Equimancer's Realm

by A.B. Robertson

  “Tough. As if the Southerners don’t know that it’s exactly what we would get if captured. Or worse. Anything else?”

  “Yes, Úlmá. None of the forces of the Five Tribes have broken through our line of defence. According to our intelligence, they have no idea about the happenings beyond our borders,” the messenger concluded.

  Vipra sighed with relief.

  So did the messenger.

  Bringing bad news to the Matriarch was the guarantee of an unpleasant day.

  The Academy, Realm’s Heart Island

  “So, what’s going on between you and Octarian?” Wolly asked.

  Mordan shrugged his shoulders.

  “Nothing. Everything’s fine,” he said, hoping that would suffice.

  He had in fact been avoiding Octarian.

  He couldn’t help it; he couldn’t bear the sight of him since the Sunflare Festival.

  He knew that his anger at Octarian was unjustified, but jealousy was incessantly gnawing at him.

  He couldn’t stop picturing him with Gloria.

  Wolly and Mordan were heading towards the Falcon Stables to put in some hours of Sharknball practice.

  “So what have you been up to after the ball?” Mordan asked.

  “You would know if you had bothered to ask any of us,” Wolly replied uncharacteristically sharply.

  “I wonder where Octarian ended up,” remarked Mordan casually.

  Wolly stopped, and flung his riding gloves to the ground with as much power as he could muster.

  “I knew it! You’re moping around because of some stupid woman-business and you’re not man enough to ask him yourself.

  What’s worse, you’re not gentleman enough,” he shouted, knowing exactly which buttons to push to inflict as much damage as possible.

  Mordan was taken aback, both because of the insult, but even more at the fury of his friend.

  “Hang on, hang on… I…” was all he could mutter, but there was no stopping Prince Wheatfield.

  “No, you hang on! The four of us have been friends for four years now; we’ve seen each other doing really bloody stupid things.

  We all know that Octarian is a philandering bastard; he’s like a puppy that has to hump everybody’s leg, but what we also know is that he would never… ever… do anything to hurt any of us.

  Now, you might have developed some hopeless crush on… hmmmm, I wonder on who…

  Using my brilliant abilities of deduction, I can exactly pinpoint the moment when you became an utter moron, after which you ran off like a moody Unpleasant.

  It was during Sylvain’s inebriated moments of indiscretion, while Octarian was having a rather uncomfortable chat with the Duchess and the Sister.

  If I wanted to find out who is the object of your desires and involved with Octarian, and believe me I could, even then I would never compromise either of those Ladies.

  What I can tell you though, that you have no bloody chance, with either of them, so you better forget it.

  If - and I emphasise the if - Sylvain indeed thought he knew something – which doesn’t count as proof at all – then, if you were a gentleman, you’d leave it at that,” Wolly realised he forgot to breathe during his rant, so he stopped for a second.

  Mordan was flushing furiously; he felt humiliation, rage, shame and a guilty conscience at the same time. The speed at which all the information was poured over him, made him speechless, but he had had neither the chance to process it, nor to reply, as Wolly continued.

  “Am I offended that Octarian doesn’t share the identity of every Lady he has romantic ties to?

  I might be, but there is a certain gentlemen’s code that stands above... well, almost everything. Apparently you are not aware of it, but Octarian is; maybe one of the reasons that he succeeds where you fail.

  If you wanted me to, I could go up to him, telling him that your friendship would cost him severing the ties to the aforementioned Ladies… and you know what? He would do it… in a second, without thinking. Because that’s what your friendship means to him… and if you don’t know that, then… then…” he started kicking the discarded gloves on the ground.

  “So… do you want that? I will go right now and tell him.”

  “Nooooooooo! Don’t! Please,” Mordan begged, mortified at the prospects.

  Wolly picked up the abused gloves, and tried to brush the mud off them.

  “You know what? You go and practice, I can’t stand your company at the moment.

  I have one piece of advice for you though; sort yourself out, talk to Octarian and get your priorities right, or you won’t just lose a friend, you’ll make an enemy as well,” Wolly said, turning around, without even looking at Mordan, and stomped off.

  Mordan was left in the middle of the field, rubbing his temples.

  He needed to think.

  He sank down on the ground, right where he was.

  He saw a figure approaching.

  He half-hoped, half-feared it was Wolly coming back, but it was an Academy servant.

  “Master Grimdor, I have a letter for you,” he said, handing him an envelope.

  It was an invitation for a private audience with King Scypian at the Stingers’ Palace for the following day.

  Pyonian-Lazulian Central Garrison

  Dax Nettler rubbed his hands together with a grin.

  “Will this humble accommodation be adequate for Your Royal Highness?” he asked, trying to keep the impertinence in his voice as minimal as possible.

  “Pffft,” Nocturnia huffed. She let Dax read her additional thoughts.

  He laughed heartily.

  “I didn’t know you could be so rude, Sister.”

  “I just don’t see why we can’t portal back home at the end of the day and come back in the morning.”

  “It shows that you’re not getting around much in the countryside, Noc. We are on call here; they could knock on our door in the middle of the night. It would be more than awkward if we didn’t reply. If you know what I mean,” he winked at her slyly.

  She finally managed a smile.

  “It’s not as if they could come in. This part of the Structure isn’t accessible to them,” she said.

  “Exactly. Good that you reminded yourself that this is the Structure; it’s almost like home. Where’s your sense of adventure? Besides, I thought you’d be more excited to spend a few days with me.”

  She tried her hardest to keep her thoughts on that particular topic to herself, but of course she had no chance. Even an average Air apt would have had no difficulties in outdoing her in mind-seeing; the Chief Prosecutor though could unlock her deepest, most secret thoughts in a fraction of a second. She blushed. It was so much easier with men who lacked their abilities.

  “Just take it as a practice session for the upcoming days. You’ll miss the garrison when you see the abysmal inns we’ll be staying at.”

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “What can I say? I’m a Pyonian after all; of course I do. Besides I’m very much amused to see you throwing a tantrum because you don’t have your little luxuries around you. You’re such a Royal,” he laughed, ducking to avoid the candlestick Nocturnia threw at him.

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  “What can I say, I’m a Mountainborn.”

  “Right, I’ll go and talk to Commander Searbow, you just refresh yourself, unpack, clean, do whatever you women have to do. I’ll see you in an hour in the courtyard.”

  Nocturnia was annoyed at herself. She didn’t want to behave like a spoilt child, but he was right; she did like luxury. On the other hand, she had really appreciated being taken on this trip.

  She had to put her foot down; Andarian thought it would be too dangerous, but she had been fighting her corner for weeks. Dax was supporting her, so Andarian gave in and let her go instead of him, as was the original plan.

  Nocturnia had insisted that being the new Third Servant, she needed to know what was goin
g on in the Realm outside the Island.

  Besides, she wanted to see Dax in action.

  There was no denying it; she found him utterly irresistible. A fact he unfortunately was well aware of.

  Nocturnia decided to take a quick bath. Instead of portalling or using the Airways, they had been flying for two days with only a few hours of sleep. Dax had insisted they took their own falcons, as they would have to travel around Pyonia. Here they would have to investigate the death of Vandar Blacclaw, then on to Stingray Harbour to try and find out about the execution of the Sunflare Squad.

  In an hour’s time she joined Dax and Searbow.

  “Let’s hear your report, Commander,” Dax said.

  Searbow collected his thoughts.

  “A certain Constable came here and asked me to follow him with at least two of my men. He led us to the Black Scorpion Inn. We know the place; if enough of us feel like a drink, we usually go there. Enough meaning at least twenty of us, as we’re not exactly popular amongst the locals.

  ‘Be prepared; this won’t smell nice,’ announced the Constable, when he kicked the door open.

  I wasn’t prepared. The stench that suddenly escaped the inn, turned my stomach… that disgustingly sweet smell of several dozens of decaying corpses.

  But the smell was nothing compared to the sight; all those corpses with their throats cut…

  It seemed that almost the entire village had gathered there only to be massacred.

  Men and women, young and old… even some children.

  All of them sitting on chairs or laying on the floor, with gashing wounds at their throats… congealed blood around their necks as if they all had worn a single, long, gruesome scarf that bound them all together,” Searbow shuddered.

  “That’s horrible,” Nocturnia whispered.

  “Yes, it is, Third Servant. My men were throwing up left, right and centre. Don’t get me wrong; they’re all trained fighters, but for Gods’ sake, this is the Realm… a peaceful place.

  What made the whole situation even worse was that that insolent little upstart of a Constable was insinuating that we had something to do with it. That was the point when I told him – amongst other things which are not fit for the ears of a Lady - that you’d take over the investigation, Chief Prosecutor,” the Commander fumed and nodded at Dax.

  “The villagers had been buried before anybody could take a good look at them,” he added.

  Dax was swearing.

  “Damn it; there could have been some conclusive clues. Who buried them anyway? Didn’t you say the whole village has been wiped out?”

  “I know as much as you do, Chief Prosecutor. We closed the site down, but do those people care what we do?” he said bitterly.

  “Off to see the Commander of the Watch Guard then,” Dax instructed Nocturnia.

  “If you see Constable Buttface, please make sure to kick him up the arse, Chief Prosecutor,” Searbow shouted after them.

  “Is that his real name?”

  “For me it is, but he goes by Fargaze,” Searbow replied.

  “Do you want me to have a friendly word with him on your behalf, Commander?” Dax asked Searbow.

  “Don’t waste your time with the likes of him. A meeting with Commander Duskfield would make more sense,” he replied.

  The meeting with Watch Guard Commander Duskfield was no more fruitful than Searbow’s encounter with Constable Fargaze weeks ago.

  Apparently, the Pyonian Commander had no more information, but plenty of accusations.

  As it turned out, he had instigated an official court hearing, where Searbow and the whole of the garrison had to appear.

  Even though Dax had told him repeatedly that the men had been questioned and they were all innocent, Duskfield replied that an ‘Island mage’ had no authority over him.

  Nettler suggested the Commander should contact the Government to have the legal system changed if he didn’t like it, and slammed the door behind him.

  Nocturnia was outraged, but she didn’t want to interfere.

  “What did he mean?” she asked Dax.

  “Eh, he will contact the Lord Mayor who will inform him that I am the authority for him. End of story.”

  “Do you have to deal with this kind of abuse often?”

  “No, not often. All the time. They hate us here. Us as in Islanders, us as in authority, us as in mages. And most of all, us as in Sunflare mercenaries.”

  “I’m not a bloody mage. If I was, my fireball would surround that idiot and ignite his silly hair,” Nocturnia muttered.

  “You just have to practise more, little Lady, maybe one day you’ll be able to do it,” Dax sniggered.

  Escorted by four Falconriders, Dax and Nocturnia flew over to the inn where the murders took place. They touched down a little distance away.

  The village was eerily silent.

  It was a ghost town.

  The windows of abandoned houses stared at them accusingly.

  No soul was around.

  The deafening silence was interrupted only by the occasional birdsong which seemed to be out of place in such a sad and lonely place.

  Dax asked the Falconriders to take his and Nocturnia’s birds, and instructed them not to interfere for half an hour.

  If they weren’t back by then, they were to storm the inn.

  A few yards from the building, Dax stopped.

  ‘Can you hear them?’ he mind-asked Nocturnia.

  She listened intently.

  ‘Five or six or them I’d say,’ she replied.

  ‘Should we be dressed like this?’ she wondered.

  ‘Yes, I want them to know who we are.’

  ‘So we’re walking into their trap willingly?’

  ‘Noc dearest, Pyonia is one big trap, so get used to it.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Any last advice?’

  ‘Just listen to my thoughts. Now talk, so they can hear us.’

  Nocturnia blinked, her mind went blank.

  Dax rolled his eyes.

  “Too bad we can’t see the corpses, but the scene of the crime should provide some clues,” he said in a casual voice.

  “I’m sure it will, Chief Prosecutor. Shall we go in then?”

  “Yes, follow me,” he instructed her.

  ‘And stay calm,’ he added in thoughts.

  They stepped through the door and as expected, the attack came immediately.

  They were wrestled to the floor, and soon found themselves tied to chairs with their hands bound behind their backs.

  There were six of them; a man in a visibly ridiculously expensive coat seemed to be their leader.

  “Am I right in the assumption that we have captured the Chief Prosecutor?” he asked in a sickly sweet voice.

  “And his little helper,” a toothless thug added, ogling Nocturnia.

  “The boss will be pleased,” a giant of a man grunted.

  “You don’t even know who the boss is,” said a white haired one.

  “Neither do you,” countered another thug with a perfectly round stomach.

  The sixth of the group didn’t say anything.

  “Do we have to deliver him dead or alive?” the giant asked.

  “And what about the little Lady? Can we keep her?” guffawed the beer gutted man.

  ‘Sap the white haired,’ Dax instructed Nocturnia.

  She looked at the man, channelling Fire energy from him. The man’s eyelids drooped and he seemed to fall asleep. He slumped to the floor like a sack of potatoes. The others looked at him suspiciously.

  “So, you’re not the real boss then,” Dax said to Expensive Coat, earning himself a massive slap from the giant.

  The man didn’t plan to reply, but surprisingly he found himself talking.

  “No, the real boss is Constable Fargaze.”

  He had no idea what made him say it; it was a secret he had to guard with his life.

  ‘Do something to beer gut,’ Dax commanded Nocturnia. She l
ooked at him, channelling Earth energy. The fat man grabbed his throat, fighting for air. After flailing around for about a minute, he collapsed to the floor.

  At the same time, the giant walked up to the silent one of the group and jammed the stock of his rifle with full force against his jaw. A sickening crunch of breaking bones was followed by a painful scream.

  Seemingly satisfied, the giant turned towards Expensive Coat.

  The man saw what Giant was about to do. He thought for a moment, then shot the tall one in the stomach.

  Once done, he looked at Dax incredulously.

  He looked back.

  Coat took out his knife. He walked up to Dax and cut him loose. Then, he did the same to Nocturnia.

  ‘Walk out, don’t say or do anything,’ she heard Dax in her head.

  They carefully left the inn.

  They were hardly outside, when they heard four shots.

  Coat sank in a chair. He failed. He let the Chief Prosecutor go.

  He didn’t know how or why, but it happened. What was worse, he gave away the name of his direct superior, the only person in the hierarchy of The Organisation he had known.

  He could try to escape, but he knew they would find him.

  He had been shown what would happen to members who failed and tried to run.

  He would get a ‘Pyonian Send-off’: they would drag him to the next meeting, blind him, cut out his tongue, rip out his nails. They would hang him upside down, slit his stomach and let him dangle till he bled out.

  But only after they had forced him to watch his wife and their children being tortured to death.

  Dax signalled to his men to go in and arrest the survivor, when they heard the fifth shot.

  Royal Palace of Stinger, Realm’s Heart Island

  Mordan jumped off the Stinger’s Royal Barge that was sent for him, at the dock of the Pyonian Empress’ palace.

  He still couldn’t believe what was happening to him.

  An audience with the King.

  He let all possible scenarios play out in his mind in the last twenty-something hours.

  Why on Earth did he get this invitation?

  Was he in trouble?

  Was this the opportunity of a lifetime?

  He wiped the sweat off his palms on the back of his coat, and waited for the servant to open the door for him.