Set this chronologically wherever you like.
Watch This
“Watch this.” Darken told Hel, his infuriatingly superior smile playing across his lips.
“What is it, Darken? I've been sitting in this damn pit of a catacomb for three hours and still nothing has happened!” Hel punctuated his sentence with a frustrated bash on the enchanted railings separating him from the chamber beneath.
“Sssh... don't do that. He'll hear.” Darken admonished, as he began to back away into the dark.
“Who'll hear?”
“Just watch.”
* * *
The necromancer's boots crunched on the gravel. Irritatedly, he cast a spell to mute them.
As he descended the ancient marble stairs into the Catacombs of the Dialusian Order, the light gradually faded away from his gaunt, grey face, leaving its ancient patchwork of scars and wrinkles bathed in shadow. The practically compulsory black necromancer's robes left eddying trails in the old dust of the catacombs, thoroughly concealing the galvanised, desiccated flesh beneath that was technically still just about alive.
But not for much longer, if Julian the Bloodless, the necromancer extraordinaire with magic for blood, self-proclaimed greatest magician in the world, and would-be lich had anything to do with it.
As the moonlight faded away completely, he cast his thoughts back to the conversation that had prompted this eccentric little trek of his. Who would have thought that the dirty little inn could have yielded such treasure? Though it hadn't been the inn, really, but chance, that Julian should have bumped into the stranger: the nobleman slumming it in the poor clothes. They had been forced to share a table in the packed inn.
“Good evening.” The adventurer had flashed Julian a white-toothed grin which never touched his mocking eyes. “Can I buy you a drink?”
And they had gotten talking, and the adventurer had let slip that the necromancer Tatula, the only person living (or not, as it were) who knew the secret to lichhood and – the adventurer had confided with an infuriating, knowing smile – that she had taken up residence in the Catacombs of the Dialusian Order, just up the road, and that he was personally going to eliminate her and the threat she posed.
Julian wondered idly which one of the corpses that littered the lightless hallway was his.
They were everywhere – old and young, rich and poor, old and new. But, Julian noticed, there were only incomplete or unhealthy bodies left – a sure sign of a necromancer's presence. Tatula had surely raised herself an undead army to protect against the likes of him.
That wouldn't be a problem, though... - unlike...
A morningstar on a chain, burning with magical flame, swung down out of nowhere and -
* * *
“That looked like it hurt.” Hel remarked, squinting into Darken's divinatory orb.
“You don't say.” Darken answered sarcastically. “I have to say, I was expecting a better show. Look at the way his skull caved in – no wards at a...” Darken stopped.
“What?” Hel, who had turned away, inquired.
“Well,” Darken replied, maintaining his composure admirably, “I have to say I wasn't expecting that.” Hel peered into the divinatory orb again.
“You said something about his head caving in, didn't you?”
“Yes...”
“So why's he walking away without a bother on him?”
* * *
The last tendrils of magic sucked their way back into Julian's veins, leaving his face exactly as it had been. So his previous experiments in phylactery had paid off to some extent.
He rounded a flesh-strewn corner and -
He couldn't believe it. It had been so easy – because, on the pedestal in the middle of the towering, circular chamber in front of him, there sat a slight, bone-white girl with a deadpan expression on her gaunt face.
Tatula.
Julian grinned savagely, walking forward. She might look like a woman, but he could smell the death off of her!
“My lady!” he began. “I have come as a supplica - ”
“Look.” she said. “A butterfly.”
Julian looked. Incredibly, so there was.
* * *
“Tatula won't be able to defeat him.” Darken stated confidently. Now that Julian was in the chamber below them, they could merely peer through the railings. “They're too alike and he's too powerful. She may weaken him, but without my aid – or yours – she will not defeat him. Still... no sense coming in too soon. Let's see how things play out. In fact, this can be part of your training.”
* * *
The lightning bolt slammed Julian into the wall, leaving a trail of popping sparks where blood should be. He slumped to the floor bonelessly, legs scrabbling to get up.
“You should not have come here.” Tatula told him, her big, sincere eyes drilling into his mournfully. “You know that there can only be one lich in the world. You know I hunted down all others. Why then, did you come to me seeking such forbidden wisdom?” She settled herself so as, arms crossed, she towered over him, all five foot of her, supported on the boots planted firmly either side of his outstretched legs.
Julian coughed. A stray blue spark flickered out of the corner of his mouth.
“I thought you would be wise enough to share your knowledge with posterity.”
“Wise?” A hint of disbelief coloured the edge of Tatula's speech, the first sign of emotion he had gotten from her. “I have hunted down and slain necromancers greater than you by far. Why should I fear you?”
“Because,” and Julian paused to grin evilly, “they didn't have one of these.”
* * *
“Did you see that coming?” Hel asked Darken sarcastically.
“In fairness,” Darken sighed, “no. I did not.”
* * *
“A Neromantic Nullification Matrix.” Julian explained to the helpless lich, indicating with a half-smile the white, plastic-like net he had cast over her. Her eyes, the only part of her with locomotive ability, glared at him accusingly. The rest of her lay sprawled on the floor. “Extremely rare, since they require co-operation between the Order and the Eaghlosh of Dia to create. They are, however, very useful against the likes of you and me. Now, Tatula, you are going to answer my questions.”
“Somehow,” a booming, dramatic voice announced from the shadows, “I think not.”
“Do you?” Julian asked disinterestedly as the adventurer from the tavern strode jauntily down through the air, kept afloat on a platform of magic.
“Because, you see,” the adventurer announced grandiosely, “you have had the misfortune to cross Darken, crusader against necromancy, scourge of the Order, vanquisher of the Goblin King. And now, you are going to release my companion and then, you are going to die.”
“I'd love to oblige you, but I'd rather die in a manner of my choosing. Otherise, it can be very detrimental to the health.”
“Well, if you shan't, then I shall. Be free, Tatula!” Darken gestured imperiously, and a wave of searing red arced towards the Matrix – and passed through it. Tatula's eyes widened in a soundless scream.
Julian held up a tiny, white key to the light between two taloned fingers.
“This, my obscure friend, is the only means of opening the Matrix. You will have to kill me to get it and, as I am sure you will find, that is a very difficult proposition.”
“Well, I am sure that will pose no problem for Darken, finest mage in the land! Have at ye!” Another flick of the fingers, and a wave of fire flashed at Julian, knocking him to the ground. Fire flashed up the necromancer's robes, carbonising his clothes and skin – but the magic flashed out, fixing it all up and allowing him to retaliate. A lance of crackling blackness stabbed out at Darken – but he caught and quenched it in a splash of blue in the palm of his hand.
“Oh dear.” Julian said to himself. Now, it was Darken's turn to grin evilly.
“Goodbye, necromancer.” said he. And he snapped his fingers.
A ring of fire popped into being around his fingers, burning with the brightness of a concentrated sun, and expanded drastically, slamming into the walls and dropping to the floor, covering Julian in a layer of sticky, napalm-like mana that burned through his just-fixed flesh like so much dry firewood, and he screamed, oh how he screamed -
And Darken slumped, visibly exhausted, but exhilarated.
“Did you see that?” he screamed up to Hel. “I won, against Julian the Bloodless, self-proclaimed greatest magician in the world. Not so great now, is he?”
“I think you may be forgetting something.” a rasping voice whispered into his ear.
“No way...” Darken squeezed his eyes closed, acutely sensing with dread the utter void of mana inside of him. Slowly, with small, halting footsteps like a dancer might use, he swiveled himself around until he he was facing the voice.
And opened his eyes.
Hel had to give Darken credit: in the face of the horrific abomination he had unwittingly created, he remained remarkably calm. He looked the scorched skeleton with the glowing phylactery gem for a heart up and down, and said.
“Aha. I have to smash the gem.”
“Much good it will do you now, now you have – finally – ascended me to lichhood.” A scorched-bone arm shot out and grabbed Darken around the throat, lifting him effortlessly, chokingly into the air. “I now know the secret. Even more embarrassingly, I had it all along. Silly me.
“Now, as a new lich, I have much to attend to. Not least the manner of your death. Now how would you - ”
“Oi!” The lich half-turned, fixing its blazing coal-eyes on the hugely muscled young man striding into the chamber. “You!”
“I prefer Julian. Stand back, imbecile, or I shall have to kill you first.” And the lich turned away, disregarding Hel.
Arrogance, Hel thought. Nearly killed Darken and now it's going to kill him. A quick thought summoned up a spell of strength. Hel drew back his fist -
- and Julian screamed, a reedy, whistling cry, as Hel drove his fist effortlessly through the lich's carbonised ribcage and wrenched out the glistening phylactery gem.
“Y – you're a mage too?” Julian gasped through what was left of his vocal chords.
“Well done, imbecile.” And Hel rammed the phylactery gem into Julian's head. This time, his skull stayed caved in. A flash of electric blue, a nearly-perceived scream, and Julian the Bloodless flashed into the void, bound for whatever served Dia's Realm as a hell.
Darken picked himself off the ground and brushed all the bits of Julian off of himself.
“Thank you, Hel, but there was really no need.” he coughed. “I had everything under control.”
“Don't talk shit.” Hel told him bluntly. “Watch this indeed.” A moment, then Darken slumped.
“Yes.” he said. “Yes, you saved me. I could have defeated him – but I underestimated him.”
“You forgot something.”
Darken sighed. “Thank you.”
“Good. Now, let's get this thing off of Tatula.”
Monday, 25 October 2010
Wednesday, 20 October 2010
Small Pleasures
As winter settles in, I find myself enjoying the smaller things in life more, like warming my hands under the hot tap, sitting down to my favourite dinner, or waking up on Saturday. It doesn't matter that within minutes, my hands will refreeze, or that I will pay for my indulgence in later life, or that I will while the weekend away, bored. Just for a moment, the world is perfect.
Saturday, 16 October 2010
One-off first?
I have noticed that the pattern of most writers' careers begins with either a single novel or a less well-known series that they use as a springboard to their magnum opus (though exceptions do exist, don't they, Mr. Feist?). As such, I was thinking of putting together a single novel before I begin work on "Interval's End" afresh. Anyone have any thoughts on this?
Sunday, 10 October 2010
1200 words
I found a competition last week, so I, naturally, entered. Observe my entry. (N.B. I was limited to 1200 words.)
The heavy, bruised sky loomed threateningly over the once-majestic city of Sudgard, sending down little puffs of white to disguise its blackened ruins.
“So... five Kamarean bezants? Done.” Ex-Generalleutnant Maharbal handed the human wizard the money, shook on it, and melted back into the desolate, threadbare crowd. He hurried through the frosted streets, ice in his beard and ground into the wrinkles in his ruddy, angry face. His non-descript black cloak was wrapped tightly around his shoulders, shielding him from the gaze the columns of tall Brass Legionnaires marching through the streets in their bright armour and opaque masks. Soon he would be where he wanted to be, and he wouldn't have to tolerate the eyesore of those foreigners marching down his streets.
He turned down a grimy side alley, mournfully contemplating the state of his country. Graylin was a nation that hadn't age or culture to glorify her – her greatness had been carved from the flesh of her enemies, etched in smoke across the skies of her subjects. But now, her cities burned, her people were beaten, and what was left of her armies were reduced to shadow-boxing with the Ostings, who had conquered her, and the Graal, Ostmark's secret service. In fact, it was about the Graal that he was meeting his contact.
He sidled up to a grimy, nondescript door and, making sure no-one was following him, knocked sharply three times. A peephole opened and a bloodshot eye peered out.
“Who are you?”
“Not the Brass Legion.”
“Come in.” A balding, filthy old slob admitted him into the stinking, dirt-painted den he called a house. Few would suspect that Irman was one of Graylin's most ardent nationalists and co-ordinator of the newly-formed Arkani paramilitaries.
“He's waiting downstairs for you.” Irman told Maharbal. “Keep on going down.” Maharbal nodded and, cautiously, set his foot on the creaking, crazed stairs spiralling squarely down into the unlit blackness of Irman's basement. Steadying himself on the oozing earthen walls, Maharbal planted one foot in front of the other carefully, dust, dirt and beetles crunching under his heels. As he turned the last battered corner, his eyes quested vainly into the darkness in front of, discerning only a few shelves and bags of coal. He squinted – and was nearly blinded by a burst of light in front of him.
“Hello.” Adolphus Hannibal smiled disarmingly at him from behind his flickering torch. That smile had won him his reputation as Graylin's greatest hero, rivalled only by Maharbal himself. “Sit, Maharbal. Please! Partake of an old friend's hospitality.” He gestured towards a rickety wooden chair on the other side of the table he occupied.
“I never thought we were great friends, Adolphus. As I recall, we never got on.”
“Ah yes,” the dashing young princeling explained, “but now we are in the same boat, Maharbal. There is – was – a great divide between us: I am noble, you are common; you rose through the ranks, I was given my post straight away. I daresay, in fact, that the only thing we share is our genius.” Adolphus winked laughingly at Maharbal. “But we are, as I clarified, both in the same boat now. An uncultured Osting squats in my house, same as yours; that same uncultured Osting clothes his fat wife and lazy children with our hard-earned money – collecting rent is hard work, Maharbal!” Adolphus looked hurt at Maharbal's disbelieving expression. “It doesn't matter now, anyway. Our country is gone, ground to dust under the heel of the Brass Legion. Tell me, Maharbal: do you believe it can be restored?”
“Yes.” Maharbal answered instantly. “Maybe not today or tomorrow, but invaders never win. We will get our own back.”
“Well,” Adolphus smiled winningly at him again, “that's fortunate, Maharbal. Because, you see, I happen to think the same way and, to further our political agenda, I have put together a... society, if you will, of like-minded individuals.”
“Cut the crap, Adolphus.” Maharbal barked. “I know all this!”
“My dear Maharbal,” the lordling shook his blond head disapprovingly, “it's all about play-acting. How do you think I managed to avoid the Brass Legion this long? Everyone in the country knows my face. Acting is essential. But I digress.” Not once did Adolphus' sickly grin slip. Maharbal was reminded again of why he disliked him so.
“You and I share the same views, Maharbal and, so: I would like to extend an invitation to you. A clandestine one, naturally... offering you membership in the Arkani, who would see Graylin free. Do you accept?”
Maharbal leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and clasping his hands under his nose.
“Yes, Adolphus. I accept.”
“Excellent, Maharbal. Excellent.” Too late, Maharbal spotted the treacherous glint in the shadows. Two Graal operatives stepped forward from the cellar's deep recesses where their black-and-silver armour had concealed them, the sooty insides of their Gatling guns drawing the corner of Maharbal's eye.
“I am sorry, Maharbal. Honestly. Actually, no, I'm not. I'm delighted.” Adolphus gloated, the smile on his face now thoroughly evil. “In case the Brass Legion didn't ram the news through your thick peasant skull, Graylin is dead and gone. Such is life, Maharbal. Those who adapt, who evolve, survive. Like me. I adapted to our... new allies. In all honesty, for a while there, the Arkani were genuine... the Graal kept refusing my surrender. But then they realised how much more valuable I – and the Arkani - could be to them alive rather than dead, for catching idealists such as you, Maharbal. You could have lived, too, if you'd been smart enough... but you weren't. You are going to die in this cellar.” Adolphus looked languidly at his pocket watch. “After any last words you wish to share with us, naturally.” Maharbal considered for a moment.
“I suppose, Adolphus, you were right – especially about the play-acting.”
“What? Stop talking drivel, you fool.”
Maharbal pulled out the exploding scroll he had bought from the wizard. “You never expected me to have this, did you, Adolphus?”
“I – what – shoot - ”
“I might not see Graylin free, Adolphus, but I'll see it free of scum like you.”
And it was Maharbal's turn to smile evilly as he muttered the words on the scroll and consigned the cellar and all its occupants to the fiery whiteness of oblivion.
The heavy, bruised sky loomed threateningly over the once-majestic city of Sudgard, sending down little puffs of white to disguise its blackened ruins.
“So... five Kamarean bezants? Done.” Ex-Generalleutnant Maharbal handed the human wizard the money, shook on it, and melted back into the desolate, threadbare crowd. He hurried through the frosted streets, ice in his beard and ground into the wrinkles in his ruddy, angry face. His non-descript black cloak was wrapped tightly around his shoulders, shielding him from the gaze the columns of tall Brass Legionnaires marching through the streets in their bright armour and opaque masks. Soon he would be where he wanted to be, and he wouldn't have to tolerate the eyesore of those foreigners marching down his streets.
He turned down a grimy side alley, mournfully contemplating the state of his country. Graylin was a nation that hadn't age or culture to glorify her – her greatness had been carved from the flesh of her enemies, etched in smoke across the skies of her subjects. But now, her cities burned, her people were beaten, and what was left of her armies were reduced to shadow-boxing with the Ostings, who had conquered her, and the Graal, Ostmark's secret service. In fact, it was about the Graal that he was meeting his contact.
He sidled up to a grimy, nondescript door and, making sure no-one was following him, knocked sharply three times. A peephole opened and a bloodshot eye peered out.
“Who are you?”
“Not the Brass Legion.”
“Come in.” A balding, filthy old slob admitted him into the stinking, dirt-painted den he called a house. Few would suspect that Irman was one of Graylin's most ardent nationalists and co-ordinator of the newly-formed Arkani paramilitaries.
“He's waiting downstairs for you.” Irman told Maharbal. “Keep on going down.” Maharbal nodded and, cautiously, set his foot on the creaking, crazed stairs spiralling squarely down into the unlit blackness of Irman's basement. Steadying himself on the oozing earthen walls, Maharbal planted one foot in front of the other carefully, dust, dirt and beetles crunching under his heels. As he turned the last battered corner, his eyes quested vainly into the darkness in front of, discerning only a few shelves and bags of coal. He squinted – and was nearly blinded by a burst of light in front of him.
“Hello.” Adolphus Hannibal smiled disarmingly at him from behind his flickering torch. That smile had won him his reputation as Graylin's greatest hero, rivalled only by Maharbal himself. “Sit, Maharbal. Please! Partake of an old friend's hospitality.” He gestured towards a rickety wooden chair on the other side of the table he occupied.
“I never thought we were great friends, Adolphus. As I recall, we never got on.”
“Ah yes,” the dashing young princeling explained, “but now we are in the same boat, Maharbal. There is – was – a great divide between us: I am noble, you are common; you rose through the ranks, I was given my post straight away. I daresay, in fact, that the only thing we share is our genius.” Adolphus winked laughingly at Maharbal. “But we are, as I clarified, both in the same boat now. An uncultured Osting squats in my house, same as yours; that same uncultured Osting clothes his fat wife and lazy children with our hard-earned money – collecting rent is hard work, Maharbal!” Adolphus looked hurt at Maharbal's disbelieving expression. “It doesn't matter now, anyway. Our country is gone, ground to dust under the heel of the Brass Legion. Tell me, Maharbal: do you believe it can be restored?”
“Yes.” Maharbal answered instantly. “Maybe not today or tomorrow, but invaders never win. We will get our own back.”
“Well,” Adolphus smiled winningly at him again, “that's fortunate, Maharbal. Because, you see, I happen to think the same way and, to further our political agenda, I have put together a... society, if you will, of like-minded individuals.”
“Cut the crap, Adolphus.” Maharbal barked. “I know all this!”
“My dear Maharbal,” the lordling shook his blond head disapprovingly, “it's all about play-acting. How do you think I managed to avoid the Brass Legion this long? Everyone in the country knows my face. Acting is essential. But I digress.” Not once did Adolphus' sickly grin slip. Maharbal was reminded again of why he disliked him so.
“You and I share the same views, Maharbal and, so: I would like to extend an invitation to you. A clandestine one, naturally... offering you membership in the Arkani, who would see Graylin free. Do you accept?”
Maharbal leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and clasping his hands under his nose.
“Yes, Adolphus. I accept.”
“Excellent, Maharbal. Excellent.” Too late, Maharbal spotted the treacherous glint in the shadows. Two Graal operatives stepped forward from the cellar's deep recesses where their black-and-silver armour had concealed them, the sooty insides of their Gatling guns drawing the corner of Maharbal's eye.
“I am sorry, Maharbal. Honestly. Actually, no, I'm not. I'm delighted.” Adolphus gloated, the smile on his face now thoroughly evil. “In case the Brass Legion didn't ram the news through your thick peasant skull, Graylin is dead and gone. Such is life, Maharbal. Those who adapt, who evolve, survive. Like me. I adapted to our... new allies. In all honesty, for a while there, the Arkani were genuine... the Graal kept refusing my surrender. But then they realised how much more valuable I – and the Arkani - could be to them alive rather than dead, for catching idealists such as you, Maharbal. You could have lived, too, if you'd been smart enough... but you weren't. You are going to die in this cellar.” Adolphus looked languidly at his pocket watch. “After any last words you wish to share with us, naturally.” Maharbal considered for a moment.
“I suppose, Adolphus, you were right – especially about the play-acting.”
“What? Stop talking drivel, you fool.”
Maharbal pulled out the exploding scroll he had bought from the wizard. “You never expected me to have this, did you, Adolphus?”
“I – what – shoot - ”
“I might not see Graylin free, Adolphus, but I'll see it free of scum like you.”
And it was Maharbal's turn to smile evilly as he muttered the words on the scroll and consigned the cellar and all its occupants to the fiery whiteness of oblivion.
Wednesday, 6 October 2010
Interval's End, the Third
This is the prologue of a proposed rewrite of Interval's End (for those who don't know, the book I have been writing, editing and rewriting for nearly a year now). Unlike previous editions, Cyrus is now the antagonist.
The crumbling, decrepit buildings of Caragean, seen through the amber liquid filming the bottom of Janus' glass, made a fine backdrop to his own decay. It was three hours past noon, and already he was drinked – dronk – Janus made a supreme effort of will. He was drunk. Yes, that was it.
It occurred to him through the nigh-impenetrable alcoholic fog surrounding his brain that the foul dregs remaining in his glass weren't worth drinking.
“Marban!” he cried insensibly. “Drink!” The barman sidled over with yet another bubbled pint glass full to the brim with Caragean's least fine lager. Fumblingly, Janus searched in the pocket of his robe for a coin to pay the barman with, and pulled a mixture of worthless golden Kamarean bezants and the acceptable iron Akarean marks. His pale forehead knotted in beery concentration as he attempted the Herculean task of subtracting the pint's cost from his money – before giving up and sliding what he hoped was the right amount across the table to the barman. The barman took pity on Janus and decided not to tell him that he had mistakenly overpaid.
As thoroughly inebriated as he was, Janus completely failed to notice the figure which suddenly walked into the seedy bar and the terrified hush which settled over the place. He was, in fact, so drink-sodden that he only noticed the figure when he sat down right across from him.
“Hello, Janus.” the Lanciar said, not in an unfriendly tone.
Janus recognised his name – barely – and sloughed his head to one side.
“Who're y - ”
They say the sight of an unexpected Lanciar can sober even the drunkest sot. So it was with Janus.
“L – Lanciar!” Janus gibbered, before marshalling his thoughts. “You're a Lanciar!”
“Well done, Janus.” the Lanciar siad, shifting slightly. Janus watched the shifting of the thick cords of muscle beneath the Lanciar's chain mail with terror. “Decanus Cullen, at your service. You are Janus, the famous hedge-wizard, I presume?”
Janus rifled through the memories he had managed to coalesce, then smiled weakly.
“I think so.”
“You're a hard man to get a hold of.” Decanus Cullen said, conversationally, almost as if he was trying to make friends with Janus. But in Caragean, a Lanciar was a Lanciar. “That's always the way with you Kamareans – cunning as foxes. Isn't that right, Janus?”
The beer-sodden wizard decided to take this as a compliment.
“Yesh – yeth – yes. There we go.”
“But we've finally managed it.” Janus got the impression of a smile beneath the face-covering helmet. “Which is why I'm here. I'm here to arrest you, Janus.”
Again, Janus was jolted back to reality. Again, it didn't last long.
“You can't arresht me!” Janus flopped forward, propping himself against the table and pointing vaguely at the ceiling as he declared: “'m invincible! Can't catch Janus, has eyes in the back of hish head! Why they call me Janus!” He fell forward onto the table, laughing uncontrollably. “Could - ” Janus paused to giggle. “Could turn you into a pile of soot! With a finger!” Cullen decided the time for pleasantries was over.
“Janus. I am here to arrest you.” Janus' squeals were cut off by a huge, mailed hand clamping around his neck and forcing his head back, so as he looked at the Lanciar's faceless helmet. “What you just said could be construed, Janus, as resisting arrest. I am now within my rights to kill you.”
A third time, Janus was dropped harshly into reality. This time, he stayed there.
“K – kill me!” he spluttered. “But that's...”
“Unnecessary? Maybe. The way the Imperial authorities look at it, Janus, you have two ways to save your worthless hide.” Janus stared into the Lanciar's helmet with his blue eyes and gulped.
“Go on.”
“One – you come with me to the prison and serve your time. You will be convicted on charges of illegal use of magic, overwealth, and a few others. You should rot in the dungeons of Caragean for the rest of your life.”
Janus had nothing to lose.
“I don't like that option. What's the other one?”
“You work for us, Janus. You repay your debt to society by performing services for the Imperial authorities. Not become a Lanciar, mind – just a...” Cullen searched for the right word. “...hireling. Mercenary, if you will. Odd-jobs man.”
“Why would I work for you?” Janus looked genuinely puzzled. “You Lanciars ruined my family, all but that thieving brother of mine, subjugated my nation, and hounded me across the Archduchy.”
“If you'd prefer to rot in prison, we'd be more than happy to oblige. There are plenty of wizards with more brains than common sense living rough in Lain.” Janus weighed up the two options. In true Kamarean fashion, it did not take him long to decide.
“Right, what's my first job?”
* * *
“The Republic is flawed!” Cyrus bellowed, sweat trickling in floods down his sallow cheeks and exaggerated cheekbones. His lank, black hair practically dripped with it. “The tyranny that the Palatines exert over the whole of the Akarean Empire must be broken! It is the only way to free the Akarean people and all our brothers and sisters in distant lands from the Imperial tyranny! And the only way there is through you, my brother and sisters! We, as Lanciars, have the duty to throw off the yoke of our decrepit elders and gain freedom for ourselves!”
His audience was not impressive – merely a handful of seemingly his seemingly faceless Lanciar comrades decorating the inside of a transport pod.
I say 'comrades' because Cyrus didn't have any friends. Face to face, he had the charisma of a ham sandwich. Yet when he got up and talked not to a person but to people, there was something about him that made you want to follow this underfed, dirty ex-Lanciar no matter where he went. But of course, not even the greatest orator could convince everyone.
Signifer Octavia jumped to her feet, her long, thin Lanciar's sword hissing out of her scabbard.
“You're a traitor, Lanciar Cyrus! Sit down now or I'll run you through!” It was at that moment that Cyrus, for the first time in his undistinguished life, disobeyed a direct order. He did this with a wolfish, predatory smile which, for a split second, opened a window into the chaotic, roiling turmoil of Cyrus' mind.
“Make me.”
Signifer Octavia lost it. She sprang forward in rage, sword raised high to bury it in Cyrus' flesh – but, suddenly, she had bigger problems, such as the tip of Cyrus sword emerging, reddened, from her back. She looked down at the bleeding hole in her stomach, looked up at Cyrus and whispered:
“Why, Cyrus? I never did anything wrong to you...”
“You do wrong every day, Octavia,” Cyrus growled at her, “simply by existing.” He wrenched his sword out, leaving the dying Lanciar to bleed out on the floor of the transport.
“I have struck the first blow,” he shouted, “in the fight for freedom! Who's with me?” Some of the Lanciars drew their swords, ready to kill this traitor in their midst. Others drew their swords to defend their new leader.
As Cyrus watched the carnage unfold beneath him, a faint, wicked smile twitched its way onto his lips.
The crumbling, decrepit buildings of Caragean, seen through the amber liquid filming the bottom of Janus' glass, made a fine backdrop to his own decay. It was three hours past noon, and already he was drinked – dronk – Janus made a supreme effort of will. He was drunk. Yes, that was it.
It occurred to him through the nigh-impenetrable alcoholic fog surrounding his brain that the foul dregs remaining in his glass weren't worth drinking.
“Marban!” he cried insensibly. “Drink!” The barman sidled over with yet another bubbled pint glass full to the brim with Caragean's least fine lager. Fumblingly, Janus searched in the pocket of his robe for a coin to pay the barman with, and pulled a mixture of worthless golden Kamarean bezants and the acceptable iron Akarean marks. His pale forehead knotted in beery concentration as he attempted the Herculean task of subtracting the pint's cost from his money – before giving up and sliding what he hoped was the right amount across the table to the barman. The barman took pity on Janus and decided not to tell him that he had mistakenly overpaid.
As thoroughly inebriated as he was, Janus completely failed to notice the figure which suddenly walked into the seedy bar and the terrified hush which settled over the place. He was, in fact, so drink-sodden that he only noticed the figure when he sat down right across from him.
“Hello, Janus.” the Lanciar said, not in an unfriendly tone.
Janus recognised his name – barely – and sloughed his head to one side.
“Who're y - ”
They say the sight of an unexpected Lanciar can sober even the drunkest sot. So it was with Janus.
“L – Lanciar!” Janus gibbered, before marshalling his thoughts. “You're a Lanciar!”
“Well done, Janus.” the Lanciar siad, shifting slightly. Janus watched the shifting of the thick cords of muscle beneath the Lanciar's chain mail with terror. “Decanus Cullen, at your service. You are Janus, the famous hedge-wizard, I presume?”
Janus rifled through the memories he had managed to coalesce, then smiled weakly.
“I think so.”
“You're a hard man to get a hold of.” Decanus Cullen said, conversationally, almost as if he was trying to make friends with Janus. But in Caragean, a Lanciar was a Lanciar. “That's always the way with you Kamareans – cunning as foxes. Isn't that right, Janus?”
The beer-sodden wizard decided to take this as a compliment.
“Yesh – yeth – yes. There we go.”
“But we've finally managed it.” Janus got the impression of a smile beneath the face-covering helmet. “Which is why I'm here. I'm here to arrest you, Janus.”
Again, Janus was jolted back to reality. Again, it didn't last long.
“You can't arresht me!” Janus flopped forward, propping himself against the table and pointing vaguely at the ceiling as he declared: “'m invincible! Can't catch Janus, has eyes in the back of hish head! Why they call me Janus!” He fell forward onto the table, laughing uncontrollably. “Could - ” Janus paused to giggle. “Could turn you into a pile of soot! With a finger!” Cullen decided the time for pleasantries was over.
“Janus. I am here to arrest you.” Janus' squeals were cut off by a huge, mailed hand clamping around his neck and forcing his head back, so as he looked at the Lanciar's faceless helmet. “What you just said could be construed, Janus, as resisting arrest. I am now within my rights to kill you.”
A third time, Janus was dropped harshly into reality. This time, he stayed there.
“K – kill me!” he spluttered. “But that's...”
“Unnecessary? Maybe. The way the Imperial authorities look at it, Janus, you have two ways to save your worthless hide.” Janus stared into the Lanciar's helmet with his blue eyes and gulped.
“Go on.”
“One – you come with me to the prison and serve your time. You will be convicted on charges of illegal use of magic, overwealth, and a few others. You should rot in the dungeons of Caragean for the rest of your life.”
Janus had nothing to lose.
“I don't like that option. What's the other one?”
“You work for us, Janus. You repay your debt to society by performing services for the Imperial authorities. Not become a Lanciar, mind – just a...” Cullen searched for the right word. “...hireling. Mercenary, if you will. Odd-jobs man.”
“Why would I work for you?” Janus looked genuinely puzzled. “You Lanciars ruined my family, all but that thieving brother of mine, subjugated my nation, and hounded me across the Archduchy.”
“If you'd prefer to rot in prison, we'd be more than happy to oblige. There are plenty of wizards with more brains than common sense living rough in Lain.” Janus weighed up the two options. In true Kamarean fashion, it did not take him long to decide.
“Right, what's my first job?”
* * *
“The Republic is flawed!” Cyrus bellowed, sweat trickling in floods down his sallow cheeks and exaggerated cheekbones. His lank, black hair practically dripped with it. “The tyranny that the Palatines exert over the whole of the Akarean Empire must be broken! It is the only way to free the Akarean people and all our brothers and sisters in distant lands from the Imperial tyranny! And the only way there is through you, my brother and sisters! We, as Lanciars, have the duty to throw off the yoke of our decrepit elders and gain freedom for ourselves!”
His audience was not impressive – merely a handful of seemingly his seemingly faceless Lanciar comrades decorating the inside of a transport pod.
I say 'comrades' because Cyrus didn't have any friends. Face to face, he had the charisma of a ham sandwich. Yet when he got up and talked not to a person but to people, there was something about him that made you want to follow this underfed, dirty ex-Lanciar no matter where he went. But of course, not even the greatest orator could convince everyone.
Signifer Octavia jumped to her feet, her long, thin Lanciar's sword hissing out of her scabbard.
“You're a traitor, Lanciar Cyrus! Sit down now or I'll run you through!” It was at that moment that Cyrus, for the first time in his undistinguished life, disobeyed a direct order. He did this with a wolfish, predatory smile which, for a split second, opened a window into the chaotic, roiling turmoil of Cyrus' mind.
“Make me.”
Signifer Octavia lost it. She sprang forward in rage, sword raised high to bury it in Cyrus' flesh – but, suddenly, she had bigger problems, such as the tip of Cyrus sword emerging, reddened, from her back. She looked down at the bleeding hole in her stomach, looked up at Cyrus and whispered:
“Why, Cyrus? I never did anything wrong to you...”
“You do wrong every day, Octavia,” Cyrus growled at her, “simply by existing.” He wrenched his sword out, leaving the dying Lanciar to bleed out on the floor of the transport.
“I have struck the first blow,” he shouted, “in the fight for freedom! Who's with me?” Some of the Lanciars drew their swords, ready to kill this traitor in their midst. Others drew their swords to defend their new leader.
As Cyrus watched the carnage unfold beneath him, a faint, wicked smile twitched its way onto his lips.
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