Immortalibus Bella

by SL Figuhr

  Nicky cared not for the public reprimand, especially when he saw who was listening. I watched him swallow before he was able to choke out, “Of course not. Please forgive my hasty and ill-thought remarks. These events have upset me more than most and made me forget my manners.”

  Our eyes still clashed, but the king seemed satisfied, turning to Saizar. “You are one of the sheriff’s men, although we heard no mention of you taking part in their treason. Why should I trust you? Why should I not have you questioned?”

  Nicky gave a nasty chuckle, which died away as I spoke. “If it pleases Your Majesty, I can vouch for his whereabouts on the night in question. He was helping defend the Silver Thorn from attack.”

  “What?!” Nicky snarled, giving me a look of loathing. “Why didn’t you say so earlier?” Maceanas asked irritably.

  Saizar’s face hardened. “I was bringing information on a missing person to guests at the inn. Her ladyship’s slave was there, the guests I wanted were not. I was preparing to leave, when the bandits attacked.”

  “What’s the man’s name?” The king demanded of Saizar. “Eron.”

  The boy bared his teeth at me in a smile. “He has some honor after all; make him sheriff. If Saizar fails to find men to reform his office, or can’t control them, and they betray you as the old one did, make the price of his failure a long, painful death.”

  “And to whom should he report? Who should keep an eye on him and the new men of law, so it does not happen again, going unnoticed?” Maceanas demanded.

  “Why not your captain of the palace guard?” I suggested. “Have Saizar report weekly. Your royal heralds can announce any complaints be given to Mathias. You can decide who will investigate to find out the truth.”

  Nicky glared at me harder, missing the speculative looks among the crowd, as whispers spread of Saizar’s elevation while the king continued. “My capital is in ruin! My subjects reduced! My slaves scattered and on the run!”

  Mathias cleared his throat as he stepped forth, bowing. “I believe I have some answers, courtesy of your loyal subjects, if I may? I am afraid, Majesty, except for the warehouses, the buildings on the nobles’ street, your palace, the outlying farms, most is a complete loss.”

  He gestured to the crowd, continuing over the king’s spluttering. “Your subjects will be able to tell you if any family members are killed or still missing.”

  His Majesty ordered any townsperson who lost family or property, or been grievously injured, to present themselves at the palace. I saw the quick shudder pass through the minds of the guards at his proclamation, knowing many sleepless days and nights were ahead of them. The king intended to tour the remains on the morrow. Aranthus gestured to Mathias; the captain strode forward with his remaining men.

  “All right, disperse! Go back to your homes if you have them, or wherever you are staying. You heard the king: everything else must wait.”

  An immediate outbreak of protests and shaking of fists or various implements greeted his commands. His Majesty’s grooms led his horse next to me while the people were slowly forced across the bridge.

  “Might I speak further on the subject of rebuilding, Majesty? I believe our biggest concern is for food, shelter and protection. It is doubtful any can replace what they lost before the snows and ice of winter arrive,” I said.

  Lord Nicky cut me off, his tone as sharp as his glance. “I hardly think we need advice,” he stressed, “on what needs done. This has occurred in the past.”

  How dare the asshole belittle me? “What about the palace and its grounds, Majesty?” I queried as we rode in a group toward the palace. I had motioned for Eron and Domiano to stay at my grounds with the rest of my slaves.

  “The public rooms can be used dormitory-style to house and feed the displaced. Or we can erect temporary shelters on the grounds. The food laid on for the Harvest Week festivities can be used for their sustenance instead.”

  “In exchange,” I continued, “the people can select which of their numbers would be most suited for guarding the actions of their fellow townspeople. If any should threaten Your Majesty’s person and safety, hang them as a warning to the rest. Should they continuing being foolish enough to let it happen a second time, banish them to the town or forest to try their luck with the outlaws and the winter weather. The palace guard can be used to keep people from the private apartments.” I needed to protect my food source.

  “Care for them now on a temporary basis, and they’ll expect to be taken care of permanently, and none of them will want to work.” Nicky snarled.

  I gave a merry peal of laughter, teasing, “Don’t be mad you did not think of it first.” I continued over his protests, “May I suggest, Majesty, we take the opportunity to build a bigger, grander town. A city worthy of being called Macinas.”

  “I doubt the people have funds for it.” Lord Nicky sneered. “I certainly know the royal coffers cannot support expenditures when many will plead poverty to avoid paying taxes. Keep your mouth shut, woman. You cause enough problems. I will advise His Majesty.”

  “Your Grace, I know I have only resided here for a few months, but I have seen many cities of the world. I am ashamed to say my newly adopted homeland cannot expect to compete or survive without drastic changes. Yes, it will take several years and lots of hard work, but which would you rather have? A town of empty, rotting buildings, dashed hopes, and a dwindling population? Or a bright, prosperous, growing city of wealth?”

  Only to proffer some ideals for your consideration. I’m sure if we enlist influential merchants to help in exchange for certain concessions, it will make the task less onerous.”

  I looked the king in his eyes, using my power to control him. “Let me do this for you, prove my loyalty, help ease the burden while you guide and direct your kingdom. I can report progress to you directly, or Aranthus if you wish, each day. I can carry your commands directly to the people.” Remember the shining white city of stone, the acclaim of your neighbors, more trade and wealth.

  Aranthus whispered to the king as we paused outside the opening palace gates. “Very well, Lady Illyria, I will give you a chance tomorrow to prove to me you can handle such a task. You shall accompany me and the advisor as we tour the town.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  M ica pounded in hot pursuit of the little boy, barely feeling the slap of branches against his face and arms as the horses tore through the forest. He cast a quick look over his shoulder and saw Colin and Eron as dim shapes behind him, turning back in time to avoid being swept out of his saddle by a branch. Up ahead, the boy broke from the trees, able to spur his horse to greater speed. The immortal followed the boy into a white mist. Mica urged his horse on. He could hear the thunder of waterfalls around him and the ring of horse shoes on rock. Mica burst from the mist in time to see Nicky racing up an incline. Mica leapt off his horse before it could come to a stop, continuing after the kid on foot.

  Mica found himself in a long tunnel suffused with a soft, yellow glow. Up ahead, Nicky dashed through a door. It swung shut behind him. Mica slammed into the closed door. He reached for a knob only to find his hands scrambling over glass. He saw the Duchess Illyria standing on the other side. She had Colin strapped down on a table, Nicky next to him.

  “You shall not interfere with Her Grace!” Eron appeared suddenly in front of Mica with his sword at the ready, preventing him from reaching his brother.

  Nicky was starting the Ritual of Undoing. Illyria moved to block Mica’s path. “I cannot be stopped. It is too late. See how my will is done?”

  ‘“Colin! I’m coming! I swear, I never meant for this to happen!” Mica pleaded through the glass which had sprung up from nowhere; cutting Her Grace and him off from the other two. “This was not supposed to happen! I’ll get you out”

  Mica charged, ramming the blade of his sword through the duchess’s gut. She looked down at it and then up at him; only it was Colin he saw in her place.

  Laughter rose up around him as the red con
tinued to spread in a widening puddle around Colin. Mica stumbled back in horror and looked to Her Grace and Nicky.

  “I’ll see you both dead for this! I’ll tear down heaven and hell to reach you if I must! I curse you! In Colin’s memory, I will strike you down! I give my solemn vow by my blade and blood!” Mica slashed his arm with his sword and his blood flowed over his brother’s body, raining down to mingle with the rapidly spreading pool on the floor. “By my blood and the blood of my kin. By the steel forged from the earth,” Mica thrust his blade into the dirt and a goblet appeared in his hand. “By the air I breathe and the water of life.” Mica drank. He held the goblet up in a salute before pouring the remaining contents over his sword. It mingled with the blood and earth. “By this solemn vow to spirit, guardian or daemon I make, I will see you dead!”

  Lightning crashed around him as Illyria and Nicky faded from view, still laughing. The sky darkened and for a moment Mica couldn’t see. The skies opened up in earnest, a deluge soaking him. Mica jerked upright with a roar, hearing strange sounds around him as if people were laughing, screaming, or babbling. He stared around uncomprehendingly for a moment. The sights and sounds of his location flooded back. The icy air struck his skin harshly after the still closeness of the dungeon, the gleam from burning torches hurt his eyes used to the darkness. Droplets trickled down his face and neck, working their way under the soaked collar of his shirt.

  “Don,” the other voice commanded, “start with the nipple pinchers.” The speaker came into view. He was a drab looking man, one of those utterly forgettable types, except for his eyes; there was something in them saying he enjoyed his job. Enjoyed it perhaps a little too much.

  The first hissing voice spoke. “No, apprentice, they will harm him more than we want, and we must not allow the boy to know we are working against him. You must begin with a delicate touch first.”

  “Yes, Master,” the second man replied, and to the man hanging in chains, “Ah, you are awake. Excellent. I am Rablias, the head questioner; soon you and I will get to know each other very well. You have something belonging to Lord Nicky; where is it?”

  The man gave a nod to whoever stood behind him. They began violating him. Mica struggled and cursed to no avail, lances of pain spearing through his body.

  The question was repeated once more, Mica denying any knowledge. Once more he was violated. The immortal wanted to vomit from the pain and humiliation. He needed to take his mind off what was being done to him, keep his sanity. Mica writhed, tried to question them on allegiances to the boy, but they only wanted to know one thing. He would not give it. He didn’t know how long it was before they gave up. The two hulking brutes shoved a funnel in his mouth and poured a noxious liquid down. He felt himself losing consciousness.

  Mica came awake curled up into a ball of pain, the hurts inflicted on him already healing. He shivered in the freezing air, could only guess how much worse it would get when the men saw not a mark of torture on him. He had to get out. He couldn’t understand why Colin wasn’t looking for him, or her ladyship. Unless . . . unless it was true that she was working with the little boy. But why, and for what purpose? Surely she didn’t think Nicky would treat her any differently than he had all the others he had betrayed. He shivered himself to sleep.

  * * *

  Mica paused in the doorway of the bar, partly to let his eyes grow accustomed to the dimness, partly to look for his protégé. He could see heads turning his way; most gave him a quick glance before dropping away. Only a few lingered longer. He ignored them, making his way through the tables as he continued scanning. There was a bunch of young, muscled youths slouched at a table in a far, dark corner. They were all heavily tattooed with gang symbols, wearing the baggy, ripped clothing and flashy jewelry in style with today’s youth. One of the men had a bandanna to hold his hair out of his face. He sucked on a toothpick. His flat, dead stare trying for intimidation. It didn’t work on Mica.

  The immortal made his way to the bar where he sat and ordered a drink. He wanted to piss off the little punks, Toothpick being the main one. His protégé said he was a friend of his, and it was easy to see the miasma of jail time enveloping the boy.

  The bartender set his customer’s drink before the man, and retreated to the far end of the bar, where he picked his conversation back up with another patron. He looked like an ex-con, heavily muscled, jail tattoos, bald head, scars crisscrossing his skin. It didn’t take long before the group in the corner became loud in their derision of Mica and his jeans, pressed button down shirt, shiny brown leather loafers. He let the mockery build, smiling to himself as the bartender kept a wary eye out. Mica finished his drink, waiting for the bartender to notice its emptiness. By and by, the man did and lumbered over.

  He refilled the glass, and setting it down said, “Yo, man, I don’t wanna be all up in your business, but you might not wanna hang around here too much longer.”

  The heckling got louder. Just as Mica decided Devon wasn’t going to show up, he came swaggering in the door with a few other of his juvie friends. “Aw man, what a downer,” Mica heard him say to his friends, and they sniggered.

  One of the kids bumped into him hard, trying to knock him off the stool. Mica stayed firm, sweeping his leg out, causing the punk to trip. He crashed to the ground as Mica casually laid out tip money, turning to the group who had now stopped.

  Mica ignored the teen swearing on the floor, and his buddies who had crowded around to help him up. The group in the corner leaned forward intently. “You realize you’re going to wreck your last chance by being in here,” he addressed his protégé.

  Mica ignored the speaker, keeping his eyes on Devon, who rolled his. “Quit hasslin’ me, man. I told you, I don’t wanna buy what you’re selling no more. Go peddle your bullshit somewhere else."

  “Man, I’m gonna fuck you up for disrespecting me!” the punk who had tried to knock him off the stool yelled as his friends helped him upright. He shrugged his oversized clothes more or less into place, reaching behind him.

  The bartender came over, trying to defuse the situation. “Hey now, this is a clean joint. I don’t need no flashing lights in here. We don’t take kindly to do-gooders, man. I think you oughtta just get out now. Come on now J, let ’im go, he’s not worth it.”

  Mica continued to ignore the screaming youth, “I couldn’t get hold of you any other way, but I thought you might like to know.” He swept a jaundiced eye over the watching people before turning toward the door, but some of the crew stood blocking his way.

  Reluctantly, the youths parted, letting him go. There was a lot of jeering at his back. He ignored them; as he left, he heard his protégé say, “Man, I don’t know why he gotta be hasslin’ me. I told him his shit wasn’t for me no more.”

  But Mica wouldn’t tell. He didn’t know why, since they seemed to want to kill the boy, only something held him back. He didn’t think he could trust them to end Nicky’s life. He gritted his teeth against the never-ending pain, casting his thoughts back to better times to wait out what they did to him.

  When he was dumped back into his cell, it was as a bleeding, screaming mass of agony. He closed his eyes briefly, opening them again at the sound of the door thumping shut. A stump of a candle burned next to a wooden bowl steaming with some kind of stew, and a mug of water. He dragged himself over to the food, using his forearms and elbows. It took a long time, blood smeared the filthy floor, muscles spasmed. Mica couldn’t help himself; he scarfed everything down before realizing it was tainted. He forced up what he could of the meal, but it still wasn’t enough as he fell into a drugged stupor.

  “Because,” Mica patiently replied, “being what I am is both curse and blessing. I see how brief your lives are, how easily snuffed. If I can help make them better, even just one person’s . . .”

  “Aw, man, you guilt trippin’? Well I ain’t gonna be your road offa’ it. I’m outta here! I don’t need or want your stupid salvation. Keep it!” He swung away from the kitchen c
ounter, heading out of the loft as Mica called after him fruitlessly.

  Mica and Eron walked along the rain-slicked pavement. His friend listened to him complaining about how the teenager had seen Mica come back alive from a fatal wound, how he was trying to get him out of the life he was in; he showed promise if only he would straighten out.

  “You can’t force him, unless and until he wants to change; you might as well forget about him. Find someone else to be your protégé. Trust me, if he hasn’t ratted you out by now, I doubt he will, but if you keep pushing him . . .” was all Eron would say, leaving Mica to infer what he wanted from the statement.

  The phone in Mica’s pocket rang; he would have ignored it but was hoping it was his protégé. He didn’t recognize the number but answered it anyway. Eron waited patiently, watching the flow of pedestrian and vehicle traffic.

  “Mica!? Mica!? Holy fuck! Holy shit! Man! Oh man! You gotta come help me! I swear, man! Ohhhhh, sweet Jesus!” the teen moaned in panicked whispers.

  “She got ’em, man!” The teen babbled on. “She-she fucking got ’em! J an’ T-bar, and . . . and all of ’em, man! Oh fuck! Oh Christ! Ya gotta help me! I’m dead otherwise! She . . . she fucking killed ’em. Slaughtered ’em like . . . like they-they were nothing, man!” Devon’s voice rose into a hysterical squeal before breaking down into sobs.

  Eron was giving Mica questioning looks; he held a finger up and spoke into the phone, “Devon, tell me where you’re at. I’ll come get you.”

  “Now, man! Ya gotta come now!”

  “Yes, now, where are you?”

  Devon gave instructions hurriedly, hanging up on a sob. Eron accompanied Mica reluctantly. When they got to the youth, he was so shook up, he rabbited into the car. He lay on the back seat, shivering in fear and cold, sobbing, as Mica drove them to his loft. It wasn’t until they got inside and the teen was wrapped in a blanket, drinking coffee, before they were able to pry the story out of him.