The Outrider Legion: Book One

by Christopher Pepper

  The Praetorian Civic looked angrily at Hauge. “Don’t you think I know that? He has never showed up before.”

  “You’ve summoned him in the past!? Are you mad?? He smashed Galione not six years ago! Letting him sit here will make the other city-states think we condone him!”

  The Civic rubbed his eyes and sighed.

  “You don’t know anything that’s not on a planning table, do you Hauge? In three hundred years, he has never made an appearance. It has been so long that his membership has been all but forgotten. Who do you think was a founding member of the Century? He provided tremendous financial support during the reorganization. Did you know that he is the fifth largest landowner in the Dominion, and owns something around thirty percent of the resources within the Crater?”

  Both Hauge and Jonvar were dumbstruck. The look must have been plain on their faces, as Tristram smiled grimly.

  “Of course, it’s nothing as obvious or blatant as signed charters or anything. The Akvan has entire proxy families and companies him as silent beneficiary. And it’s all perfectly legal.”

  “Which families!?” Hauge demanded, almost rising to his feet.

  Tristram shook his head.

  “Ask the Umbra. I have no idea. The only reason I know what I do is my predecessor told me on my first day. He and the Umbra swore me to secrecy, but it hardly matters now.”

  “Planes,” Hauge swore, dropping back into his seat. He and the Civic shared a quiet look, and just as the Civic was about to rise, to call the meeting to order Jonvar assumed, one of the nobles, a young, portly man clad in green and brown silks, ignoring the hushed pleas of those around him, pointed a finger at the Akvan.

  “What is this demon doing here?! He is not one of us! His very presence is an affront to our City!”

  There was a quiet murmur of agreement, although none of the other assembled nobles dared turn and look at the Akvan. The Akvan himself simply sat there, as still as carved granite.

  The Praetorian Civic rose, his hands extended in a placating gesture.

  “Please, ladies and gentlemen. Let me explain. We summoned the Lord Akvan here for a number of reasons. Some of those correspond to why we have called an emergency meeting of the Century.”

  The standing noble did not back down.

  “Why is he not in chains?! Where are our Legions!? He is a vile being, a fiendish conqueror!”

  “He is here as a visiting head of state, and we shall receive him with the same honor and respect as if he were the Prince of Vonderhall or the Duchess of Sumnell.”

  The noble looked as if the Praetorian Civic had just insulted his mother’s choice of lovers.

  “He is a monster! And he has no place here!”

  Hauge, quiet during this entire exchange, spoke up softly.

  “Lord Durent, have you already forgotten that he is a member here, as you are a member? He has the same right and obligation to be here as you, and enjoys the same protections as you enjoy. Convince him to renounce his signet ring, or sit down and be silent!””

  The bluster faded quickly from Durent, and he sat down red-faced, glaring at the two Praetorians.

  Jonvar glanced over at the Civic’s adjunct, Curbe. He was a former Guard commander who took an early discharge to become active in the local neighborhood council. Curbe looked back at him, and his facial expression said it all. The awe of the Akvan’s arrival had already faded amid the drudgery of government and the arrogance of the nobility. All the two of them could do was stand there and watch.

  Aleksander awoke on the couch, the roar of his stomach like the roar of the ocean. It had been five days. Five days of waiting for his Outrider drinking buddies to return. He never stayed in one place long for anyone. Part of him wondered what it was that made him stay. Another roar from his stomach answered his question.

  A short time later, Aleksander was sitting on the front steps, eating a plate of eggs and cheese in the cool morning sun. A few passerby’s waved to him as he sat there eating. His rescue of the artisan the day before had served to ingratiate him with the local neighborhood. And he still wore Vegard's clothing with the Outrider sigil on them. The previous afternoon he had wandered the streets around the Outrider’s barracks. There were quite a few cafes and small food stands that catered to the inhabitants of the Art District. After poking his head in a few of the workshops, however, Alek tended to view the Art District more as a Mecher District-lite. He had passed a workshop that was tasked with building parts for one of The City’s amazing Skyships. Another was fabricating parts of the Clockwork Golems. There was even a group of ambitious young artists attempting to create some kind of engine powered solely by burning wood. And while what the engine would actually do or its inner workings were a mystery to him, Aleksander looked on approvingly. He noticed that his Outrider sigil afforded him a certain level of authority with the locals. Twice people had approached him with problems. One needed advice on how low Outriders preferred their stirrups to hang. The other asked if Aleksander could speak to the local Civic on behalf of Newcomb Square to negotiate some lower taxes. Politely declining to offer help to both parties, Alek was enjoying himself.

  As he finished his eggs, Aleksander set his plate down on the stairs and walked over to the Clockwork Golem standing in the center of the square. He kept munching on a hunk of cheese as he examined it. It stood there unmoving, its dull iron casing glinting in the light. Aleksander rapped a knuckle on the “chest” of the golem. Instead of a hollow sound, as he had been expecting, there was a solid-sounding thump.

  “Hum,” Aleksander said, his mouth still full of cheese.

  Walking around the golem, he repeated the knocking several times. His circling and knocking resembled a kitten batting its paw against a bigger cat and then backing away. With one final motion, Aleksander punched a leg plate of the golem. There was no malice or frustration in the act, it was more of a playful punch, but the response was immediate. There was a loud series of clicks, as if Aleksander was standing in front of a hundred clocks. The iron arms of the golem rose up suddenly, the piston arm an inch from Aleksander’s chest.

  “It would be appreciated, citizen,” a metallic voice rumbled from head of the golem, “If you refrained from repeating such an action. Further harassment of my person could be construed as harassment of a member of the Watch.”

  Aleksander jumped backwards so quickly he fell on his ass, cheese falling out of his mouth.

  “Hells, you can speak!?”

  “Indeed. We would make poor peacekeepers if we could not communicate when necessary.”

  “But…how? I mean, you’re just a bunch of cogs and pins!” Aleksander realized that the large iron piston was still aimed at him as he rose to his feet. “Uh, no offense.”

  “No offense was taken. However, your rank as Outrider does not give you sufficient clearance to learn the mechanics of Clockwork Golems. Nor could you view schematics without permission from a superior.”

  “Ahh…what? Actually, forget it, I’ll be going now. Is there anything I can, uh, do for you?”

  “Violate no laws or statutes.”

  “Yeah, okay. Fair enough.”

  Aleksander backed away a step before turning and heading back towards the barracks, occasionally looking over his shoulder at the golem, which had now resumed its earlier pose and began its slow rotation as it assessed its environment.

  Picking up his plate he went back inside, closing the door behind him. He took three steps forward when the hair on the back of his neck began to stand up. The air felt different in the building, as if a back door had been left open. Walking past the pantry, he peered down the hallway to the back door. It was closed, but he saw the barest hint of footprints on the floor in front of the doorway. He stood there for a second in quiet puzzlement.

  He felt the blow coming before he actually saw it, stepping backwards without realizing it. A man dressed in black clothing slashed downwards with a blade. Aleksander smashed the plate he was carrying into the a
ssailant’s face, took hold of the man’s blade hand, and pulled him into the doorframe of the pantry. The man fell to the ground and did not move again.

  Footfalls echoed through the hallway as three more intruders rushed Aleksander. The narrow hallway worked against them, however, as the massive man was able to take them on one at a time. He kicked forward with his leg at the first one, hearing a loud, satisfying crunch as his foot connected with the man’s sternum and crushed it. The man in black dropped to the floor gasping for breath, his blade falling out of his hands.

  The third attacker was a woman, Aleksander saw. Though her face was shrouded, her figure was unmistakable compared to the others. She rushed him with reckless abandon, slashing rapidly with a large serrated dagger. After dodging a number of strikes, he threw his left forearm up to block her arm from completing its arc, then smashed the side of her head with his open right palm. The impact sent her head first into the wall to his left. She also did not move again.

  The fourth assassin threw two knives at Aleksander as he turned around. He noticed the fourth was also a woman as he almost casually swatted both of her blades out of the air with a lazy swipe of his hands. Realizing now that she was out of her league, she turned and bolted for the back door. She was extremely fast, and made it halfway across the yard when Aleksander crashed into her from behind, catching her in a flying tackle that hit the ground with such force the woman had no breath left. Unable to struggle, she laid there gasping as Aleksander pulled off her shroud and placed a massive hand around her throat. The woman’s eyes went wide, sensing the end drawing near. Searching her for weapons, he removed two of the same jagged daggers the other woman carried, in addition to a sap with an iron ball attached to it. Searching her pockets one-handed while he continued to keep his death grip on her throat, he pulled a long glass vial up from between her breasts. The vial was filled with a dark brown liquid that had the fluidity of water. He held it up to the sun and swirled the fluid around a few times.

  “Nice hiding place,” he grunted. “Poison?”

  The woman said nothing, her breath struggling to cope with the intense pressure around her neck. Aleksander eased up his grip slightly.

  “Last chance, pretty thing.”

  Remaining silent, she looked at him, her eyes defiant despite the tears welling up.

  “Fine.”

  Getting to his feet, he pulled her up with him, his grip on her throat never slacking. Forcing her to walk backwards as he held her, the two of them walked back into the barracks. Two of the assailants were now lying in pools of slowly clotting blood. The man Aleksander had kicked was trembling on the ground, spittle running down his mouth. He didn’t have long to live. He was also no further threat, so he was ignored.

  Aleksander, walking past the three failed assassins, carried his prisoner down to the cell where he had awoken. He threw her into the room, but not into the cell.

  “Okay,” he said as she rose to her feet. “Off with your clothes.”

  “Wh- what?” her face maintained her early defiance, but her eyes betrayed a look of fear.

  “Take them off, then get in the cell.”

  “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather you just rape and kill me now, or whatever order you planned on doing it.”

  Aleksander’s laughter rolled deep from his belly. The noise of that inspired a mix of rage and fear from his prisoner.

  “Miss, you don’t fool me.” He took two fingers and tapped his own neck behind his ear. The woman unconsciously matched his gesture, her fingers rubbing a small tattoo of a blade.

  “Now, I may not be totally familiar with your little group, but I can recognize the mark of a professional. And professionals usually give themselves plenty of advantages. Off with your clothes and get in the cell. I’ll give you something different to wear.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “Well, it would be an easy thing for me to take them off of you if your arms and legs were broken. You know, I’m a lazy man. Maybe I’ll just do that.” He took an exaggerated step forward.

  She glanced behind her at the cell dubiously. Two iron bars in the door were still bent outwards. She started to remove her tunic and pants.

  “Not to doubt your skills as a jailor, but I don’t think this will hold me for long.”

  “You’re quite considerate. But don’t worry about the condition of my jail.”

  The assassin began to turn her back to Alek, but he made a tsk tisk sound, and she faced him again.

  “It’s probably a good idea if you keep your hands visible,” he said, almost embarrassed.

  “Right, like that’s what you are going to be looking at,” the assassin snarled. But despite herself, she began removing her clothing. As she bent down to remove her pants, Alek saw an ornate tattoo on her left shoulder blade. A phoenix, or some other bird, its wings outstretched, surrounded by flames.

  “Nice ink,” he said casually.

  The assassin said nothing in return. When she was stripped naked she threw her clothes towards Aleksander. He removed his own shirt and tossed it to her. It was so large on her that it hung past her thighs. She stepped through the large opening in the cell and looked back at Aleksander, performing a mocking curtsy. Walking over to the cell, he placed his hands on the two bent bars. Never breaking eye contact with the woman, and with his smile never leaving his face, he pulled the two bars back together. They were crooked and bent, but now the assassin could not get out. Her jaw dropped and she lost all pretense of defiance.

  Aleksander stepped back from the cell. “I hope, for your sake, that your bosses give you a little more information on your next job. It would help you avoid mix-ups like this one. And speaking of them, I don’t suppose you’d be willing to tell me what you were doing here?”

  The woman smiled and rubbed the tattoo again.

  “Sorry handsome, I couldn’t even if I wanted to.”

  “Yeah, I figured,” he said. “I’ll get you some pants in a few.” He winked at her. “Try not to go anywhere.”

  A few minutes later, Aleksander had gone through the assassin’s clothing and was glad he had done so. In the lining of her pants he had found a thin artifice string used for sawing through metal. Amongst other pieces of her clothing he discovered a few coins, two tiny stilettos in her boots, and most surprisingly, parts to a disassembled sneak piece, a small, highly illegal crossbow. He shook his head at the hidden weaponry. This woman knew her business. Searching the two dead and one dying assailants upstairs, he found three more glass vials in addition to their own weaponry. However, only two of the vials were full. One was empty.

  Later, he went back downstairs with a plate of food, a pair of Tomas breeches and the empty vial. Leaving the food outside the room, he walked in and grinned at his new roommate.

  “Here are some pants,” he said. “Sorry about their length, but no ladies reside here.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “At least I don’t think any do.”

  The assassin raised an eyebrow at him as she slid the pants up over her legs.

  “Don’t you know?”

  “Nope. Don’t really know the guys here well. I figure I know as much about them as you. They kind of took off and left me where you’re sitting. Had to look after myself for awhile. But enough about me,” he said, and held up the empty vial. “I’m really hoping you can tell me where this was used. Did it get dumped in the well? The food? Or, heavens, not the ale??”

  “You know I can’t tell you that,” she said, a touch of sadness entering her annoyed voice for the first time.

  “Well, I don’t know much about what’s going on, but I was hoping you’d play along. Can you at least tell me why you can’t talk?”

  The assassin studied him for a long moment. “For starters, it’s bad for me. You know, for my life and all. You can guess that the people who sent me here aren’t exactly forgiving to those who talk. And on the other side of that problem is you. The only reason you are keeping me here, I suspect, is you want to
know where we dumped the vial. As soon as I tell you, you ship me off to the Watch, or kill me, or,” she smiled coyly, “at the very least you make me strip down again. So I have all of that working against me from the start. But the people I work for are also rather paranoid, hence my little mark.” She tilted her head to the side so Aleksander could get a better look at her tattoo. “This thing probably makes me stand out in a crowd, if you know what to look for. The Watch would probably love to see me. Funny thing is I don’t remember having this a few days ago.”

  “I see,” Alexander said. “If you don’t mind me asking, what were you doing with yourself a few days ago?”

  The assassin’s sad smile turned hard. “Sorry handsome, but you giving me a nice new set of clothes doesn’t make us best friends. And I’m pretty sure your hospitality has its limits.”

  Aleksander nodded and stood up. “It certainly does. But we aren’t at the end yet, you and I.” He walked out of the room and retrieved the meager plate of food he had prepared, a small cup of water in his other hand. He handed them to her through the bars.

  “I’ve got some things to take care of. But here is a feast courtesy the Outrider’s pantry and well. You’ll excuse me if I don’t share the beer or wine with you just yet, it being our first date.” He bowed mock-graciously and left the room closing the door behind him.

  The assassin stared at the cup of water and the small amount of food and smiled.

  “Clever, handsome.”

  The last attending member of the Century filed out of the assembly room, except for one member. Jonvar and Curbe, beside their respective Praetorians, waited until the large double doors closed. When they finally did, Jonvar felt the goose bumps spread along his body again. The four of them were now alone with the Akvan.

  Slowly, deliberately, the Akvan rose and walked towards the Praetorian table, his heavy footfalls and his staff echoing off the marble interior. Jonvar noticed that the Praetorians were holding tightly to their sword hilts. Finally, the Akvan reached them. As he towered over them, Jonvar found himself transfixed by the skull staff head in the Akvan’s hand.