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.