by Jeff Gunzel
With an effort, she raised her eyes back to his. His sheepish smile looked odd as he leaned on his sword. It was hardly a regular expression for the humorless man. Then it hit her. Resisting the overwhelming urge to cover herself, she dropped her swords and began tugging at the clinging fabric of her damp nightgown. Just straightening it. Nothing more. “How did you get in here?” she demanded, still tugging and pulling, avoiding his gaze.
“The door was open,” he shrugged. He polity turned away, allowing her to continue fighting with the nightgown in privacy.
“Wha–” She peeked over his shoulder. Sure enough, one of the heavy doors was slightly ajar. There is no way I left that open. Was he only implying that it was unlocked? Damn him and his games! “And why are you up, sneaking around like some thief in the night?”
“Same reason as you,” he replied with another shrug. Another simple answer that carried multiple interpretations.
She sighed, then gave a final frustrated tug of her gown. The cool, damp fabric snapped against her skin, hugging her curves as tightly as ever. Her exposure suddenly seemed very unimportant. “And what do you know of my sleepless nights?” she mumbled, swiping a hand across her forehead, removing sweat and stray strands of red hair that tickled her eyelashes. “What do you know of the darkness that haunts my dreams?”
Azek turned back slowly and gazed into her eyes. She was surprised at how much effort it took not to look away. “We all carry demons, Ilirra. I don’t pretend to understand the pressures of your symbolic stature. I admit I know nothing of this darkness you speak of. Only the gods themselves would make such arrogant claims.” He took a step closer, his sharp, dark eyes holding her gaze. “But I do know this. A lifetime is no more than a blink in time. A meaningless flash from birth till death. We have but an instant to define ourselves before it is over. To create a name that will live on through the ages while entire generations come and go.”
“And when my brief time has come to an end, what exactly will my legacy be, Azek?” she said, her breathy words heavy with fatigue. “Will I be renowned for losing this impossible war? Remembered as the queen who fell before the darkness, dropping to her knees and trembling like a leaf in the wind? Tell me, Azek Lamanton, famed blademaster and Captain of the Guard, what legend do you see standing before you? A queen...a killer...a martyr...a moth–” She swallowed hard as moisture filled her eyes. “A mother,” she whispered.
Azek brushed a few strands of red hair from her eyes. His voice was soft, but confident. “I see before me the most powerful queen to ever sit upon the throne. A woman of wisdom and integrity, although haunted by both past and future. Taron needs you now, focused and ready to act when the time comes.” He slapped a hand over his chest, breaking her stare. Ilirra only now realized her eyes had been wandering over his numerous scars. “Do you know what I remember about each one of these marks? What I recall of each man and beast who blessed me with yet another badge of honor?” He leaned into her ear. “Only that their hearts no longer beat,” he whispered, every calm word frosted with ice.
Ilirra resisted the urge to shiver, but her voice was tight. “You’re a killer, cold, with no remorse for the lives you’ve taken. I get it. You’re—”
“No, you don’t get it. That’s the problem. The reason I can’t remember their faces is because they no longer matter. It’s all in the past, and you need to get that into your head. You are the Queen of Taron and need to deal with today’s problems, not dwell in the past.” He glanced down to the swords that lay at her feet. “That mindless killer is no longer who you are.”
“That mindless killer made me who I am!” She spun away, hands on her head. “I cannot so easily bury my past the way you can. Their eyes...their screams... I can still see their faces.”
Azek grabbed her shoulder and spun her back. “You must!” he said, looking into tear-filled eyes. His hands slid down to her wrists, holding them softly. He lowered his voice. “This self-torture does you no good. We need you. I need you to be strong. The day of reckoning is coming, and we must be ready.”
“And what does that matter now?” she muttered, gently pulling away from him. “You and I have no hope of stopping this dark force that threatens our very existence. The Gate Keeper himself remains unsure of how to deal with...him. Feel free to amass all the men you can find. Build an army greater than any in history, and it will do little more than anger—”
“Then what would you have me do?” he interrupted. “Shall I inform the men there is no hope? Should I direct a mass suicide in order to spare everyone the inevitable suffering?”
Ilirra drew in on herself with shame. They would almost certainly die when it came time to draw steel. This much was certain, but that didn’t mean it was better to give up.
“Come with me,” said Azek, his half-smile returning. He headed towards the doorway.
“What–where?” she said, puzzlement etched all over her face.
“Find something to wear and meet me outside,” Azek called over his shoulder, then disappeared down the hall.
Both mentally and physically exhausted, she dragged herself back to her room. While slipping into her favorite blue dress and white slippers, she eyed her comfortable bed longingly. With half a mind to ignore Azek’s request and throw herself on the mattress, she reluctantly left her room, her curiosity winning out over fatigue.
After creeping through the palace halls, Ilirra eventually made her way outside. There stood Azek in a faded red shirt and a pair of plain brown britches. With a silent gesture for her to follow, he began walking down the steps. He moved quickly, forcing her into a light jog to catch up. Moving briskly side by side, the two walked in silence through the dark streets. Of course Ilirra was full of questions, but she knew this man too well to bother asking. Besides, her head spun as if she had been drinking. It was clear the daily stress and lack of sleep were taking a toll.
A white carriage approached them from the opposite direction. It rocked back and forth in time with the uneven street stones. A dark-haired boy of fourteen or so peered through the glass while it slowly rolled by. Ilirra made eye contact, smiling at the boy. His eyes widened at the sight of the Queen strolling down the street like some commoner. She watched as he turned, then began frantically shaking whoever slept next to him. Poor boy, she thought. No one will ever believe him. And why would they? The Queen roaming the streets at night, with a single man for protection? Preposterous.
The night air was cool, but not so much as to be uncomfortable. Spring was fast approaching, and winter’s bite was diminishing by the day. The waning moon shone through the cloudless night sky. Gleaming stars twinkled brightly against the black canvas. The cool air and gorgeous night sky helped to snap Ilirra from her dull state of mind. A sorely needed distraction indeed. It’s beautiful. Why don’t I walk at night more often?
“Over there,” pointed Azek.
Caught up in her surroundings, Ilirra had nearly forgotten why she was out here in the first place. She followed his gaze to an old shack across the street. The rickety building may have been painted at one time. Looking at the splintered old planks, some even rotting, it was hard to tell now. She wondered how a structure so clearly neglected was even still standing.
A young man wearing a black wide-brimmed hat that covered his eyes sat under the roofed porch leaning back in an old chair. Chewing a long piece of grass, the blond-haired man hardly seemed to notice them. But despite his looking unaware, he began lightly stomping one heel against the wood as they approached.
In the blink of an eye, Azek bolted across the street. He grabbed the man’s knee while raising a hushing finger to his lips, shaking his head no. The young man swallowed hard then looked away, nodding his understanding. Reluctantly, he rose from the chair and sidestepped the door, allowing them passage. Azek turned back to Ilirra and motioned for her to follow. She obliged, really wondering what had been going on behind her back...and for how long?
Azek patted the young man on the sho
ulder before entering the old shack. For someone who had blown his job at standing watch, the young man didn’t look particularly upset. If fact, he appeared rather amused.
There was no front room or hallway to speak of, only a long, dimly lit stairway descending into darkness. The thick air was humid and musty, a stark contrast from the cool night air. Azek took Ilirra’s hand and they began their descent. Even though they moved along at a steady pace, a mouse would have made more noise.
When they neared the bottom, Azek raised a hand and slowed his steps. They could hear the muffled grunts and thuds of practiced combat. Azek rounded the corner, then moved silently across the empty room. Despite the blackened cobwebs that clung to the ceiling, dozens of footprints tracked across the dusty floor—further evidence this abandoned shack was not all that abandoned. His back to the wall, he inched across before peeking through a glassless square opening. There might have been a window once, but it was hard to tell now. The grunts and groans were clearly coming from this second room. He motioned to Ilirra, who tiptoed around and glanced through from the other side. Her jaw swung open like an iron gate.
A thin, gray mat covered every inch of the floor, making shoes unnecessary. A very large man stood shirtless and barefoot on the center of the room. Various faded scars crisscrossed his chest and shoulders. He wore nothing but a pair of loose-fitting black pants and a hooded black mask that hung down below his chin. The chilling attire gave the giant the likeness of an executioner. The man’s thick arms and back glistened with sweat, reflecting the dim light from four lanterns hung from the high ceiling. His stance was low and powerful, legs spread wide with his elbows planted on his knees.
He was surrounded by other shirtless men, also wearing the same black mask and pants. All were barefoot and most were seated on the floor, legs crossed. Although not nearly as big as him, each was lean and well muscled. Hardened bodies seemed as if carved from wood, physiques chiseled from repetitive daily training. All were sweaty, most still breathing heavily, proof of their recent activity. The big man spread his hands out to either side, then pointed out three individuals. “You will not always have a weapon in hand, so you must become a weapon. Dangerous and deadly, even with your bare hands. You three, come,” the big man grunted.
“Morcel,” Ilirra whispered to herself. She was already sure it was him. After all, there were only so many men that size walking the streets of Taron. But now, hearing his voice, she was certain.
Without hesitation, the three men rushed fearlessly across the mat. With similar height and body types, they were extremely difficult to tell apart. The two at Morcel’s back left their feet and soared through the air, while the other dove hard at the giant’s knees. The man going low was promptly met with a hard knee to the face. A whirling elbow knocked a second from the air, while the third’s flying kick struck home. He caught Morcel in the back of the shoulder with a fierce blow that would have floored any other man. But the force only made the giant stumble a few steps.
Morcel rolled his numb shoulder to relieve some of the tightness. “Good,” he grumbled in a low, gravelly voice. The other two were already back on their feet. He eyed the three, circling like vultures. “Just like I showed you. Attack as a single unit and you cannot be stopped, no matter how big or skilled your opponent. Let’s go. Again!”
As if reading each other’s thoughts, the three exploded at once into a frenzied assault. Morcel whirled about with impossible speed, his forearms and wrists intercepting fists and kicks with hollow, meaty smacks. His feet pivoted constantly as he stepped forward, backward, then shuffled to the side in an endless circle in a strategic dance, its purpose to always keep two attackers within sight.
However, the three soldiers were highly skilled and well disciplined. They shifted from side to side, keeping no more than an arm’s length between them. Caught in the frenzied dance, they never once collided or got in each other’s way. The perfect spacing made their attacks that much more effective. Whichever two ended up facing Morcel would simply unleash an all-out assault with sharp pinpoint strikes that would have decimated a lesser foe. But even so, they knew not a single strike would find its mark. Not against this foe. But that was never the intent...
Morcel’s arms pumped and whirled, blocking blows with blinding speed that belonged to a man half his size. But no matter which way his feet shifted, the soldiers made sure one man was always at his back. While the other two occupied the giant with their vicious onslaught, the third could attack from behind. As good as Morcel was, he was no match for this calculated assault.
The man behind threw a hard punch at the back of the giant’s neck. Morcel’s head fell forward, spittle flying from his mouth. Recovering quickly, he whirled about, launching a wild backhand. The assailant ducked as it whooshed over his head, missing him by a hair. Morcel grimaced as fire shot up the back of his leg. He dropped to one knee. The man who kicked his leg quickly coiled around Morcel’s neck. He pulled the giant backward, squeezing his neck like a python.
The other two leaped on top of the giant, snatching his hands. Before he could react, both of Morcel’s arms straightened, then snapped out to the sides. With tight grips on his wrists, thumbs facing upward, the two assailants drove their hips into his elbows. His arms trembled from hyperextension, threatening to snap at any moment.
In a flash the mighty warrior had been immobilized, stretched out flat in a human crucifixion. With both arms trapped in tight armbars, all his air being choked out, all he could do was stomp his foot in submission. The three released him, then rolled backward onto their feet. They stood at attention, arms at their sides. Morcel sprang back up. The giant removed his hooded mask and rolled his neck with a series of pops and cracks. But for a man who had just lost a sparring match, he looked pleased. With a large, toothy grin splitting his face, he dismissed them to go sit with the others.
While walking back, one of the men pulled up the bottom of his hooded mask and spit a wad of blood on the floor. The wad contained more than one tooth. Spitting again, he raised the mask a little higher. “Do not remove it,” came the call from behind him. He glanced over his shoulder at Morcel then lowered it back down.
The giant gazed around the room, his bright green eyes piercing and unsettling, yet displaying no lingering anger from his defeat. “Good work today, men,” he said at length. “You all took another step and proved once again you are not to be doubted or underestimated. They dare to call you the ‘soulless’ and claim you have no place in our society. Well, I say damn them all. I would rather fight by your sides than an army of thousands. Forget who you once were. That long road of suffering and despair has led you to this moment. Your new lives start now, and the world will soon know who you are.” His wide, toothy grin returned. “The darkness is coming. This much we know for certain. And when it dares to enter the world of men and war is upon us...it will be met with the purest savagery ever seen. The mountains will shake, and gods themselves will look away, trembling with fear. The ‘soulless’ will no longer be ridiculed and scorned by society. They will be saviors...”
Azek led Ilirra back up the steps. They hurried out the door, heading back towards the palace gate. Once able to gather her thoughts, Ilirra broke the silence. “By the gods, what did I just see? And why did you deem it so important that I witness it?” Azek marched on, ignoring her. “Answer me, damn you!”
Azek stopped with a sigh and turned around. “It seems you lack the patience of a ten-year-old,” he said calmly. “So I suppose we will now have this conversation in the middle of the street, in the dead of night, no less.”
She rolled her eyes at him.
“Yes, this is indeed much better than sipping tea in a warm room. Fine, so be it.”
Her lips tightened, but she allowed him to continue.
“They call themselves ‘The Watchdogs’—a secret unit who train day and night under the tutelage of Morcel.”
“I was under the impression you recently relieved him of his duties,�
� she said dryly.
“So I did. But that mutual decision was made in the best interest of—”
“Then what the hell was that!” she interrupted, pointing back the way they came.
He shrugged and looked off into the distance, clearly unshaken by her growing impatience. “Although the big man’s fighting prowess and weapon skills are nearly unmatched, he is too unpredictable to hold rank in my army. Too...chaotic and lawless to be trusted with such responsibility.”
“Yet you’ve allowed him to take command of this elite team. These...‘Watchdogs.’”
“I did nothing of the sort,” he said, holding up his hands innocently. “Morcel is not enlisted anymore and no longer answers to me. I have no authority over him or the Watchdogs. They are vigilantes, not recognized by any branch of our army. They answer to no one.”
“And how many are there?” she said. “I saw perhaps two dozen or so.”
“I’m not completely sure. Fifty? One hundred, perhaps? He works with them in small groups. They take shifts, so I’ve never seen them all at once. And because they remain anonymous, even amongst themselves, it’s very hard to be certain.”
“Why is that?” she said, sounding particularly interested. “If they are working as a team, why hide their identities? Especially from each other.”
Azek crossed his arms. “I wondered the same thing at first,” he said, gazing back towards the worn-out structure. “It turns out that is also part of their discipline. They are taught to fight as a single unit and not to think of themselves as individuals. They hide their faces because their former identities no longer hold meaning. All that matters now is their loyalty to Morcel, and each other. Their old lives are dead.”
