Unfortunately for the criminal, he’d picked the wrong retired general to attack.
Within ten minutes, the carriage slowed to a stop. Alocar leapt out and slapped its side, the pounding of the horses’ hooves in his ears as he walked the path that led to the front door, weeds pushing askew the stepping-stones. The entrance yawned, exposing the blackness of the house’s parlor. Alocar tried to remember its layout, but too many years had passed.
He drew his belt knife, a foot in length and honed to the thinnest of edges. Staring into the blackness, Alocar let his eyes adjust, and then, with exaggerated carefulness, he crept into the house, knife held sideways, ready to deflect.
A baritone voice rang out. Alocar dropped to the ground and rolled in the voice’s direction. He swept his leg before him, but found nothing. Sensing movement, he rushed, knife held low, and grappled briefly with a set of unseen fingers. Hands on his opponent’s wrist, Alocar jerked them down and to the right, using his momentum to carry him behind the figure. His arm encircled a throat, and his knife dug into his opponent’s back, enough to draw a pinprick of blood.
“Sir,” the voice had died to little more than a whisper, and Alocar loosened his arm slightly. A shaking hand removed a cloth from a lantern, illuminating a slight man in servant’s clothing. “Sir,” the attendant repeated, “if you will come with me, the answers you require are up the stairs.”
Alocar considered. The man had obviously expected his arrival, and had he intended any true harm, he could have struck without Alocar’s knowledge. “Who do you serve?”
“I’m not at liberty, sir. He will tell you.”
“Why upstairs?”
“That’s where the others are, sir.”
“Others?” Alocar pressed deeper with the knife.
The servant’s voice was strained. “Others, yes, sir. Others like yourself.”
He kept his knife at the servant’s back. “One wrong move and I’ll cut your spine.”
“Very good, sir.” The servant turned, careful to hold the lantern at arm’s length, though Alocar suspected that it was more so that he didn’t accidentally get stabbed than to light the way.
He led Alocar down a hallway, and then up a twisting stairwell that had probably seen better days, the banister full of splinters. At the end of another hallway, the servant stopped. “Here we are, sir. This is the exact center of the house, so be sure to speak loudly if you need anything.” Alocar removed his knife from the servant’s back and drew his sword before stepping through the opening.
The room’s corners bore down on him. Wallpaper hung in strips like crepe streamers. A claw-footed chair stood empty. A fireplace blazed to his right, writhing orange and red salamanders. In front of the fire sat a figure wearing a mask.
“Alocar Leyton. Sit,” the voice behind the mask rasped, metal dragging across stone.
Alocar didn’t budge. “Where’s Neve?”
“You’ve kept us waiting,” the voice behind the mask continued.
Three of the room’s four other people, arranged in a half-circle around the masked figure, turned and looked at Alocar. One, a blonde haired man, continued cleaning his nails with a curved knife. Alocar remained standing.
The masked figure cleared his throat. “First of all, Alocar, your granddaughter is not here. Their household has been instructed that they will be out of town for a time.”
“How do I know you speak the truth?”
“Go check their house after this. Ask the servants where they’ve gone, and when they tell you that they’ve left for out-of-town with no forwarding address, you’ll understand.” Angras adjusted his collar, pulling it looser.
“And if I want to leave and check now?”
“Ah. Well, I’m afraid that’s something I cannot allow. This meeting is of the utmost importance, and if you try to leave early, I’m going to be forced to take steps. Allow me to explain myself. Afterward, you are free to do as you will. I’ll even supply the horse if need be.”
Alocar moved from the door. “You have five minutes to convince me, and then I’m going to feed that fire your remains.”
“Oh, shut the fuck up, Old Man. Last time anybody was scared of you, I was still squalling at the teat.” This came from the blonde man directly across Alocar, somehow managing to lounge in a high-backed, cushionless chair. His eyes were hooded, and he had addressed Alocar without bothering to turn his head.
Alocar’s hand tightened on his sword. “Unless you want to get in line, young man, I suggest you stand down and allow your betters to speak.”
The blonde man stood, his head a half a foot above Alocar’s. “Is that a promise?”
“One I intend to keep.” Alocar took a step forward.
“By all means, carry on. After I have your bodies carted out, I’ll be sure to put a torch to your son and family. And you,” the mask inclined toward Slate, “will lose that which is dearest to you as well.”
Knife still in hand, the blonde man smirked at Alocar and threw himself into his seat. Alocar put his hands on the back of the claw-footed chair, but remained outside the half-circle.
The masked figure steepled his hands, elbows on the chair’s arms. “You may call me Angras, and you are here for separate yet linked reasons. There is something I need each of you to do for me, but none of you have the skills to be successful alone.”
“Before I explain, a drink.” The slight servant appeared from the recesses of the room’s unlit corner carrying six thin-stemmed, tall glasses on a rounded tray. He handed one to each of the people in the room, including Angras.
“To the future, bright shall it be.” Angras drank deeply. The giant in the corner followed suit, wine glass disappearing in the palm of his hand like a magician’s trick. A tinkling came from the fire’s depths as the blonde man tossed his empty glass into it. Alocar put his own on the floor, untouched, and so too did the man on his left, whose nose looked swollen and a tad bent. The Cao Fen priestess took dainty sips. She sat her chair stiffly, free hand dangling near her thigh.
“I have a task for you, and I tire of waiting for you to begin it.” Angras studied them through the mask. “You’re going to kill the royal family for me.”
Alocar crushed his glass with the heel of his boot. “Never.”
The man with the broken nose exhaled thinly through his mouth and leaned forward, and the Cao Fen priestess paused in her sipping, then resumed.
“Quite the task.” The blonde man snorted. “Kill a king. Sounds like something out of a storybook, with heroes and dragons and treasures. But you know, at the end of those stories, the heroes all walk away with their lives and a big ole’ chest of gold carried between them.”
“Treasures?” Alocar was still on his feet, the blood pounding in his head. “You speak of treasures? For what possible reason would any of us agree to such a demand?”
“Speak for yourself,” said the blonde man. Popped his neck left, and then right. “I like treasures.”
“And you shall have access to them,” Angras swirled the red drink in its glass, “but Alocar does have a point. The why of the matter, first.”
“You can’t possibly expect – ” Alocar began.
“Just sit down.” An edge of contained exasperation shaded the Priestess’s tone.
Alocar ignored her. “The thought is the worst kind of treason. You must be a bigger fool than I thought to think I’d sit here and entertain notions of disloyalty. Who do you think put them on the throne?”
Angras crossed his legs. “And who do you think relegated you to your position now? Don’t play games, Alocar. You have more fury inside you than even you realize. Now, do as Crymson asks and sit. Listen. It’s your only chance at saving your granddaughter.”
“I’ll take my chances standing.”
Angras nodded. “So long as you pay heed. I once learned that great men must always manipulate from behind a curtain of anonymity, and so it is unlikely that you’ve ever heard of me, let alone seen me. What you should kn
ow, however, is I work for the people; I protect them, from themselves, when necessary. And to do that, I have to keep ears to the ground, constantly vigilant, ever listening. Information is my strong right arm.”
He held a finger to his crowd of five. “And so it is that I have come to find out this: our prosperous little nation has fallen on hard times, more so than King Olen will admit, and the mercenaries defending our borders know this. Even now, they have begun deserting – a man won’t fight for free, and without a standing army, we’re defenseless. In less than two years’ time, war will be knocking on our door.”
“What’s so bad about that? Sounds like a good time for Teach and me to make some money.” The blonde man smirked.
“I’m getting to that, if you’ll wait.” Angras put his glass in the air, where the slight servant took it and disappeared.
“Despite the wishes of the minority, war cannot be allowed, and so the King has decided to ally with the Cao Fen, which will allow our borders to be held while we take the forthcoming years to train fresh recruits from the peasant stock.”
A pause. “This unity is unacceptable.”
“Prolifia and the Cao Fen have long been distinct entities, running their own domains, as it should be. If we allow the separate two to become one, the Cao Fen will hold power over our borders, and within five years, the Cao Fen will run Prolifia, a theocracy in all but name.”
Angras smashed a fist into his open palm. “Religion and government are separated for a reason, and to bow to rule by the Cao Fen is to invite a return to the Dark Ages. Freedom will become an afterthought, and we will be chained to unfeeling priests. God save us from religion, because if the Cao Fen rule, then you’re not just asking for butchery, you’re begging for it.”
With visible effort, Angras settled into his chair. “The monarchy as it stands doesn’t have a chance against the Cao Fen, and without the coffers to fuel them, the kingdom’s mercenaries are no more reliable than a lamed horse.”
“Better a lamed horse than a headless government,” said Alocar, attempting to keep his voice level.
The fire crackled and a spark landed on the carpet before Angras. He stomped on it with the heel of his silver-strapped boot. “I will not allow everything I’ve done for this country to crumble. I’ve worked too hard to allow the rule of zealots who care more for a man in the sky than their own people. Are we supposed to suffer simply because the wrong person wears the crown, with nothing to counterbalance him?”
“The wrong person doesn’t wear the crown,” Alocar said. “It’s the people’s job to serve him in his wishes, as he serves us in return. That’s the pact a king makes.”
“You don’t read much history, do you, Old Man?” The blonde man sneered. “Kings don’t serve a damn person but themselves. Same as me, they just had the good fortune to be born untouchable.”
Angras took a sip from his drink, liquid dripping from his mask. “Regardless of one’s philosophy on kings, if we allow the birth of a theocracy, you’ll spend your nights in bed, shivering in fear of being dragged out by cloaked men, accused of being heretics, stretched out on torture racks until you scream into the night your worship of another, of your sacrilege, all because you don’t agree with their dogma.”
The man with the broken nose sneezed into his arm and then looked around embarrassedly.
“Take a second to speak about the treasures, if you would,” said the blonde man, nudging awake his giant friend.
“Pleasure before pain, hmm?” Angras leaned forward as if to whisper into their ears, his hands on his knees. “I can offer you all the wealth in the world, spin hay and convince you it’s golden yarn. But it’s all bullshit. Materialist garbage. I know each of you, have studied you longer than you know, and I understand that such offers aren’t truly interesting. What I can do, however, is give you the chance to grab those things you desire most.”
The mask turned to Crymson, “You are a servant of something, but is it the Cao Fen you serve, or another? This is an opportunity to grab that other thing you have always longed for.”
He didn’t wait for a response and instead turned to the blonde man. “Knowing your viewpoint on life, would it change if I gave you a choice that could reverse history,” a glance stolen at Teacher, “alter the very thing that makes you the way you are? Tell me you’re not tempted and I’ll name you a liar.”
The mask swept to the man with the broken nose. “You! You who has spent years in the dark. Haven’t you already been given more than you dared dream? How would it feel to control your own life, a master instead of groveling at another’s feet?”
“And you,” his voice dropped an octave as the mask scowled at Alocar, “what else do you have to live for? I know you, deep down. You’re not meant for this retired life, rotting away in a manor while the rest of the world erases your existence. How would it feel again to be a leader? What would you do to banish those feelings of ineptitude and worthlessness? Would you take the chance?”
Angras threw his hands into the air and fell against his chair. “Admit it or not, my words are true. Each of you is deeply flawed, but I’m presenting you with the chance to embrace those flaws, to revel in them. All you have to do is reach out and grab it.”
“You’re insane,” Alocar said. “It’s a fool’s mission at best, life on the end of a torture rack at worst.”
“Think of me what you will. I am only a man doing what he must to protect those he has sworn watch over.”
The mask rose, firelight framing it, a hellion. “But this is reality, and reality always has a flip side. If you refuse to work for me, then you, Isaac Coel, will find yourself in a pit far beneath Whispers and I’ll ensure you live to a ripe old age. You, Crymson Mendora, will return to the Cao Fen, disgraced, a slave to the one who caused your fall. Alocar Leyton, you, though it pains me, will find your granddaughter’s head on your front lawn, your daughter-in-law’s mutilated corpse in bed, and your son buried alongside your wife. And finally, you, Slate Cecillee, will succumb to the nihilism rampant in your soul, for the poison my servant put in Teacher’s drink moments ago will cause his death long before your feet cease to walk this earth.”
Alocar and the man named Slate both stood, weapons drawn. Slate moved first, his knife pressed an inch from the eyehole in Angras’s mask. “What makes you think I won’t just kill you now?”
Angras’s voice didn’t alter in the slightest. “It’s a chance I’m willing to take. This is bigger than any one of us, bigger than us all, and if I have to sacrifice the freedom of a few to protect the many, then so be it. Without me, all the things I’ve just named will come to pass; they’ve been prearranged. Do as I say and not only will these consequences disappear, but so too will you have what I promised. Opportunity beckons.”
“What was in the cup?” Slate asked.
“Something I had my personal alchemist mix up. And much as it dismays me, he is now dead, its ingredients with him. So you see, you really only have two options: deny me and sacrifice your best friend, or follow me, live, and gain everything you’ve ever dreamed of. Your choice.”
Slate hesitated, eyes going to Teacher. He drew a fine white line down the mask with his knife. “Regardless of how this turns out, you’ll see me again.”
“I should hope so,” said Angras, who stood, shattering the moment. “The meeting is over. You have your options.
“What’s to say we won’t just turn you in?” Alocar asked.
A chuckle emanated from the mask and Angras said, “Be my guest. What will you tell them? That some masked man is plotting the downfall of the throne? You have no idea who I am or even where I live. You’ll be liars, maybe even co-conspirators. At best you’ll be turned away, but they may also imprison you, and then where will your family be?”
“Consider my words. You have the chance to do something beyond the confines of most mortals, and in doing so, reclaim parts that might make you whole. Not many are ever offered such an opportunity.”
A
nd with that, he left the room, leaving the strangers to stare at one another, distrust written in permanent ink across their faces.
Crymson
Ever-shrinking shadows gyrated across the room as the fire whittled away the blackened wood. The old man – Alocar? – grabbed an iron poker sitting atop the dusty mantelpiece. He plunged it into the ashes and trapped embers flared, billowing smoke up the chimney. Nobody spoke, almost like the silences she’d experienced as an urchin in Dradenhurst, looking alone with envy at lit houses rising like firefly-dotted hills set against the unforgiving streets she called home.
The meeting had not gone anything like the Count had led her to believe. But that’s your fault. When has trusting people ever been the right call?
“We have to do it,” Crymson announced. I have too much at risk.
“Says the person with nothing to lose.” Slate started pitching nearby objects into the fire, feeding its dying flames.
“You don’t know what you’re saying.” Crymson’s knuckles whitened around her wine glass. “I’d rather him cut my throat than be put in a servant’s role. Living doesn’t mean he’s giving me a way out.”
“Seems like it from where I’m sitting.” He tossed a portrait of a young girl, her bright red hair catching the fire’s light and reflecting it back at Crymson.
“Yeah? He said he’d kill your big friend – not you. So who’s really getting off easily here?” She said the last with a twist of cruelty, noticing the way his hand hovered over Teacher’s knee.
His face darkened. “You better watch where you tread, priestess. God isn’t here to save you.”
“Never needed Him before.”
“Is there a way around this?” Alocar interrupted. The portrait began to smoke and curl, giving off the noxious fumes of burning paint.
Fallen Victors Page 7
