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.
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