by Jesse Teller
The massive raksa carried two black curved blades on his back, ready to slice any passerby in half with them. Konnon looked beside him to the raksa’s lover and his heart stopped. She would be the problem.
Tama wore a red robe so old and worn it appeared pink. Her hair looked to have been cut with a dull blade and she had taken a scar across her face since the last time he had seen her. This scar pulled her lips on the right side, forcing her into a sideways sneer. She was a practical wizardess, a wizardess who took no chances, and she had hated Konnon almost from the moment she had met him so many years ago.
Konnon looked at the bar around him, and he shook his head. He could see it then. This room was about to explode. Every man and woman here knew they were standing in a room with competition. They all knew, after tonight, they would walk off into the city to hunt the same man. Every hand was near a weapon, and the tension of rage and hate nearly brought Konnon’s head to throbbing.
He looked around, seeking nothing in particular but finding it nonetheless. He walked up to an Impossible. The man had green skin covered in sores and two horns on his head. He possessed a nub of a tail. The man tapped his claws on the table and barked out some words in a garbled tongue Konnon did not know.
“Yeah, you will do,” Konnon said. He pulled his dagger, and with one swift stab through the back of the neck, he severed the man’s spine and pulled him to the ground.
Konnon looked at the bar, as the Impossibles gazed at their screaming friend, and he knew there was not a pure soul in this bar, not one man or woman who had not committed foul murder or some sort of unforgivable treachery. He stomped on the man’s throat and stepped back. Cankcer jumped to his feet and pulled his twisted sword. He looked at Konnon and screamed.
“Rowdy!” he stabbed out with his ridiculous weapon and Konnon batted it aside and spun, taking the man behind him in the back with a swift cut from shoulder to shoulder. The man hissed and the bar exploded in utter violence.
In the air above the room, Konnon heard a laugh booming, and another shredding the air as Julius Kriss and Slinter enjoyed the spectacle. Konnon had no time to enjoy the laugh. He had his hands full fighting for his life.
He made his way to the middle of the bar, where Barrigan stood with a chair pounding a man into the ground and howling. Lauris leapt into the air and caught onto the chandelier. She pulled small throwing knives out of nowhere and rained down death. Konnon hacked his way through the bar until he stood close to Artiss. He backed into the man slowly and spun as soon as their backs touched.
Artiss spun, axe held back in wrath before his face broke into a smile.
“Rowdy!” He wrapped his bloody arms around Konnon and picked him up. “When did you get here?” Artiss turned back to the battle and Konnon pressed his back to the man’s and fought.
“I haven’t seen you since the work camp,” Artiss said over the sounds of men and women dying. “Keeping your blades bloody, I hope.”
“Trying.” A sword slipped past Konnon’s defense and fouled on the chain mail under his jacket. He slashed the man down and laughed. “I’m trying to keep them as bloody as I can.”
A man leapt from the bar with a dagger in each hand and one in his teeth, and Konnon grabbed Artiss and pulled him left. The two warriors moved seamlessly. The man with the daggers hit the ground and Konnon opened his throat.
“We need to get a drink. I think you owe me a tankard,” Konnon said.
Artiss laughed, a deafening booming thing that hurt Konnon’s ears. “Get me out of this one and I will buy you a keg.”
“It’s a deal,” Konnon said. They all fought and Konnon watched as the competition dwindled around him.
The Diasphere
Rayph moved through the throng of onlookers, straining to see the king and his entourage. Smear cloaked his movements, keeping Rayph within sight, his concealed hand gripping two throwing knives. Rayph made his way down the avenues of flower buds, ripe and ready, through groupings of orchard trees, to stop in front of a tall rise decorated with flower buds and holding the king’s throne. The lord of Song stood beside the king with his lovely wife on his arm. The daughter of the Song family sat a lesser throne beside Thomas. The two children talked and giggled, making faces at Gentry Mandrake and laughing as he huffed.
The two children were in love, had been since they first met three years ago. Phomax had scoured the world looking for a suitable mate for his son. He wanted a princess from another land, wanted someone who would tie to him another throne and secure him a different nation. But Thomas had been adamant. No princess, no foreigner, his choice for bride was Shalimarie Song. Thomas was far too young to make a choice like this. His father dismissed the notion until the queen weighed in on the matter. She told the king in no nonsense fashion that Shalimarie was Thomas’s intended. She crushed his dreams of one day securing an empire with a few well-placed words and a deafening display of personality.
Phomax had railed and fumed, but in the face of his wife, he lost his bluster and walked away. Phomax had never been able to stand up to a powerful person, be it man or woman. From everything Rayph had heard on the matter, Phomax had been frightened of his wife, who he thought plotted against his life.
Shalimarie’s pure black hair and porcelain face could not be forgotten. Her clear blue eyes possessed the mind of everyone who saw them, and her charming demeanor locked her adoring public to her bosom. Rayph felt the onslaught of coming tears as he looked at the future king and queen of Lorinth. Their reign would be the thing of myths. Rayph would fashion such a royal pair out of these two children that his nation would ring like a struck bell of purest silver as they walked Lorinth’s roads and their even hand directed its course.
Medey stood beside the king, his meaty hand resting atop the back of the throne. He had busied Rayph these past two days. The coming of his men had known no rest. Every pub, every hostel, every alleyway where Rayph could rest his head resounded with the boot stomps of Demons in pursuit. Rayph had resorted to hiding away in the church of Cor-lyn-ber, where the prayers of the devout had prompted the crystalline words of the god himself proclaiming Rayph’s innocence. But holed up in a church was not a lifestyle Rayph found suitable. He longed to walk the streets, look the people in the eyes, and reassure the public he had not abandoned them.
Trysliana hid him in an alcove in the hallway of the Rain Barrel where they kept spare drapes and ratted old brooms. She had easily talked the Demons away, assuring them that, should she catch wind of the villain Rayph Ivoryfist, she would send up a call for arms. She had been so convincing that Rayph thought she might throw open the closet and betray him utterly.
Supplies were smuggled to him by her sly hand. Messages ferried back and forth between Medey and Rayph, warning the mage of the dangers to come and which streets to avoid. Smear spent most of his time at the pub now, much of that time spent talking to the charismatic bar wench. Rayph had even walked in one night to her bending to kiss Smear’s cheek. They had not discussed it, but Rayph wondered if they trusted this woman just a bit too much.
Dissonance moved past Rayph without looking, climbing the platform to stand near Lord and Lady Song. None moved to intercept her. She seemed a necessary part of the proceedings. Rayph envied her closeness to the action, envied her acceptance. How much good could he do if he was allowed up there beside such powerful men and women? Behind the platform, the mausoleum of the First Lady of the Garden towered, giving the proceedings an air of solemnity that could not be denied.
Rayph looked through the crowd, searching for something, no one thing in particular, but something definable nonetheless. He saw every man pushing his way through the crowd, every person who was heavily cloaked and hiding under a cowl. His senses tingled with anticipation at what could be and where danger might lie.
Gaydle appeared at the foot of the platform, her order robed and waiting behind her. In a bandstand not far from there waited a huge gathering of bards preparing instruments and songs. The moment was
pregnant with the coming gaiety, and Rayph could not help but feel a slight kick in his chest. Deeper inside the garden waited games and tournaments, feats of strength and stages prepped for dancing. When the flowers awoke, the garden would burst with happiness, and the city would begin its three-day celebration.
Gaydle waited patiently to be formally approached by the reigning master of the celebration. Phomax stood, swaying under the weight of his drink. Medey grabbed him to steady his stance. Rayph shook his head.
“I summon for my approval the priests of Dervo, the Keepers of the Bees,” Phomax said.
His approval? What could he mean by that? The crowd buzzed as Gaydle stepped up to the king, stately and regal.
“Let the god Dervo pay homage to the king of Lorinth and, on my command, open the flowers of Song for the joy of her people,” Phomax said.
Rayph shook his head and cursed. This was not supposed to be happening. He looked at Smear, who shrugged, just as confused as everyone else.
Gaydle said nothing to Phomax or his blasphemous words. She walked to the edge of the stage and, with a prayer and the opening of her arms, she blessed the ceremony. The flowers opened slowly and the people loosed a deafening cheer. Phomax slumped back in his throne, and Gaydle turned sharply and left, returning to her hive and taking her fellows with her.
Rayph grinned as the bards struck up their instruments, and the dancing and singing began. Children ran through the blossoms, sniffing flowers and crawling through the flowerbeds.
Rayph made his way through the people, his heart high on the happiness of Song. The queen stood and took Lord Song’s hand for a dance. The king snatched up Lady Song and wheeled the stage, and Thomas took Shalimarie’s hands and led her in a stately round. Rayph lost himself in a crowd of onlookers.
Servants of Dervo walked through the crowd, displaying flowers to the people for their approval. One of these approached Rayph with a rare blooming crystalline flower. The breed was the rarest of all flowers Rayph had ever known. Grown and picked to near decimation on a distant continent, the bloom was known to grow a crystal shell in its third year of life. Within two years, the blooms would be completely encased in crystal, bud and stem, forever locked in the instant of utmost beauty. These rare flowers now existed in this one city, in this one place. Everywhere else, they had become extinct. Rayph looked at the bewitching beauty of the bloom and was reminded why the flower had suffered this fate. As he sat there, he could think of only two things more beautiful.
At nigh on nightfall, the fireblooms opened and their warm, red glow lit the garden. The light calmed the crowd, bringing people to a contemplative state Rayph found pleasant.
Gaydle returned to the platform with a shining diasphere, a rare white flower known to give off a slight white glow. She called everyone’s attention to the royal stand and raised her hand to quiet the crowd.
“The Gardens of Song have opened for their people. Let us now choose a Princess of Blossoms.” Every little girl in the garden perked up her ears. Every fair child longing to wear the diasphere this year had dressed in her prettiest dress and fixed her hair just so.
Rayph wondered why the prize of Princess of Blossoms could not be given to hundreds of darling little girls. The fetish opened in Rayph’s head, and Smear spoke.
“I have seen two hundred little girls worthy of that flower,” he said.
Rayph grunted his approval and shook his head. Shalimarie would be given the flower. She had every year since her birth. Every year, her hair had shone with the gentle bud. And every year, hundreds of little girls had returned home heartbroken.
Gaydle made a show of praying to Dervo for guidance, but Rayph knew her hands were tied. Dervo might not be welcome next year if the high daughter of Song did not win the diasphere.
She prayed aloud for guidance before closing her eyes and turning to Shalimarie. The little girl rose from her seat beside Thomas and met Gaydle in the center of the stage. Gaydle brushed back the young girl’s hair before Shalimarie gently took the blossom from the aged priestess and turned away, flower in hand.
Rayph’s eyes came alive at this break from tradition. The priestess had always placed the flower. The Princess of Blossoms should not be carrying it. Shalimarie stepped gracefully around Gaydle and crossed the stage to the stairs. She held the flower in the palms of her hands, cupping the delicate petals and keeping her head down as she walked slowly into the crowd.
She walked through the hushed assembly, the crowd mesmerized by the glow of the blossom. Every eye stared, transfixed. Every single soul within the crowd held their breath as the daughter of the city made her way to a grubby young girl with a shining beautiful face and dirty dress. She whispered something to the young urchin, speaking in such low tones as to make every ear long for the contents of those words.
Shalimarie turned, and the little girl followed. They wove their way through the crowd, heading for the stage and the royal family waiting there. Both girls stopped before the priestess of Dervo, and Shalimarie gently handed the flower back to Gaydle. She was paid with a kiss from the aged priestess before the woman turned to the smaller commoner, gently brushed her hair back, and placed the diasphere behind the little girl’s ear.
The crowd erupted with such passion as to deafen the world beyond. The dirty little girl wept as she smiled, waving her hand and trembling with joy. Shalimarie sat beside Thomas, her eyes clear, her regal bearing pure and shining; a born queen no one here could doubt. The people stared at the one who would be queen, and their love for her had never been so great.
And in that moment, Rayph knew. He leapt in the air, flying high above the crowd to land the center of the stage as a shadow deepened behind Shalimarie’s throne. Medey cursed and the crowd screamed, seeing Rayph within their midst.
Mandrake snatched Thomas, grew to his massive size, and flew away while the boy screamed and fought to get to his love. Dissonance extended her spear, letting it grow to its full length, as she rushed forward to meet the horde of killers that sprang from the darkness behind Shalimarie’s throne. Rayph lifted to the air again to send a bolt of pure lightning at the figure that emerged. Julius danced left, snatching Shalimarie by the throat with one hand and jerking the wailing girl around in front of him.
Medey gripped his spear and rushed for Julius as Slinter stepped from the portal and lashed out violently with her tail. Medey knocked it aside and swung his massive spear for her head.
She hissed and leapt back on all fours to spring like a hunting cat at the veteran warrior.
Smear appeared behind Julius and thrust out with his fist dagger. The attack failed inexplicably, and Julius spun, one hand still gripping the first daughter of Song, the other lashing out with his terrible steel, connecting with the very tip across Smear’s chest. Smear screamed in horrible pain and stumbled behind the thrones into the darkness beyond.
Julius spun back to Rayph as the mage ripped the air open with a command and caught his sword. Julius rushed to meet Rayph, brandishing the little girl before him.
The army of thieves and cutthroats Julius had brought were more than enough to keep Dissonance back. Her spear sent men screaming to their deaths, but she was losing too much ground. Too many blows landed. Too many thrusts found their way past her guard. With a scream of her prayer, she planted her foot and extended her palm. She slammed an unrecognizable power into the man before her, throwing him back into a tangle of his compatriots. She spun her spear, bringing the butt to slam the stage, and the men before her lifted into the air, tossed from the stage altogether.
Julius’s sword was a nightmare of slashes and thrusts. Rayph could do nothing but knock every attack aside and pray for an opening big enough that he could strike without hitting Shalimarie. The young girl screamed in horror and crippling fear. Her dress was soon wet with urine, her shrieks tearing at Rayph’s mind. He could do nothing to get around Julius’s wielding of the girl. Within moments, Julius would have him dead.
“This is not over!”
Rayph screamed. “Shalimarie, I’m coming for you,” Rayph promised. He couldn’t tell if she had heard him or not. Her screams never changed. Rayph kicked back, flying into the crowd.
Medey stumbled under the wrath of Slinter’s tail attack, and Rayph knew his friend might soon be dead if he didn’t do something. Rayph leapt forward, turning his attention from Julius to Slinter. He landed, straddling Titus, his sword out before him.
“Come to me, bitch. Let me send you back to Hell!” Rayph said.
Slinter stepped back as Julius screamed her name. Medey groaned, and Rayph held his ground as Julius headed for his portal.
Rayph felt as if his heart would shatter in his chest as the screams of Shalimarie grew more and more distant. “I am coming for you, Shalimarie. I will be there soon!”
But she was gone now. The king was curled on his throne, screaming. Dran’s men held back the queen. She gripped a knife in her pale hands, her face screwed up in fury.
Rayph looked down at Medey and grimaced. “Blindfold yourself and stopper your ears. They can hear and see everything you can. Get yourself to a healer as soon as you can.”
Rayph turned to the Lord of Song, who gripped his screaming wife with tears coursing down his face.
“I will get her back.” But would there be time? He had no idea where Julius Kriss was hiding, had no idea where to start looking. “Take care of Medey. Soon, he will not be able to breathe.”
The terrified mother looked Rayph in the eye. “You get her back, damn you!” she screamed. “You get my little girl back to me.” Her face broke and curled on itself. Her legs gave out on her, and Rayph nodded. He fought back his own tears and turned away.
“Seize him!” Phomax screamed, and the Sterling Legion stepped forward. Rayph turned, sword in hand, and pulled free his dagger with his off hand. Every man before him stared dumbly, their faces stained with fear.
