by telling her those bawdy limericks you learn from the tavern entertainers in Fallyharn."
Steff put on a face of mock affront. "Only the edited, cut down versions. And I'll let you in on a secret, Mr Morality; I write those bawdy limericks -- and all those songs about the monk and the actress. I spend all that time in Fallyharn teaching them to the various entertainers. For a moderate fee, of course."
Barlon was impressed. "Well well, the chicken lays its neck on the butcher's block."
"One would hope not; I'm sure I can have faith in your integrity, Barlon."
"But of course, my friend." Barlon turned to Sophie. "And how is this lovely lady faring, apart from being in danger of suffocation by laughter?"
She blushed. "I'm fine. What happened on the night of the storm -- did you find Grinda?"
Barlon blanched. "Yeah. Err, it looks like old Tom chased him, but he got away. He was fine. At least he said he was, anyway." He glanced at Steff, who was giving him a shrewd look.
"Now there's a point," continued Sophie. "What happened to Tom, do you think? He hasn't been seen since that night. That's what, three days now?"
"Well. He probably secluded himself somewhere to cool off. I mean, I know that's what I'd want to do."
She nodded. Barlon flicked his eyes nervously at Steff, to see his friend still watching him intently. Then Steff moved to stand.
"Oh well," he said, "I'm off. Got to do some work on my project, or I might never get it finished."
Barlon raised his eyebrows. "What's this?"
Sophie giggled. "He won't tell anybody."
Steff grinned. "And that includes you, Barlon. I've already given away one of the great secrets of my livelihood today. Don't expect any more for a while. I'll see you later. Take care, Sophie. Stay away from trouble." He plunged out through the door, his strides long and confident.
*
It left the establishment with a flippant sound and guileless gesture. It paced away through the white haze, oblivious.
*
Barlon was grateful for Steff leaving. It was a decent opportunity to change the subject. "So, why are you here this afternoon being corrupted by my flippant friend?"
Sophie laughed again and it was a beautiful sound -- soft and lilting like a kitten purring, a trill of pure pleasure. Steff certainly brought out the best in her. "He came to our house," she replied, "and asked if I would like to go for a drink. I had nothing to do, so my father said I could go. After he had a word with Steff, that is."
"So you like him, then."
"Like him? He's great! I don't understand why one of the pretty girls hasn't snapped him up."
It was Barlon's turn to laugh. "Sophie, you're far better looking than most of those girls. Don't mistake letting your flesh hang out for being pretty, and don't look at the attentions of people like Grinda as indicative of how all men think. Most maybe, but not all. Those girls don't like Steff because they don't understand him. He doesn't adhere to their usual ideas about how people our age should act. Besides which, he wouldn't take any of them."
Sophie looked mildly confused. "Well I think they're all mad."
*****
He felt the dribble slithering down his chin as he watched them conversing, his milky white vision sliding between the slats of the inn's shutters.
A vision of humanly perfection seen through a mist of white, bright, light. Pain in his head. Pain. Evil! Such things should not be. He conjured his own images to dull the pain of what he was seeing; children rotting in death, women staked naked over fires, the sadistic leather-bound hell of his dreams. His pain lessened in the face of such pure things, and he felt able to turn and walk away from the window. His task was clear. Humanity was an aberration, and humans should always be aware of that. The pain that was life, the evil that was existence, should apply equally to all. He trembled as he walked, the hated image ghosting in his mind's eye. A happy couple, laughing, denying what they were, what they were meant to be. He would show them. A shudder rippled through his intestines like orgasm. Oh, how he would show them. Soon, they would know. Soon, they would understand. His feet carried him out of the village and into the woods to the north. He envisioned the female, her pretty dress in bloody tatters, her limbs pierced and fixed down, her body shorn of all hair, her spirit humbled by the right of his men. Then her eyes would not twinkle. No, they would be wise with the knowledge of what she was, of what she would always be.
Another vision hit him, a reaction to his thoughts, a giving of knowledge of what his actions would result in. The male, this time, his manhood rent from his body, his mouth open in a gut-deep silent scream as he sank ponderously, jaggedly, onto a greased spike in a forest clearing. His feet were smashed beyond use, his fingers removed, his arms bound to his sides. A raging fire burned in a perfect circle around him, ever decreasing, its flames hotter and higher in proportion to its inward movement like a sum total of rage and hostility and hate being squeezed into a steadily smaller space. The victim wriggled, but only hastened his impaling. Black blood guttered down the spike, feeding the earth with its richness. The fires closed within feet, then inches, now a thousand-foot column of sheer red-yellow. With a spasm, the male rammed his mashed feet to the floor and drew himself up off the spike. He screamed a final silent note of defiance, and threw himself back down onto the source of his intrusion, heart first...
Such imagination! Such a vision!
Not his own, he realised. It was a gift from the Goddess -- the greatest gift he ever had. His full blown erection paid tribute to her purity, to her empathy. She knew he was right. She knew all. His feet stopped moving and his gaze rose from the ground. His men stood before him, their eyes all white, their minds all his. Each sported bulges in their trousers. The gift had been given to all. Do her bidding, and they would see the vision played out for real, see their great plan moved one step further toward completion. That was all he needed to know; the goddess would provide for them in return for loyalty. They would do her bidding, and they would do it with boundless enthusiasm. He would lead them. Oh how she would be pleased.
Oh how Goddess Arianda will be pleased!
| Author Notes |
.
. I hope you enjoyed the chapter - more very soon! Mike :-) Schedule of characters: Bark & Parish - thieves who discover a prophetic text about a force called The Way that lies in jeopardy. Roger Dunbar, aka The Black Stallion - the most famous and successful Duelist ever. Rhyll - a Ralieri tradesperson, mysterious and friend to Roger Dunbar. Skull - Nasty bastard Duelist, sarcastic and intelligent. Preacher - Weedy duelist, adviser to Skull. Blood - Formal duelist, always in metal armour, companion of Skull. Barlon - A young wannabe fighter with a guilty secret. Grinda and Steff - Friends of Barlon. Arran Carwright - a troubled wagon builder, suspicious of authority. Melissa and Sarah Cartwright - wife and young daughter of Arran. Xenn - Arran's son, always in trouble. Don - Friend and confidant of Arran. Enigma - a mysterious duelist who fights with chains Derwin Crescent - head of secret police for the church government. Not a pleasant chap. Shadow and Lenny - Cohorts of Derwin Crescent Eldar - Head Moonfather, spiritual leader of the church Arianda - Scheming lady/Moonfather Benedict - Rookie Moonfather, young and idealistic . . |
|
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