Evil is a Matter of Perspective: An Anthology of Antagonists

by Edited by Adrian Collins

  * * *

  On the spring night in Third Age Year 5018, when Davien sealed his reputation as the Betrayer, the historic uprising disrupted crown rule, and streets across the five kingdoms ran red in the tide of unbridled slaughter. Luhaine of the Fellowship fell with the first casualties, left discorporate by the swords of a mob in defense of a child prince at Telmandir.

  Davien felt that grievous blow where he stood to meet Toler in the wilds of the open heath. In bitter quiet, he accepted the copper-strapped coffer purloined from the Prime’s chamber when the Hanshire conspiracy exploded in premature fury.

  “You were right,” Toler gushed, speech restored in the aftermath thrill of his unlikely victory. “The Prime circle lost their collective poise and left Morriel’s treasures unguarded.” Toler chuckled with his former insolence. “The snatch went as slick as robbing an unwatched cradle.”

  Too easy, Davien agreed, but said nothing, braced to mask his disappointment as he tucked the warded box under his arm. Divination by resonance revealed at once that the dragonet skulls were not inside. Toler’s haul contained river stones bundled in silk. The dangerous, uncanny contraband cleverly sequestered elsewhere.

  But the smuggler’s earnest attempt deserved recompense for the grisly risks undertaken. “You are free to pursue your life as you please.” Davien sealed his word with sincerity. “I will honor my promise, and see the Kralovir ruined in Enna’s memory.”

  Toler’s rush of exuberance stalled. “I can go? You don’t want the last laugh with my trademark flourish?”

  Jolted from brooding, Davien realized what else the feckless young man tried to tell him. Raw from the toll of unconscionable harm, and burdened under the monstrous consequence, the Sorcerer laughed in stunned disbelief.

  “Hold on,” he gasped. “You did what with the coffer containing the Great Waystone of the Koriathain?”

  Toler flushed, pleased to share his sly comeuppance. “I tossed the cursed thing in the public well, with none of the witches the wiser. Don’t say you want the horrid crystal retrieved?”

  “No!” Davien sobered. “I will pass that detail along, and let my colleagues field the detestable prize.” An inadequate sop for the reckoning, when this night’s botched work became called to account. Save him, he required desperate measures to dodge mauling scrutiny and keep the deadly secret entrusted to him by the Rei-yaj Seeress concealed.

  For his task was not done. The deferred crisis waited, inevitable, when the hatchling skulls resurfaced to cloak the next round of mischief. The black bargain sealed with Seshkrozchiel also bound Davien in force. He must shoulder the confounded tangle alone, against stakes his fellows must never suspect, until intrigue presented another furtive opening to discharge his obligation.

  The Syldoon Sun

  - Bloodsounder’s Arc -

  Jeff Salyards

  Matinios watched the cavalry gallop across the packed dirt of the Hippodrome, tasting the red cloud kicked up in their wake. The dusty air wafted up to the royal pavilion—gritty, tangy, and stinking of the sweat of untold generations of soldiers and the spoor of a million horse. A million million, maybe. He still felt the usual mix of emotion—elation at seeing Syldoon in action and jealousy as relentless and remorseless as the beating sun.

  But worse than the jealousy was the company. It wasn’t every day he sat alongside the most temperamental, scheming, and dangerous man alive. This was the first, in fact. Matinios felt Emperor Cynead’s eyes on him. It was like being observed by a brass viper.

  Of course, with a Memoridon flanking his other shoulder, Matinios knew it was dangerous to think such things. To think almost anything, really. She could be slinking inside his skull that very moment, sifting through his thoughts, his memories. So he tried to focus on the wheeling horseman, how effortlessly they maintained formation as they circled the oval grounds. Training exercise or not, their skill was paramount. Better to think on that.

  Another smaller group of Syldoon in lamellar cuirasses rode past, short recurved bows up, heels down, bodies as taut and flexed as the wood and horn and sinew in their hands. The soldiers galloped between a pair of tall poles and then spun in their saddles, arrows nocked, their armor flashing bright in the sunlight, aiming at the clay gourds hanging from hooks at the top of the poles. They loosed almost in unison—one straggler a heartbeat late—and kept galloping as all but one of the arrows struck true, shattering the gourds. That last shaft missed high and sailed off into the bright blue sky.

  Emperor Cynead clicked his tongue and Matinios glanced over. He had jet-black hair with one patch of white on his crown that nearly glowed in contrast, even in the shade of the huge snapping canvas panels above them. For a man of middle years, he had few wrinkles, and the laugh lines stood out the most, though he wasn’t exercising them now. He wore no ostentatious display of station at all except for the plaque belt on his waist, the alternating mount plates of heraldic suns and leopards done up in the finest rubies and gold.

  “Well,” the emperor said, plucking a date from a bowl in his lap. “I summoned you to show you something extraordinary. And what do they give me? Nine. Nine of ten on the mark. That simply won’t do. No, not at all.” He shook his head. “Rusejenna, should we remind him of the cost of failure?”

  The slim Memoridon surveyed the field, her close-cropped hair nearly alabaster, her expression no less impenetrable, the leopard pin on her gray jacket winking in the sunlight. “Your will, Your Majesty.” She sounded sibilant, sensual, mocking. The way a succubus might, if such creatures existed. Though if they had, Memoridons would have been more terrifying still.

  Emperor Cynead looked at Matinios. “Would you like to watch my Memoridon work, to see the errant archer blasted from the saddle, bleeding from his ears, his brain stove in from the inside? As a lesson of sorts, to the remainder?”

  Matinios might as well have been swallowing sand. He considered his next words carefully. “I imagine the opinion of a lowly clerk is of little consequence, Your Majesty.”

  “Really?” Cynead replied, watching the mounted archers riding around for another pass at the next set of poles and gourds. “The son of a Syldoon captain, knowledgeable of all things Jackal Tower, and, unless my sources are misinformed—which I assure you, they are not—quite the student of military history, tactics, and logistics? Your humility seems disingenuous.” He held the bowl out to Matinios. “Date?”

  Matinios shook his head and composed his thoughts as the sweat trickled down his sides. “Well then. You’ve invested time and expense in training these soldiers—no less so than any other Leopards, and probably a good deal more, given their rarity. I’m guessing they hail from the farthest reaches of the Brass Sea. Very costly. So murdering the man on account of a single miss might be considered...wasteful. Unless he has never hit the target.” Matinios shrugged. “Then the loss would be less.”

  Cynead smiled, laugh lines pronounced and deep, and then turned to Rusejenna. “You see—sharp. I told you he would be just the right recruit.”

  She gave a thin smile. “As you say, Your Majesty.”

  Matinios wasn’t sure what he’d done to attract the attention of the emperor, but he wished he could undo it. “Recruit? Your Majesty?”

  Cynead picked up another date and inspected it before casually tossing it over his shoulder. “You didn’t think I summoned you here just to chat about my horsemen, did you?”

  Not having any idea what to think, Matinios simply waited rather than risk another reply.

  Cynead nibbled on another date. “No, I brought you here to extend a very unusual offer.”

  Emperors didn’t offer. Certainly not to unimportant clerks. Matinios replied slowly, “I’m honored, Your Majesty. And humbled. But confused. Why—”

  “You hungered your whole life to be a Syldoon, did you not?”

  Matinios felt his chest tighten and watched the blocks of infantry on the far end of the hippodrome march in formation, long spears
high. He wasn’t shocked the emperor knew about that, but that didn’t make it more palatable. Matinios tried to keep his voice level. “Tradition is tradition, Your Majesty. The offspring of Syldoon are forbidden from such things. I was proud to serve as auxiliary—”

  “So, not able to achieve that dream, you settled for the second. And did quite well. Serving admirably, distinguishing yourself. Until you disobeyed a direct order.” Cynead looked him up and down. “You did so to save other troops, and yet, just like that,” he snapped dry fingers, “your military career—finished.”

  Matinios felt the age-old anger welling up, and did his best to dam it in place. “Yes, Your Majesty. Finished.”

  Cynead nodded. “Commander Darzaak kept you on as a clerk—at least the old fool recognized you possessed too many talents to abandon completely—but he drummed you out of the auxiliary. The military. Forever.”

  Matinios tried to keep his face blank. He would never be a soldier again, but he was still part of the Jackal Tower, still answered directly to Darzaak. Dangerous thickets. He had to tread very, very carefully.

  After a deep breath, he said, “The commander’s decision was...fair.”

  Cynead watched, his blue eyes assessing. “Very dangerous to lie to an emperor.” He didn’t wait for a reply or rebuttal. “But what if I told you I could promise you an unprecedented opportunity at redemption, Matinios?” He let that sit there for a moment before continuing, “The chance to prove yourself, to serve in the fashion you desire most, to be a soldier again. Not for the Jackals, but the Leopards. In the royal auxiliary.”

  Matinios met his gaze. Was he being toyed with? Manipulated? Was this a test of his loyalties? He aimed for moderation, and missed much more badly than the mounted archer had. “But... Your Majesty, such a thing...it must be impossible. I am with the Jackal Tower.”

  The emperor smiled. “And I am the man who overthrew Thumaar. The man who is going to change the complexion of our empire, the trajectory of our history. Do you really think a little thing like tradition and a doddering commander are going to stop me? Imperial initiative is a marvelous thing, Matinios. So, what do you say?”

  Matinios licked his lips, tasted dust. “I say... I say such a thing must come with a cumbersome price.”

  Cynead clapped his hands as he laughed. “Indeed. For everything, a cost. So. What is this dream worth to you, young clerk?”

  Matinios would never be a Syldoon like his father before him, but to be in the army again, to forge his own path... His voice sounded like it came from the bottom of a deep, dry well. “Everything. Your Majesty.”

  “How wonderful,” Emperor Cynead replied. “That is precisely what I had in mind for the exchange.”

  Matinios wasn’t sure if that was the sound of the jaws of a trap clanking shut or finally springing open.

  Cynead sat back in his chair, eyes on his troops. “I am implementing a new policy. All foreign operatives will be accompanied by a chronicler from their respective Tower. Each commander has submitted a list of clerks and scholars who might be appropriate, pending my final approval. Ordinarily, the scribe would deliver the report to the commander who would then pass it on to me. In this instance, we would simply streamline the process. That is all.”

  “The Jackals?”

  “Of course. I have suspicions that Darzaak’s men are engaging in activities...not in the interest of their emperor. But I require proof. Witness.”

  “You want me to...become a spy? A traitor?” The words were out before Matinios had a chance to stop them.

  “Betraying a traitor is no treason at all,” Cynead said. “And let us remember: you will be handsomely rewarded for your efforts.”

  Matinios wanted to hold his tongue but couldn’t. “Do I have the option of declining this offer?”

  Cynead looked at him long and hard, smile disappearing. “You do, Matinios. I cannot promise how I would respond, of course. Perhaps we will walk our separate ways and never speak of this meeting again. Perhaps I will let Rusejenna husk you and turn your brain to gruel. We all have our choices to make.”

  Matinios thought about wiping out years of disappointment, bile, bitterness, anger. About achieving a dream that seemed ground to dust. He also thought about what it would be like to have a memory witch invade his skull and lay waste to him and tried not to shiver, despite the heat. “In that case, I accept,” he said.

  “I very much hoped you would,” Cynead replied, smiling. “Date?”

  * * *

  The lean, hard-bitten captain watched the last of the pilgrims and faith-seekers exit the temple grounds. His two lieutenants flanked him, trying to look casual among the pillars. But Hewspear was built like his weapon and taller than everyone in the crowd, with coins braided into his beard, and Mulldoos was short, stocky, pale as ash and foul-mouthed as pitch—they weren’t exactly inconspicuous, despite keeping their Syldoon noose tattoos covered.

  Captain Braylar Killcoin rested his hand on the wicked two-headed flail on his hip. That was one of the first things Matinios noted after joining them. The captain’s hand never drifted too far from Bloodsounder. Ever.

  Matinios had seen several of the Jackals in the Tower before, and certainly knew them by reputation, but he never dealt with the captain and his company directly.

  Before agreeing to spy. To betray.

  He reframed that: before agreeing to serve his emperor. And himself. Finally, himself. His life had been stolen from him, by the Jackals, by Darzaak, and he would take it back. And as Emperor Cynead had said, betraying traitors was no treason at all. Matinios didn’t have any damning evidence yet—the Jackals had done all they were assigned to on their mission. So far. But he was sure it was only a matter of time.

  Directly behind his shoulder, he heard, “What are you doing there, you plaguing nosy bastard?” Sepulveedo was close enough Matinios could smell the stale ale and catfish on his breath.

  Matinios hadn’t heard the bastard approach. Sepulveedo was an expert skulker.

  He turned and faced the Jackal. “I am doing my plaguing trade. Remember, that thing I was commissioned to do? That is my trade.”

  Sepulveedo smirked and burped in quick succession. “Thought your trade was to scribble. That’s your plaguing trade. Don’t see you doing any of that right about now.”

  “I was hired to witness and record. This is called the witnessing part.”

  The sergeants, Vendurro and Glesswik, leaned against the pock-marked pillars a few feet away. Vendurro had a narrow patch of beard on his chin that looked like a hedgehog pelt, and always a crooked smile above it. “Alright there, Sep, you made your point, I’m thinking. Hey, Matinios, just carry a quill around in a pocket. Lot easier.”

  Sepulveedo was almost as good at scowling as skulking. “Don’t like him standing around looking sideways all the time, is all.”

  Braylar, Hewspear, and Mulldoos approached. The captain’s dark hair was oiled back, the scars on his face lit white in the sun, his mossy eyes narrowed. After looking around to be sure the closest non-Syldoon was a purple-robed initiate trimming some hedges thirty feet away, Braylar said, “We have done ample reconnaissance here. Tonight is the night we make our play, yes?”

  Mulldoos turned, pressed a thumb against his nose, and blasted snot out the other nostril onto one of the pillars. “About plaguing time, Cap. Let’s hit this shithole and be done with it.”

  Hewspear looked at Braylar. “As much as it pains me to agree with him—I favor too much recon over too little—I reluctantly concur we’ve seen what there is to see here. It would have been better if we’d managed to have somebody infiltrate the temple, but still, we have enough. We’ve surveyed the high priest’s manor house, the number of guards, their rounds, the distance to magistrate, even the position of the dovecote.”

  Mulldoos snorted. “If they got time to send plaguing pigeons to get help, we messed up something fierce and deserve to get cut down to a man. Plague me, we’re
raiding a puckered little asshole of a temple, not stealing the king’s golden ear spoon. If there’s anything to steal at all here. Which I got real plaguing doubts about.”

  Being the company chronicler allowed Matinios to pose whatever questions he deemed proper, but he still picked and chose his spots carefully to avoid arousing suspicion. “What do we hope to find here, Captain?”

  Mulldoos narrowed his pale eyes as he stared at him. “First off, you’ll know when you need to know and not a second earlier. Second off, you ain’t we. Don’t get all uppity, you plaguing pen monkey.”

  “Enough squabbling,” Braylar said, looking from face to face. “We return under moonlight. Rest a few hours, hone your blades, and be ready, yes?”

  As the Jackals started walking away from the temple, Vendurro said, “You think the inn has any quail eggs. I could really go for some quail eggs.”

  “You could really go for my boot in your plaguing mouth,” Mulldoos replied.

  “Only if you boiled it first. And dipped it in saffron and cinnamon. Hard to come by, though, cinnamon. More precious than quail.”

  The Jackals scattered, presumably to draw less attention to themselves, and exited the wooden gatehouse around the temple, walking separate routes back to the inn.

  Braylar was acerbic, moody, and as vicious as he was erudite, but seeing him walking alone, Matinios sidled next to him, hoping to question a little further. To unearth something, anything, that could help him win his life back.

  They sidestepped a beggar rattling a few coppers around in a cracked wooden bowl and made their way down the hill toward the makeshift village in the shadow of the temple grounds.

  The captain tugged at the scarf around his neck, and wiped some sweat off his brow. “That is one thing I will not miss about these little excursions—wearing an extra article of clothing in this heat. Be glad you don’t have a tattoo to cover.”

  Was that a barb? Most likely. Braylar seemed incapable of saying anything without them, and the Jackals made sure to remind him that he was no Syldoon.