Just read most part of the prologue and I have to say, it's amazing! Vivid discriptions, excellent grammar and sentences, coincide as the introduction continues. And I even feel a map unfolds before me when it comes to "the world as we knew it". And the arresting prologue reminds me of an ancient chinese myth about how the whole world was created after a giant man died of tiredness that came from proping up the sky. His body was made into every part of world.(somehow I find it a very sad story myself)
As for the improvement, I believe that many replies have expressed the same views I'm holding. Since my bad retention, remembering so many names could be not an easy job for me. Instead of taking them all out at once, I suggest that you can leave some for later referrence in the story to raise readers' curiosity.
So I finally finished reading the first part of the second chapter, after going back and re-reading your story from the beginning:
First of all, I love the way you've re-structured the first chapter and really enjoyed reading it; it gave a very satisfying overview of the world. My favorite characters at this point are definitely Kay and Antioch. Void seemed like an interesting character as well, although at first I was preoccupied trying to figure out whether he was the good guy or the bad guy, which made it harder to focus on him at first. However, I do rather like the idea of Void having a deceptively devious personality. (Also, I noticed you opted for the Darth Vader death-grip. You executed it well. )
In terms of worldbuilding, the thing that stood out the most to me was your explanation of how respawing works in your world. I really, really love your use of the word "reforming." It's just this perfect combination of spiritual solemness with a badass, "Oh yes did we mention that when you die you get torn into dust, whisked away to an alternate dimension, and then magically reassembled into a new body?" kind of vibe. I also really like the idea that the way people die influences their well-being in the next life. That moment where Kay kills Secret felt truly emotional. On the other hand, I still haven't quite figured out how permanent death is in this world, although given Kay's reaction, I would assume it means Kay and Secret would never see each other again? The fact that the Enderdragon keeps reforming inside the same prison where it dies makes me doubt otherwise.
I have to say that of all the chapters I've read so far, the last one, "Ultimatum," felt the weakest. It was trying to be serious and funny at the same time, but as a result it felt like it was missing something. I also didn't really feel like I was really getting inside the head of a villain; Overlord's empathetic inner thoughts didn't resonate so well with his outward, cold-blooded actions. However, I did really enjoy Overlord's little dialogue with the four captive mods. That got a chuckle or two out of me.
Overall, nicely done so far. I'm sorry I couldn't read more before posting, but I wanted to make sure I got my thoughts in before I forgot. Whew boy, do I have a lot to catch up on! You are an incredibly avid writer.
Anyways, I should probably get back to working on the Convergence. Ciao!
Cheers Asan, it's great to get some more feedback.
Glad you like Kay and Antioch. Although... we're going to get some big development of Kay in Chapter 3. In fact, everyone gets a lot of development and there's a lot of major changes in the status quo. Yeah, I personally am not certain about Void myself. He's naturally a figure which the protagonists will try and uphold because Dominus is a bloody psychopath, and because they disapprove of his methods of seizing power. However, at the same time Void very much has a salt and pepper moral history. He brought down Zerg and avenged Qustom yes, but Qustom wasn't exactly an amazing leader near the end (in lore and the actual former admin of the server). However he also abstained from a massive conflict (The Great Onslaught) and then allowed the Brotherhood to terrorise the peoples of the Craft for a decade with no intervention. But at the same time Void does have a reason for this, fear that he'll attract the rest of the Brotherhood to the Craft and this will result in a takeover. There were also multiple occasions where he ignored allegations of corruption against his moderators.
As for the world-building, glad someone's finally asked about that. Just to clarify a few things, death is entirely related to random chance here. Sometimes people disintegrate when they die (in fact they usually do) and simply reform a few hours later in the last place they woke up. Sometimes they'll die and their bodies will stay there, in which case there's no coming back. Other (rare) times they will disintegrate but they'll not come back. No one really knows what happens then. This is why Kay was so nervous. He was afraid that Secret would be killed, and seeing as he just lost half his social circle he's not willing to let that happen.
Yeah, Ultimatum always was the weakest... aside from the chapter I do not speak of which has not made it into this copy (thankfully only the Vanillacraft post). It was done in the space of one maybe two days because I wanted to deal with the identity of the Overlord quickly as well as establish WIlliams, Antioch and Falcon. A lot of things could have been improved and fixed. But I'm still pleased with how the Overlord himself turned out.
But still, thank you so much for the constructive criticism. It's greatly appreciated.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Like fantasy? Like Minecraft? Check out a blend of the two here! Fall and a Rise: A Vanillacraft Tale!
Sorry this part has taken so long guys! I've been working on GCSEs. However, the next part should be a lot faster. This part covers the lead-up to Dom's attack. You know what that means...
Chapter 4: The Judgement of Gaia
Part 6:
I was barred from combat for the next several weeks following that meeting with Aaron and Carsey, in which time the Gaian army trained relentlessly. While I couldn’t train with the others thanks to Cossack breathing down my neck, after two weeks I was able to wander the city relatively freely.
At first Cossack insisted that I would be accompanied by a bodyguard of at least ten men at every step. However, I was able to talk him down from his pedestal of paranoia. I was allowed to wander the city with just one man accompanying me at any given time. As such, I chose Bokane. I couldn’t help but suspect there was something off about him. He kept mentioning Abby in a sympathetic manner and he’d become increasingly distant from everyone (especially Aaron), only seeming to confide in Walt and just barely tolerating Key and Small. As such I felt it was best I interrupted his unseen activities as frequently as possible.
On one such occasion we were puttering about down by the wall of the city, in our usual uncomfortable silence and I set about inquiring of him something that had been nagging me since Mojang. We were in a small, secluded alleyway and the night watch had just passed out of view.
“How fares Abby?” Asked I, setting up something of a preamble to justify the questions to follow.
Bokane instantly became even more morbid; he sniffed from the cold and explained, “She’s in mourning. Her fiancée was killed, then brought back to life without her knowledge, only for him to be re-murdered in a manner she thought unjust. Whether she’s right or not is debateable, but we shouldn’t be trying someone in such a fragile state.”
Cossack was overseeing the trial, and in a month or so the prosecution and defence would have all of their evidence. Abby’s brother had hired the best lawyer he could find out of the people gathered, settling on a foreigner, an academy dropout who was in desperate need of work and had silken tongue enough to sell his trade despite a lack of ability. I was leading the prosecution, and had gathered a crack team of lawyers. All the odds were stacked against her. She was accused of treason, assault and now something was arising about her brother and her misappropriating funds from the treasury.
“I cannot allow her to walk free.” I put down. “You saw Linx. He was one of them. Aaron too. He executed a traitor in the field when the opportunity presented itself. Abby didn’t seem to realise the implications of her husband’s treachery, or of her own. I need to make an example of her in order to ensure people understand that I am merciful, but not stupid. In all likelihood she’ll be executed. A guilty verdict is all I can promise. And that’s without even mentioning the raw goods she’s been stealing. We’ll get her brother on that definitely.”
There was a stone-strewn silence as Bokane stopped in the street. I continued a few steps, not bothering to look around. I could imagine his mouth hanging open as the reality sunk in. This was not the lead-in I’d hoped for. But I took what I had.
“Do you trust me Bokane?”
He halted, twice. First because of the suddenness of the question and his previous stupor, then because he actually had to think before responding, “Yes.”
I was naturally somewhat hurt. Astro and I had taken Bokane and lifted him and Mini out of the gutter. When he had been hurt or sick I had seen him nursed back to health. When he had been hungry I had seen him fed. When he was homeless I saw him housed and clothed. And it was all the more generous as he’d been undeniably hostile when I attempted to pick him up. The only reason I took him on board was because I felt sorry for Mini, and knew that the boy had adored Bokane.
Mini had looked up to him as an older brother, laughed with him as an older brother, ribbed him as an older brother. He’d done the same for me and the affection was mutual; perhaps I’d not always shown it properly but I had viewed him as a younger brother. Bokane should have known that I felt his loss in the same way, and that was why I’d uttered no words to him on the matter.
“Then why do you distrust me?”
“But I-”
“I know what you said with your tongue, but everything else said differently. Now speak freely.”
Bokane sighed a hefty sigh, as if readying to heave some great load from his lungs. “The reason I don’t… can’t trust you Kay… it’s complicated.”
“I have time.” It was far too cold and unintentionally threatening, but he seemed more willing to speak.
“I feel that you don’t trust me Kay. I do so much for you. I made that redstone bomb, I kept the city’s lights running. I enchant your armour to make sure you don’t die. I attempt to keep Ice's outdated corpses of Golems running! What appreciation do I get? What acknowledgement? Nothing. I am ignored. Always passed up for praise and singled out for punishment. That’s without mentioning that I’m constantly passed up for any chance to prove myself. Gracey and British are in more combat situations than I am. And I could take half your Notch-damn Gaians! And yet I’m stuck in a back room whining to the equally, but more wilfully forgotten Small about my situation!”
I scoffed, stomach turning. “What reward have I denied you? I pay you well. I house you lavishly. I admit you to councils of war you have no business to attend. When have I punished you? Aside from one instance where I was quite plainly out of my mind - which I have since apologised for like a grovelling beggar - on what occasions have I laid a hand on you in malice? And you know why I was out of my mind.” I was now subconsciously backing him up against a wall, glowering. I knew I was scaring him, but I wouldn’t have cared had Nether unleashed itself behind me. “You think I enjoy acting the raving madman? That I do it that often? That this instance of frailty and grief is reciprocated across my timeline?” I was on the verge of shouting now.
“I didn’t mean-”
“I know what you meant Bokane! I know that you don’t feel I’ve treated you as a special little snowflake and fawned over your every action as you feel I should. But I don’t know if you’ve noticed. We’re at ****ing war!” I gestured grandiosely, openly roaring now. “I have done all in my power to keep you safe on the side-lines as I did with Mini. I didn’t let you out because you didn’t show the goddamn maturity and backbone to handle such a situation! Mini showed the maturity, modesty and level-headedness to lead and act in a dignified manner. So I let him out to test him. And it just so happened that those bastards came and they murdered him in cold blood! Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes…” He was sullen and defeated, lying against a crate as if I’d just beaten him mercilessly and he had passively stood by.
I was sickened, I could hardly bear to look at him… But he was my friend. Perhaps I had side-lined him too quickly. If he wanted to fight I would let him do so.
“Kay?” Secret and Small had appeared from one of the towers along the wall. I’d forgotten they’d been stationed there tonight.
Since we had arrived the people of the Vanilla Craft had lived a bizarre existence of seemingly random shifts. Void and Halberdson’s men were constantly walking the walls, however in order to supplement them leaders were selected randomly to provide patrols and additional guards. Large parts of the army would train out in the fields, whilst on an eclectic series of shifts, the militaries of the Vanilla Craft would be given leave and allowed to visit the civilians.
This week, the Vangaardians were on leave and the Gaians were out on guard duty with Arcation and the Legionnaires.
“What’s going on here?” Secret asked wryly, knowing that we’d try and talk our way out of this.
“Nothing much,” I responded somewhat truthfully, with a hint of bitterness laced in. “Bokane and I had a spat. But he’s given me a few decent ideas.
Take him out on a few patrols Secret, then give him his own to manage. Small, you’ll be accompanying me from now on.”
“What?” Secret was startled. “Why would I take him- no offense intended to you Bokane, but this is completely out of the blue?”
“And why am I suddenly unfit to go out beyond the walls?” Small questioned, wounded deeply.
I dismissed it out of hand. “What use have I for a Thaumaturge? He’s plainly more of use out in the field. You’re a much more adequate companion, trust me Small. You’ll come with me, starting tomorrow. Good night gentlemen.”
And with that I strolled off in an ambling manner and little more was said that night.
And things went forth as expected. Bokane was a nuisance and his patrols were an absolute shambles. Secret went to Aaron and he set Bokane up with as many nothing tasks as he could. Enough to deceive him into believing that he had influence. And hopefully he was kept from whatever schemes he was developing.
Small proved to be a much more desirable companion than previously thought. At times it was easy to forget that he was really a very cultured man. He was a painter, philosopher, an avid reader and theatre-goer, a connoisseur of fine wines and on occasion had dabbled in poetry.
It of course took him a little bit to open up, but after a drink he was much more lax, and we conversed on such issues. His views on theology were not to my taste but he was eloquent in his views and debating him on them was nonetheless enjoyable. For those interested he was a pagan, believing the sun to be the only thing worth thanking. I believed in the traditional Divine pantheon of Jeb, Notch, Herobrine, Bone, Grumm, Seph, Steve and Ishinge; although above the others I revered Herobrine out of habit.
We similarly disagreed on literature and theatre. We both concluded that Trivius’ Sorrows were a modern classic, but disagreed on such works as those of the Yogs Theatre. I viewed their material as adept improvisation with an ever-evolving story. He viewed them as oafs who made money off of nonsense.
We’d stop here and there and survey the troops as they trained, Tejmin and Aaron training them vigorously. Tejmin would take firing drills, Aaron would lead the archers (when Secret was busy) and the infantry. The cavalry were absent, mostly because it was not in Gaia’s culture. I cannot say I disagreed. Horses were superfluous and unnecessarily risky. Why place your life in the hands of a being less intelligent than most humans just to move slightly faster, sacrificing stealth and agility in the process? Pointless if you asked me. The others could handle fighting horses with horses; we would handle them with pikes, rifles and good, old-fashioned human mobility.
Our number shad been reduced greatly by our exodus. To my knowledge Jeb hadn’t taken measures to slaughter our people, or even seek them out, but that didn’t stop our own people from fleeing our ranks. Every here and there our troops ran into a Divine patrol and may have been abducted. Many of our troops on leave had been rounded up but just as many had escaped Mojang. And we’d lost no munitions of worth. We had the armour all packed for leaving and by the time we were all made targets most of what we valued was fleeing for the Old Craft (as it had come to be known, as the Omega Iniative was deemed to be very silly and that Epsilon should feel bad for naming it in such a silly manner).
However, we’d still suffered a loss. Our military was down from 80,000 to 53,000, and our overall population down from 300,000 to 220,000. The others had suffered losses too, but none could boast a figure to match that.
Also out training particularly vigorously were the soldiers of Halberdson. They were fiercely loyal and strong fighters. I feared what would happen if we ever had to face them.
They were men of the horse who I did fear. Others were clumsy and easily routed. These men were flexible and steely. Their light and arced, but also far-reaching blades would hack through the foot-soldiers, whilst the horses bucked fiercely at the command of their riders. The horses were armoured lightly but effectively, and very able to leap dance past enemy blows. Lances were unheard of. Javelins and spears might be found among the first couple of lines, but nothing heavy. These men relied on speed.
Atreidon however was the most impressive as per usual. He took with him the Brotherhood initiatives and the Arcation mercenaries and cleared the fields in the day and in the night. They would plant and maintain torches and lanterns out in the plains, hoping to keep away the creatures of the night, and allow us to expand our defences. Already at the outer vestiges of the sea of light were being dug pitfalls, and small walls and barricades were being fashioned.
There were others, those of the other Crafts. Men of the Torch and Hammer Crafts were particularly prevalent from the Old Continent. From Horizon came the Craft’s neighbours. The men of the Myth Craft, and of the Fade Craft. There were of course rebels and vagabonds. Men who fought for the reinstatement of Ghostly’s line in Zine Craft. Men who had fled from Killer Craft when Jeb handed it to Vechs before his revolution. Men who sympathised with Vechs. Those of the Southern Thaumlands, who wished to strike back at the Divines for their betrayal after the Onslaught. Some even speculated that representatives of the Court of Whispers hid among our rank, and I couldn’t blame them for their suspicions.
Void had not been discriminate in his choosing of allies. He was a desperate man these days.
There were however distractions to keep our minds off of the desperation of our situation, and simply embrace the reality of it. There were plays held from among our ranks by players of all classes, re-enacting the bold actions of our heroes. Bards would sing satirical verses of our foes, mocking Dominus in particular and being careful to avoid insulting the Divines for the most part.
Most popular of all were the duels however, wherein the champions of all Crafts came together. Many fought and many were defeated. Death and injury were avoided as much as possible, but the presence of some of the world’s finest doctors spurred many on. Void prayed that no one important was harmed, but acknowledged that the people needed it to keep their spirits up.
Komplex and Atreidon turned their noses and bit many thumbs at such events, but not all were so easily discouraged. Among those most successful in these duels were Vacar and Shadows of the Arcation Priesthood (although it should be noted that all their members were regular competitors), Jolly St. Jay of the Brotherhood (the only regular competitor from their ranks), and of our own there was Aaron and Insert. And then there were a dozen or so other men from other places whose names I cared for not enough to learn them.
From outside the Craft, an occasional competitor was a warrior known as Venom, a man dressed in black with a devilish goatee. He was a mercenary; made his name off of his exploits against Vechs, and his fortune off of selling them. He’d not only beaten Vechs’ games more than once, but he’d broken out of them, then back into them, and then won them once more before escaping. In the arena he was utterly unbeatable. But he was not present frequently enough for any ire to be developed towards him, or any serious accusations to be made as to his honesty.
The one who suffered such rumours and venom was Insert. When Venom was present he was conveniently ill, and as such he was the only other major fighter who was completely undefeated. All had been bested by him. Jay, Vacar, Shadows, Aaron, Wolves… damn near every leader in the craft was bested by him.
Eventually he began besting the Arcation Priesthood in far too humiliating a manner. And on one day Vacar sought to expose him as a cheat. He went out to confront him, but were stopped by Gogyst and Walkers. Then, the four of them came together and held a little sit-down. They resolved that Vacar would challenge Insert once more, and they would then determine whether or not he was a scoundrel, or whether his invincibility was genuine.
Small and I were in the crowd. The arena was a large muddy square, rimmed by a chipped but sturdy wooden fence. In the centre was another ring of fences, surrounding a large fountain.
Insert was beaming around as his opponent limped off, looking about for his next opponent. In one hand was a spear which a blade about the size of a small sword attached. Hiding the other hand was a large round shield, concealing his torso totally.
Then out came Vacar, sword grasped tightly.
“Didn’t I beat you before?” Insert laughed.
He was met with silence, then he smiled and closed his eyes. An unspoken treaty was made. No holding back. Then he dashed forwards.
Vacar flashed to the left, the tooth-like blade missing its mark. The priest then spun, bringing his sword to meet Insert’s back. However, it only grazed the warrior’s armour; merely baiting the bear. Insert, now furious, immediately planted one metal foot into the earth and sprang back into Vacar, ploughing into him with his shield.
The force of the charge was great, like a bull or a wave sent forth by an angry god. He carried Vacar with him into the fountain, smashing through the fence around it and cracking the perfect stone basin and pouring dirty water over the two combatants.
Insert gripped the throat of Vacar with his leather-shrouded fingers, and began to dug in white-knuckled, with a grip so strong it could cease the North wind itself. The Arcationite began to gasp, prying at the hand of his attacker like a child at the hand of a parent dragging them along. Then he reached out and grabbed it, an old head of a statue. He gripped it, and then smashed it into the skull of Insert.
The shattering noise could be heard globally. Insert’s grip slackened and he rolled into the water. Vacar meanwhile reached for two shiny bluish green pearls from his belt and threw one into the air whilst grabbing Insert’s collar. There was a flash from the crowd, and an arrow shattered the pearl in mid-air.
I looked around and saw Besta retreating into the swathe of people. They’d planned this. I patted Small and sent him after the archer, and turned my gaze to the fight, ready to intervene should any further Arcationites choose to cheat.
The pair then appeared in a puff of bluish smoke, and began to descend. Vacar swung the champion around his head on sent him plummeting towards the earth, and the threw another pearl at the ground, where he appeared a split-second later. He would have immediately turned to face Insert, but the pearl shattered awkwardly and he arrived with his shin half-sunken into the mud, much to the amusement of all onlookers.
Insert slammed into the ground with a sickening rattling sound. He reached for his side, were a reinforced bottle contained a dark pink liquid which hummed with a faint aura of energy. He pulled the lid out as swiftly as he could and downed it. Immediately he writhed as bones realigned and the cracks in his skull began to seal over. The blood still ran from the gash on his temple however. Such potions were bizarre like that. What our bodies could heal comparatively easily, they could not, and what our bodies struggled with, they could do extremely easily.
Insert was then back on his feet and ready for his attacker.
The two clashed in a great flurry of blows. This was where we saw the two styles at odds. Insert was direct, thrusting and stabbing, clubbing Vacar with his shield where he could; all was done with a damn near unrivalled speed and precision. Vacar was lighter and more agile. He favoured dancing around Insert, slashing at his armour with the side of his blade and gradually wearing him down.
Then Vacar struck Insert a blow on his side, cutting on of the straps binding the two curved plates across his torso together. The blade then cut through the padding beneath his armour, and perhaps… deeper? Insert smashed Vacar across the jaw with his shield, throwing him to the ground. Vacar rolled and was on his feet before it could be thought possible. Insert however, froze.
Vacar looked at the tip of his blade, and on it was blood. The beast was wounded, and it was furious.
Insert descended on his foe with blows that truly only a master could stop. The two were in a deadlock, an impossibly fast and near impossible to follow deadlock of strikes and thrusts and parries. Then another entered the arena.
Behind Insert appeared the head of the Priesthood, Gogyst. The void beneath his hood betrayed nothing, but the firmness with which he grasped his staff betrayed all. I immediately leapt over the barrier and shakily ran towards Gogyst, feet sliding in the mud as I hurtled rustily from foot to foot.
Gogyst paid me no heed and sent fire spewing from the tip of his staff of tricks towards Insert, who blocked it with his shield. Vacar rushed at Insert, who sent him sliding through the mud with a kick to the breastplate. Then, as Gogyst’s flame sputtered and died Insert turned to face him.
As the Chief of the Priesthood readied himself to fight Insert head on, I slammed into him. Insert shrugged at this and returned to trading his flurry of blows with Vacar, seemingly even more storm-like in his assault.
I was left to face Gogyst in the mud, with Small nowhere to be seen, and Besta still unfound. We were both rolling like pigs in the slippery, seemingly foundation-less mud, but I moved first. Gogyst had dropped his staff just before me, and I grabbed it and used it to pull myself up, as he hoisted himself up with the fence. I spun to him, grabbing the shaft of the spear in such a way that I could club him with the blunt end should it be required.
Then, as I observed him, I noted that he was larger than I, and could easily disarm me. I didn’t want him getting his hands on the spear. Mods know what he would do should he get his hands on it. And so I threw it over the fence and into the gap. Not a man dared to touch it, knowing that Gogyst would not rest until he had them disembowelled should they steal it.
Gogyst was too angry to do anything but rush at me. Now here was an area I knew I could beat him. Hand to hand I could scarcely be matched by any of these men. Herobrine had trained me too well.
He swung with his grey metal fist with a driving blow which would have shattered my jaw. However, it was sluggish and slow. I gripped the grey mass and pulled it forward, smashing his nose with the other hand. He fell back, clasping his nose and I struck him twice, once upon each cheek, knowing I’d found them beneath his concealing hood from the satisfying outline I felt.
He fell back into the mud, his armour sullied with something other than blood for the first time in many a year.
Then his hood fell back, and beneath it I saw that which I had struck. All he had told me was true. His face was young, impossibly so. This man was over six hundred years old, perhaps more. His hair was ashen grey, and his eyes spoke of millennia, but not a single wrinkle appeared upon his face. He sat there dazed as he glared vaguely at me.
Then I was caught from behind, lifted by the legs and smashed through the fence. I slammed into the stone wall of the stands behind and slid down as he retreated. It was Walkers. And near behind him was Besta.
As they stood over me, a wordless cock of the head presented me with a choice. I could stay there leave Insert to whatever fate they had planned, and avoid a very painful beating. Or, I could stand up, and potentially buy Insert the time to best Vacar, but get pulverised by these two.
Whether I was thinking straight or not is debateable, but I stood up. This was the final straw. I was defending a man who had publically disgraced these men, from their view unjustly so. I had then assaulted their leader, revealed his secret and broken his nose. Now, they had battered me, and I had the gall to stand up.
Walkers drew his blade, and I drew Amicus. Here was a playing field I was not prepared for. It had been weeks since my accident had left me bedridden, and my ability with a sword had suffered for it. Hopefully the adrenalin would help me.
Gogyst gave Besta one look and he knew to back off. Gogyst watched as a silent spirit of vengeance, urging on his friend to put me in my place. He naturally swung first.
I caught the blade clumsily upside-down and tried to rush in for a swipe at his face. However, he turned and my fist screamed as it bounced off his helm. His hand then gripped my throat and hurled me over the fence into the arena. I rolled and picked myself up. He was already advancing.
I waited for him to swing again. He swung at my head, and I leaned back, the blade missing my good eye by a hair’s breadth. He prepared to swing again but I met him with the flat of my blade, and his shrieked down to the cross-guard before I threw it off. I swung at him again, hoping to catch him at the shoulder but he met me, and batted my blade aside with a forceful blow that it made my arm ache and threw me off-balance. He shunted me and I fell again.
I saw Small desperately trying to force his way into the arena, Besta holding him at bay. In the stands I saw Thomas and Bird forcing their way towards the arena. Vacar and Insert were locked in combat, oblivious to anything but their determination to destroy each other. Gogyst still stood vengefully glaring at me, seeming almost betrayed.
Walkers began thrusting his blade down at me, and I rolled in the mud like swine, trying desperately not to be slain.
Then, a great booming voice cried out, “CEASE THIS!”
Ryan materialised above me, and Walkers fell flat. Epsilon and Viking were now restraining the two thrashing champions. Celtic had Besta and Small separated. And now, Gogyst floated just before the Administrator himself, Void, completely frozen.
“What is the meaning of this Gogyst?” Void threatened, his tranquillity broken.
The jaw of the Arcation leader slackened and he began to speak. “We are attempting to expose a traitor.”
“And you intend to do this by starting a riot and driving your warrior to kill an injured man who isn’t even in his armour?”
I sat there, half-indignant, wondering how this would play out. They were accusing Insert, but they had no proof. Or did they? Were the right? Once set upon such lines of thought, the mind could not be drawn from them. Now, a man I’d trusted and respected for several years became little more than a fraud and a cheat.
I prayed to Herobrine I was wrong.
“We intend to expose this!” Vacar broke free from Epsilon, and, seeing that the straps on Insert’s armour were torn on one side, he tore from his chest the impregnable shell and the padding beneath in.
My heart leapt. Across Insert’s chest was emblazoned the unending jagged runes of the Endlings.
Shame took my heart.
“Void,” Insert pleaded. “What does this matter? I could go out there and kill Dominus now should he come. Jeb would be unable to act before you had his head on a pike!”
“And then what?” Void spat. “I knowingly allow some traitor to do my bidding. And then Jeb hangs me if I’m lucky, and if I’m unlucky I’m cast right into the Tempest after hours of torture.” Void knelt before Insert. “And I have a right mind to do the same to you. You have put everysingle man and woman who stands under my banner at risk. You’ve made us a target all for your selfish concept of glory. If I were Dominus, I would break every bone in your arms, and I would have a surgeon prise them all out while you watched.” Void paused, Insert was now kneeling before the administrator, seized by a terror I had only seen in the faces of men knowing they were about to face Notch himself. “But I am not Dominus. He is yours to deal with Mandy.” With that Insert fell to the ground in agony. Irons were clasped around his wrists as he writhed. And around his neck and legs were placed similar braces.
I had a chance to redeem myself here. And by Jeb I would not miss it. The only regret I have from that day, is that I didn’t kill him. I broke damn near every bone in his body with my weighted boots. But somehow I missed his neck…
***
Several days later a patrol was out on the plains at night, the only sounds to be heard were those of horses hooves pounding, and of the distant howls of the night’s various creatures. The sea of torches had been ever growing and they had to maintain them. The more torches went out, the closer the beasts got. They couldn’t all be glowstone, so this far from ideal sitatuation was what had to be settled for.
The patrol consisted of seven men, all Vangaardians. Of them, only two were of note.
There was Gorbanth, the demi-mod, and Wolves Glare, the lord of the small yet respected House.
Gorbanth was by far the more able of the two, actually leading the patrol. Hell, he was leading the entire House now. Whenever diplomacy was required, it was he who organised the meetings and handled negotiations. It was he who kept the people motivated. He actually led the military. What use was Wolves now? Nothing.
Before all this he’d been able to pretend he wasn’t running the show. Rage Peanut, Contra and Bem were still around then. They had shouldered the burden.
However, then Dominus rebelled and Rage was busy full time with his duties as moderator. Then the Forum was attacked and Contra was killed by Antioch. After Mojang no one had seen Bem, not a sign of him whatsoever. He was one of many just lost in the turmoil. He could be dead, in prison, or simply pissing about in Mojang without a care in the world. Now it was just Gorbanth, Trillian Glare and Trillian’s husk of a father.
Wolves had once been the champion of the Craft, the greatest warrior ever seen. Mourning Wood had claimed more men than any expensive blade. Then The Brotherhood came, and Wolves fell in with Celestick and Astro and their little crusade. Then, Celestick was thrown into the pit and Wolves fell into depression and he turned to abusing damn near anything except alcohol. Now he was just a presence. When attacked he would fight skilfully, and when spoken to he would speak back, but that was about all he could do now.
Sometimes Gorbanth and Trillian considered toppling him and having him executed, not that it would make any difference to the King. However, the official toppling of such a figure would result in a huge blow to the morale of his men, and draw unwanted eyes from outside. For now they were stuck with him.
But there and then Gorbanth had no business thinking about the politics of Vangaard. They were going out both to maintain the field of torches, but also to check on the Stone Titans and their progress on the wall.
Recently a group of Landmasons joined them called the Stone Titans. Masons who were incredibly powerful, like those who built the wall around the Farlands and the very Citadel of Mojang. Men who could shatter rock with their fists and assemble the shards into usable bricks with their mind, and then store it Notch knows where.
They were a rare breed these days. Most of them had gone over to Jeb’s direct control or had fled into hiding. Gorbanth felt it was a real pity. Since their vanishing structures had become more basic. No more were they as strong, and while their structures were less ornate than the ones built currently, they had a simple beauty to them.
The Stone Titans were the last free Landmasons of any consequence in the Old Continent. Allegedly a large group of them were living among the Half-Breeds on the Shore of Oddities though. And thankfully they had determined that the cause of the Vanilla Craft was the most righteous. Now they were working on a forward set of defences from which they could hold off the brunt of Dominus’ men. Position archers and Gaian riflemen atop and mow down the enemy from.
The reason it was so far forward however, somewhat baffled Gorbanth though. Some said that it was to allow the camp room to expand forward, and for additional defences to be built within. However, it still struck him as unnecessary.
Now they came to the nearest group of Landmasons, halted for the night. There were four of them sat around a modest fire before the wall, all huge and hulking.
One of them stood up, a man who called himself Pitch Bright. He was a large fellow and somewhat menacing from the sight of him, covered in dirt and his own caked blood, but he was also genial. Gorbanth had taken a liking to him.
“Halloo!” Pitch cried, standing from the fire and stomping over to Gorbanth with steps that should have shaken the earth.
“Hello Pitch. How’s the wall coming along?”
“Give us three more days ‘n you’ll have your wall. Dominus won’t be able to step wit’in four miles of your gates.”
“That’s good to hear.” Gorbanth said uncomfortably.
They both felt it. The feeling of eyes upon the back of their skulls. Gorbanth gripped the hilt of his sword and nudged Wolves, who in a rare fit of vague sobriety caught on and kept his hand near Mourning Wood. The first pebbles began to form around the hand of Pitch.
Then the first arrow flew. A Landmason was struck in the throat by an arrow fletched with gold feathers. Crawling over the wall several-dozen warriors poured fourth. The battle was quick and bloody.
A Valhallan noble rushed for Wolves with what seemed to be a hunting party. They weren’t equipped for battle. They were oafs urged on by whiskey and an urge to prove themselves. Wolves himself was opposition enough, but with Pitch creating rocks the size of men’s heads in his hands and throwing them as if they were fruit, they had little chance.
The noble was struck with a rock to the chest almost immediately after the battle began, shattering his ribs. He then began hoarsely crying for a retreat and his men followed. Despite the brevity of the encounter, six of them died in the first wave and three more died in the retreat. Gorbanth himself scaled the wall as they fled, looking out over their boundaries and into the night.
Amidst the stumbling undead he saw a figure that turned his blood to ice. Before this he had hoped they were early-comers. Some men who hoped to attack the camp while it was still weak and gain for themselves some minor glories. But no, silhouette against the full moon Gorbanth saw the horse-mounted silhouette of the King of the Rising Sun, Jiibrael; he was a ghost in the night, little more than a shadow, but his face was illuminated just enough for there to be no mistake. He dawdled for several seconds as he watched the Valhallans retreat, and then rode off himself.
Dominus was here, and with him death and all his friends would follow.
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Thanks for the read man, glad you like it. What point have you reached?
Yep, I sure am. Here's the app sheet (you will have to read a fair bit to actually see them appear though, we're entering the late stages of the story):
Name:
Age:
Species [Existing species are: Human; Divine; Thaum; Half-breed (half-mob creatures, generally creepers); Endling; Pigman (undead oralive); Undead (skeletal variety)]:
Gender:
Allegiance [Who they work for from what you've read in the story]:
Appearance/equipment:
Background/how they fit into the story:
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Hey guys, been a while. Still a shorter wait than last part. Exams did get in the way with this one, but I'd say this one is really worth it. It is probably my best battle scene to date. Now, read, as Zerg and Dominus at last begin their attack on the Vanilla Craft.
Part 7: The Wrath of Kreatious
“What if they’re ready for us?” Dominus burst out after a long silence, a sweat forming on his forehead as his servants strapped his gleaming silver armour to him.
The tent was large by the standards of tents, but was still strangely claustrophobic. The snow on the ground had melted and all that could be seen was shrivelled grass. All that kept the tent warm was the gas lamp hung from the central pole.
In the corner of the room stood Ellen; the Raven; wife of Dominus; Empress of the Realm of Seven Kingdoms; daughter of Gregor Lomadia; mother of the late Elysium Dominii. She was armoured in a light but strong shell of reinforced steel.
At her side was her infamous dagger, which Dominus so frequently used against his enemies.
“Of course they’re ready my dear. Readiness can’t outrun death or justice. We have the luck of having both behind us. ” Her voice was calm, soothing.
Dominus was silent a moment more as his servants finished strapping on his armour and left the room instinctively.
“What if it happens again?”
“We won last time.”
“Barely. And the odds were in our favour then too. Now the Brotherhood has a smarter leader, we don’t have the army we were promised, and this time... I have no son to carry on my legacy.”
His wife flinched, swallowing sadly at the memory of their son. “You need not the Divines. You have the Kreatian horde and a dozen Administrators fighting among your ranks. And by Notch I know Zerg won’t let Void win again. The Vanillan lines shall crumble in the face of their dead leaders.” She smiled wryly and her husband followed suit; an artful bit of deception that.
A few men who had some vague resemblance to dead leaders and heroes had been selected, briefed on the lives of their predecessors and then Zerg had spent several months in Mojang spreading fear and terror into the hearts of the other Houses via cheap smoke and mirrors. A few men with convincing make-up of wounds here, a man who lost his head and somehow stayed standing there; and of course those who had known the dead men did half of the job for them. At this point all Zerg would have to do was strut out with his alleged army of ghosts and the entire rebel force would scatter to the winds. It also helped that they were among Zerg’s most fierce warriors. The only ones than bested them were the Golems.
They had suggested that the Kreatians led the assault, letting them have a head-start on charging the Vanillans. No one objected. If the Kreatian horde could do the killing for them, they would gladly let them win the war for them. His army was the most numerous after all, conscripting almost the entire province of Kreatious and garnering for himself 350,000 men. The largest standing army not run by the True Court. And no one could doubt that they were as fierce.
Then the terror came back. “What if Zerg fails?”
“Then you have someone to blame. No one in their right mind will seek to pin the blame on you. Zerg’s a psychopath and everyone knows it and hates him for it. The second he outlives his usefulness we will only be the first to push him under the horse’s hooves by a split-second.”
Dominus halted, shaking. “Stay close to me out there.” He turned to Ellen, holding her, eyes filled with sincerity. “If I die you are the one to carry on the name. It’s just you and… him.” He lowered his hand across her breastplate. “He is our future. It is for him we fight.”
“Then he shall be born glistening with Void’s blood.”
The Emperor of the Realm laughed and embraced his wife with a passionate but delicate enthusiasm.
“Might I interrupt? There seems to be a **** tonne of people outside. You could swear they were about to fight in some sort of international war or something. You know anything about this?” Dominus looked away from his wife for a moment.
At the entrance of the tent was Mathias, smirking. Had this come from anyone else Dominus probably would have personally broken his legs. However, he knew Mathias too well to take any of his sarcasm to heart.
“Sorry, we all need to stay sane somehow.” He grinned.
“Tell that to Wedgely.” Mathias said, unsure himself whether he meant to be witty or obscenely bitter.
Mathias had always had a personal dislike of the Wedgewood family, going back to his youth, wherein Wedgely’s late brother allegedly cheated in a jousting contest. Mathias’ jaw was broken by the force of the blow and to this date his jaw was still a little lopsided. What happened to the other Wedgewood? He’s the “late brother” for a reason.
When the city of Wedgewood was drawn in in order to replace Rome Mathias had expressed his distaste once more, but had kept quiet about it. Now it seemed he was getting a little fed up with damn near all the replacements except for Drakon. However, Dominus couldn’t deny that he himself was having trouble standing Wedgewood at the moment.
He was obsessed with avenging his family after what happened before Qustom Peak. He was one of the many who viewed the battle as a failure, least of all because those who killed his wife and children walked free. He was going to prove a problem soon enough. He hoped that once Tauto Chrone died Wedgely would mellow; otherwise he’d have to pray that his horse gave out and hurled him from it.
Dominus drew himself delicately away from Ellen, taking her warm hand delicately and lifted it to his lips. Then Dominus went to Mathias.
“Today we end this.” He placed a hand upon the shoulder of his friend.
“I pray we do Dominus.” Mathias smiled sadly back. “I can’t buy you out of this one.”
The two laughed nervously at the memory of their past exploits, then Dominus beckoned to Ellen, and the trio departed.
***
“What do you mean it’s not there?” Void shouted at the robed men in his room.
“We’ve almost gotten it Void. We mistranslated the map slightly, that’s all.” Ryan was apologetic in manner, but nonetheless stood firm.
“We don’t have time for these sorts of mistakes! We’re vulnerable thanks to this!” He came up close to his apprentice, snarling in his face. “Our only hope of holding them back was the Well! If we had it, Dominus wouldn’t come near us!”
“You stow too much faith in the possession of Wells Void.” Epsilon interjected, coming to Ryan’s rescue. “They are powerful yes, but you know Dominus has little regard for the damage they can do. Look at what he did with his well back in the last Craft! He summoned a damned dragon priest he couldn’t control that was killed by a sheep. You assume he’s going to suddenly halt when this is his knowledge of their power?”
Void stayed silent.
“Anyway, if you’re so confident that it’ll cause Dom to back off, we don’t need it. You hint that we have a Well and he won’t know what to do with himself. Dominus is mad but not stupid. We’ll hold him at bay until he either retreats or the Winter comes and starves his army.”
Void nodded. “You’re right Epsilon. I’m sorry.” He turned to Ryan again, somewhat more coldly. “How long will it take you to find it?”
“A week or so.”
Void sighed. “You’d better find it. Leave me.”
The group filed out slowly, one by one, shooting looks which spoke a thousand garbled, frantic apologies. Then, when he was at last alone Void cried out to his servant.
“Samuel!”
In came a man in a faded green robe, with a large flabby head and massive flopping nose shambled in with a blank look on his face.
Void reached down to the wine jug on his table and poured with shaking hands a glass full to spilling point. He lifted it with shaking hands and downed the whole thing quickly, spilling the red liquid through his wiry beard and staining his skin. His head then whipped back before flopping limply forwards, panting.
“Get me my armour.”
And with that the Testificate ambled out of the room, making incomprehensible noises to his comrades, leaving the Administrator to pant, and to worry, and to pre-emptively mourn.
***
“I can’t bloody stand horses.” Muttered I, sat atop one of the unruly beasts. “I don’t know how warfare ever became so centred on them. They’re impractical and easily outwitted.”
“Well Dominus has a horde of them, we need something to balance it out.” Aaron murmured as he finished helping me properly strap myself to the horse.
“We also have a horde of them, I think it’s pretty even-handed.”
“Well we need to be more even-handed.”
“I don’t think it’ll make a damn bit of difference when only about 100 of our people are actually competent enough to be a threat on horseback, even with Small reluctantly at their fore.”
“I don’t think you whining about it’ll make a damn bit of difference.”
We exchanged a grin and set ourselves to canter out. Both of us were fully armoured, head to toe, helmets and all. The armour had been made fresh and polished to a gleam. We couldn’t let our enemies think us unfastidious after all, we’d embarrass Void in front of his rich friends.
The battle was all set, and the Gaians were ready. Alongside Arcation and the men of the Fade Craft we’d be holding the enemy at the steps leading up to the city. We were going to let them spill in with their first couple of waves, letting them advance on the outer gates of the city. Then, Walt (among others) would enter the battle with the artillery at the rear, and Cossack would enter with the airships.
Thanks to the men of the Myth Craft, with some technical aid from Gracey, we’d been able to establish a large line of artillery pieces which could easily reduce anything approaching to mush, and significantly beat our foes in terms of range. Once a significant number of our foes had swept in we would use the artillery to separate them from the rest of the army and use this opportunity to slaughter those left within our reach. We predicted that this force would largely consist of Kreatians and hopefully Zerg himself. From what we’d gathered, Zerg and I’s brawl had become infamous, and his breakdown even more so. They’d leave him to die, along with all those who followed him. However, this didn’t make Zerg any less dangerous, and we still had to figure out how to deal with that “Undead Army”.
Cossack would lead the Gaian airship fleet (the largest out of all those assembled by a few dozen) and bomb our enemies in their retreat and hold off any enemy air support. However, with no solid evidence of there being an enemy fleet of any substance, their work was going to be largely reduced.
Then I split off from Aaron, who hurtled back to our lines; to Secret and to Small and to Bokane. I turned forwards, and moved out to meet Void and his fellow Administrators.
As I’d said, my brawl with Zerg was infamous. I was now a leading figure in this “rebellion”, and it would cost us face should I be absent.
And so we found ourselves, crunching through the snow and towards the enemy lines. They outnumbered us largely. The Realm always did. But we feared not numbers. What we feared was the steel the numbers bore, and the viciousness with which they would swing it.
There were about 30 of us, myself, Tauto, Gogyst, Void, Halberdson, Epsilon and 7 Administrators I did not recognise; the remainder were nobles and or guards who mattered very little to me (and to be honest it was hard to tell the difference between the two classes). There were more administrators behind our cause than this of course, these were simply the ones who were brave or well enough to face another in battle.
Across from us were Dominus’ significantly larger party. We had roughly 700,000 men at our backs, and he had a good number over a million. Of course there was his usual pantheon of mercenary kings and marionette generals. These need little introduction.
Wise One looked practically ashamed to be there as per usual. Wedgely was busy glaring at Chrone. Drakon was busy being proud and dignified, and the other soldiers among the Seven were trying to capture some grain of that conceded majesty. Jiibrael was too occupied calculating our weaknesses to actually pay any heed to our presence. Ellen looked like she was attempting to figure out the six best ways to kill us using only her eyes, eyes seemingly targeting Tauto in particular. Of course there was that snide ******* Synthenos smirking at everyone from beneath his little bride’s veil of a hood.
Around them were several dozen men of import. There were at least 10 administrators and two moderators who could represent their aging masters. Very few of these were of any real significance to me. However, there were some men who I should probably mention.
On behalf of the House of Lomadia was “lord” Lewis Xephos. A self-made man, earned his way up in society, building for himself a name from his well-loved plays, the Epic Israphel Saga (which rose to prominence following the exposure of Israphel as a traitor) and his various science-fiction and fantasy novels. Around these he built the well-known Yogs Theatre company, becoming one of the wealthiest men in Mojang. Eventually he married the young Lady Lomadia following several years of courting and came into the fortunes of her father, Gregor Lomadia, leader of probably the richest and most powerful of the Great Houses within the True Court’s domain. However, four, maybe five years ago there was a divorce between the two, resulting in Xephos gaining a large sum of Gregor Lomadia’s fortune.
Gregor was insulted and basically disowned Xephos despite his daughter’s calmness. No one quite understood how Xephos had wormed his way into this position again with the Lomadias, but it certainly wasn’t because Gregor was going soft. Gregor Lomadia was not known to be an easy man to sway. In fact, Xephos was lucky to survive the encounter. Now Gregor seemed to be playing catch-up on ruthlessness, using Xephos to call up and settle several high-profile debts.
Now he stood here, well-armoured and confident, holding the reins of his horse firmly as he evaluated us, his eyes lingering on me in a deconstructive manner, attempting to grasp what I was. He was somehow confused by my continued existence. He wore all the furs and rings that a Lord or a King might wear, embellishing himself even more than Mathias (who wore a heavy suit of highly impractical golden armaments).
Actually, on the note of Mathias, he seemed to have struck a chord with Lomadia’s mouthpiece. I knew not what they spoke of, unable to pay attention.
At the fore of the crowd were the two heads. Zerg was cold as ever, the reins seeming to literally freeze slightly under his grip. He paid my presence absolutely no notice, glaring at Void, who met his blade-like glare and locked with it.
Then there was Dominus, smirking ambitiously at Void and myself, wearing his silver coating and with it a black fur cloak.
I looked to the East, a storm was coming. The snow on the ground was already thick, but this would be the one to start the Winter. I could feel it. Dominus could flee now or be trapped for the whole Winter.
“Hello Void.” Dominus spoke calmly. “You don’t look too well. Not been sleeping?” Void glared back with bagged, bloodshot eyes. “I’m not surprised.” He looked to Zerg, who rode slightly forwards.
“Void,” Zerg began in his calmest voice, making a concerted effort to tame his madness. “You took all I cared for. My lord Krisst died at your hand; you took my people’s freedom from them; and you stole from me the last few hundred years. As far as I’m concerned, you and all men who support you are criminals and deserve to be given to the rack. However, I am still merciful. Those of you who surrender now, I will grant you freedom, and a place among us. Your people will be untouched and free to go home. That I guarantee. If you stay with the traitor I shall unleash upon thee my undead hordes, who shall slaughter every last man, woman and child. Now, who of you shall see wisdom?”
Not a man stepped forward. One seemed to consider it, but Tauto’s hand moing to his dagger stayed him.
“I’m sorry Administrators, Lords of the Kreatians and the Superlative Craft.” I called out pleadingly. “I surrender. My people have suffered too greatly to withstand this conflict. Half our army is scattered to the winds and our people starve, with Void doing naught to stop this.” The entire crowd stared at me silently. “And then there’s your undead horde. My men would scatter and sooner slit their own throats than face the undying spirits of the best of the warriors of ancient times. I will gladly face justice at Jeb’s court, so long as you save my people.”
Zerg grinned. “And so the Lapdog lies down upon his back.” Dominus seemed ready to challenge him, but decided against it.
Chrone seemed unsure as to whether or not to come over and disembowel me, his face shifting between the stretched features of surprise and the scrunched wrinkles of anger. I bowed my head in shame, not daring to even look at Void, guilt clawing at my soul.
“If you could send a messenger over from among your ranks, I’m sure my people would give in peacefully.”
Zerg savoured this a moment, lightly shutting his eyes and letting a faint smile appear. Then he gestured to just who I wanted him to. One of his undead soldiers always escorted him, and today he called upon this alleged corpse to serve as messenger, just as I wanted. This was perfect.
“Go Lap Dog, let this man tell your people that they shall be safe.”
And so I and the messenger trudged back through the snow as Dominus and Void squared off against each other, continuing to spar verbally. But their words no longer mattered; all that mattered was that my people heard what this man had to say.
Aaron and Secret hopped down the massive steps, shunting aside our men. I jumped down from my mount and handed it to a stressed looking attendant.
“Kay, what is this?” Secret demanded.
“Zerg’s terms of surrender are about to be read.”
“What!” It wasn’t so much of a question as an exclamation. “After all this you’re surrendering?”
“I’m doing what’s right.”
Aaron remained silent, eying me up. Any other man would have objected, but not him. He nodded along, betraying nothing. Secret looked to him helplessly.
“You can’t let him do this Aaron!” He pleaded.
“He’s your King, Secret. He will do as he pleases.”
Secret choked up and his arms fell limp. He took a few steps back, unable to comprehend this treachery.
Then, up came the messenger, who had lagged behind, his horse used to the sunny Kreatian plains of dried, dead grass and half-fertile dirt, staggering drunkenly in the thick white sea.
Then he stood before me. He was young, and his face was not familiar to me in any form other than portraits. This man was a former moderator, or at least a man made to look like one. He had fallen in Zerg’s revolt; some say Void himself killed him, crushing his skull. Yet somehow his name was lost to all but the belligerents of that mighty war. Now it was said he had been brought back, to fight this war once more. I pitied him, I really did, to fight the same wars for the same men and the same cause, never getting any closer. Maybe my actions today would spare him this.
“Before you speak, let me address them.” He nodded respectfully, understanding that it was customary.
I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and turned. When I opened them, the entire Gaian army stood before me, waiting for the what their king was about to say. I knew nothing of what they thought at the moment, whether they thought me rational and practical, mad and dangerous or opportunistic and traitorous. All the time I feared that they would turn on me, but I spoke, and it was the clearest I had ever spoken.
“Gaians, I have led you all upon a merry dance, but it is time to face facts. I am a braggart. All I told you was implausible and unsubstantiated. We won’t win this battle. How could we? Our enemy has an undead army of thousands. An enemy that is already dead. How can we kill such a foe?” I let this question sink in, listening to spite whisper across the winds. “Unless of course, in the eventuality that Zerg lies to us. In which case, he would be as great a braggart as me. But honestly, what chance is there of that. Although, I do pose another question to you… Do the dead bleed?” There was now the rumblings of intrigue instead of hatred among them.
“Surely, if they’re like the undead creatures that stumble in the night, they bleed? And if something bleeds, then surely it can die?” I paused again for effect. “So today, this young man will help to answer that question for us.”
It was too quick for him to respond. Amicus slipped through the gap in his armour and tore through the skin atop his ribs, and then through his left lung. I then pulled him from his horse and threw him into the snow. He tried to rise, but Secret’s arrow pierced his neck before he did so, freezing him a moment before sending him into the sleep, death smothering the life in his eyes. The body flopped, and it stayed.
I looked up, unable to stop myself from smiling. Secret looked at me understandingly, nodding in apology. Aaron seemed both disgusted and relieved at the same time.
“Well Gaians, it seems that the dead do bleed. And they die too.” Said I, to some laughter from those who heard me in the crowd, nudging him laxly with my foot. “So Zerg seems to be a braggart. And let me tell you Gaians, if the dead bleed, then so do the braggarts who raise them. Do you hear me? Braggarts! Do! Bleed!” I raised my red-stained sword aloft, to cheers from the crowd. They were ready.
I looked at the group of leaders. I couldn’t make any of them out, but I could tell that they were looking at me, horrified, angered and or triumphant. The pack broke as the men of the Superlative and Kreatious Crafts rode off in a huff, and our block of leaders broke off.
Gogyst rode past me on the way to the lines of his men, crying “Well met Gaian, the hive is buzzing, now to crush it!” I had no idea how Gogyst dispatched hives of bees, wasps and hornets, but it certainly didn’t sound dull.
There were a few tense minutes as the Kreatians lined up, Zerg marching at their fore and working them into a frenzy. Behind them were the warriors of the Kingdom of the Rising Sun and behind them the collective horde.
Then, there was a battle cry sharp as a blade, and shrill as the shriek of a bird of prey, and they ran at us. Some of our men in the centre, mounted upon horseback, ran forth to face the horde, vanishing into the grey wave. Meanwhile, the marksmen took aim with their rifles, ordered by their officers to pick a man each as the barbarians came to us.
The black mass came closer and closer to us. The first round of rifles went off, and the men and horses at the fore tumbled. I saw their ranks more clearly now, an unruly mass, with no order to the ranks. Horses trampled men, rushing forward without care. A line of pike-wielding Gaians locked their shields at the base of the steps before me.
Aaron was at my side, and Secret not too far away, readying to slay any who attempted to scale the battlements and cheat the steps. The Priests of Arcation said their low, growling battle-rites, readying to give themselves to the fold once our ranks broke. The men of the Fade Craft (the “Fades” as the men called them) were out of sight to the left of us, no doubt readying themselves in a similar manner. I prayed silently to Herobrine for the first time in what I felt was far too long an interval.
The second volley went off, and with it the archers fired from behind us, striking the mass of bodies to little noticeable avail. Here and there one could see an explosion felling one or two men as Secret released precise shot after precise shot. A third went off, and then they were upon us. The pikes tore through flesh and iron, and some of the barbarians halted in their charge, surprise and disappointment frozen on their faces. Another volley was fired and more than ever before fell, the archers firing over us and hitting men in the larger crowd. But the more they killed the less difference it seemed to make. Already the barbarians were pouring up the steps, coming up to face the riflemen in the closest of quarters, charging past the spearmen as if they were nothing. I barked an order as the first of them completed their climb up the steps and our men ran down, swords and axes and spears gleaming, ready to taste blood.
And taste they did, they were engorged with blood, both theirs and our own. The Kreatians were relentless, falling upon us without hesitation, exclaiming their loyalty to the true lords of the Vanilla Craft as they took life and had it taken from them. I would have almost viewed their tenacity as admirable had they been on our side.
The cannons started as planned, but a misfire on our side of the battlefield left an opening, and through it poured the men of the Trooping Gnome, those playing at being from the higher plain of the Aether. We could not tell how many slipped under our lines, for the storm began to pour in and thick snow began to cloud our view of the fields.
As they marched upon us, Secret, his doubt gone and his blood-lust replacing it, called out, “An Administrator! I got one... Who wants to live forever?”
He took three arrows into his hand and a charge of scattered men rushed forwards, cutting down all who opposed them as they marched upon the corpse of this fallen lord. I saw not the battle as the storm and fighting men clouded my view of anything beyond the battlements and the stairs. According to Secret it was the battle of the ages, in which several moderators died, and he brought back his prize, the armour and staff of an Administrator, the wearer having since re-formed.
Whilst he was still out there, killing men over one already dead, Aaron and I held the staircase. The line of pikemen had all but collapsed and we were locked in a hideous, thrashing melee. Enough of them had poured through to disrupt the archers and riflemen, who had ceased their volleys and had now resorted to taking pot-shots into the horde from the battlements and at any Kreatian they set eyes on. What was worse was that Gnome’s men were now advancing.
While few in number, (their entire army was no more than four thousand men back before they entered a civil war,) the Kingdom of the Aether had a relentless group of fighters at their helm, and none were more dangerous than Gnome himself. Under Legend he was a fanatic, as King he was even worse. He was dedicated to proving himself the King Aetherian folklore spoke of, who would lead an invincible force and storm the gates of the Aether and return them to their homeland.
Now he stood not more than 5 yards from me, as yet unopposed. Aaron was nowhere to be seen, nor any other man I knew. Once I broke free I would have to fight him.
Then, one young, brave Gaian underling rushed him, lunging at him with his spear. Gnome stepped to the side, tripping him and entrenching a gaping crevice upon his back, cutting through the hides which held together the iron plates of his armour, and eating through the flesh. He made no effort to finish him. Another charged at him, a young noble eager to prove himself a warrior, swinging from the side with a finely polished blade. Gnome met it with his own sword and the two traded blows a short while. Then the Aetherian King grew tired of his sport, and dispatched the little man by slamming his helmeted head into the exposed face of the noble, killing him instantly. As the young man dissipated into dust, I broke free from my last engagement, and readied to charge him.
I ran forward as he regained his senses, whipping my arm and firing a powerful blow at him. However, his shield was raised to meet it. I nonetheless continued my charge, and he reciprocated. At the last moment, I rolled to the side, as he roared past me. He powered on a few steps before lurching to a stop. But it was too late; I caught him on the back of the leg, severing a vein. He let out a horrible, rigid spasm that jolted through his body, struggling to lash down a scream.
A second stab would have killed him, and I tried to deliver this blow, but he managed to find clarity from pain and batted my blade aside with his mighty shield. He spun back round with the counter-blow, stabbing at my ribs. Thankfully, I was caught off balance and staggered along after his shield, only receiving a glancing blow which scratched the metal skin of my breastplate. I swung over his shield with a clumsiness that would make a drunkard laugh. Yet somehow I caught the top of his helmet and threw it from his head. We both jointly stumbled past each other as he all but collapsed from the blow.
He returned to me, a gash up his forehead sending a crimson streak down his dirt-caked temple. We then engaged again. He was brutal, swinging mercilessly and . I however was faster and more agile, flitting around him and landing glancing blows upon his armour. Then, he swung at my head too heavily. He knocked Amicus from my hand with the blow, sending it clattering to the ground, backhandedly clubbing me across the face with a heavy, shielded arm. I was dazed, and he swung over his head with a mighty slash which I only narrowly avoided. Yet he swung too hard, and the blow brought him to the ground with such force that it found some corpse and embedded itself in its skull.
I took my opportunity and belted him in the side of his injured leg with my boot. There was a gratifying crunch and he fell to the stone with a clang that was absorbed by the battle around us. There was a whip of my hand, a flash, and a shortly following bang, and the Aetherian King was dead. I paused a moment out of respect for his resilience before crying out the traditional victorious obscenities and prising off his signet ring and grabbing the ceremonial dagger which the Aetherians held dear.
Then Tejmin, smeared with blood approached me once I had calmed, rifle clenched tightly in hand. “My liege, the Fades are being overrun by a column of Golems. They need help.”
I looked around, and called to the leader of a small group of auxiliaries who I knew. “Patchy! Take your men round to the Fades, they need you much more than we do here.”
And with that they were off. The battle was going well here. The Kreatian ranks were thinning and the Aetherians, while ferocious, would soon tire. Aaron was nowhere to be seen, but to my relief I saw the fire spouts of the Chief Priest getting nearer.
That was when Zerg made his personal entry to the battlefield, and while I still have no clue of the precise details of it, I know that it was one that legends will be made about for years to come. The boom was deafening, even from as far away as we were. Rubble was strewn across the field, coating every man even further. I saw through the storm, which was now upon the gates to the east and about to reach us very soon, and I saw men flying with the rubble, Void’s men. Then, I saw a half-hidden, titanic spear of ice fly across the battlefield and slam into the metal gate, ringing out like a gong and leaving a dent in it so easily one could swear it was made of clay.
I hailed a group of riflemen who were pushing their way towards me from the battlements, searching for a place to treat their wounded, as the still somehow ordered ranks of the archers sent another flurry of arrows over our heads and into the seething throng. They came to me, a group of Key’s men.
“Thomas? Who were you with?” I shouted to the nearest one, Thomas Bone of Mojang, who had now joined the Gaian military full-time.
“Key sir, we don’t know where he is. I think he’s still out there with Secret and a few hundred others.” I frowned. “Don’t worry sir, they’re more than able to hold themselves and last I saw the Legionnaires and Mythics had managed to gain some ground towards them. We came back because we were rushed by a couple of Golems. Wiped out half of us, and injured quite a few more. We had to come back.”
I nodded. “How many able-bodied men do you still have?”
“About a dozen, sir, and a few who can just about fight, but we can’t leave the wounded undefended.”
“You won’t have to… Sorry, what’s your rank, haven’t had time to keep track of your progress and I can’t make out your markings under all that grime.”
“Sergeant, sir, now Notch give you speed.” He patted me on the back, speaking in a manner much more brusquely than I was used to from among the ranks. I liked him.
I shunted my way through the battle, felling the men of Kreatious’ Nether-born furs. Then I saw Gogyst, cracking skulls with glee alongside his Priests.
“Gogyst!” I called out.
“Kay! How fare you? Is this not as good as Zine Craft? Does it meet your high standards?” He grinned from beneath his hood, our confrontation forgotten in his love of battle.
“I was at Zine Craft Gogyst, and it’s a damn over-praised battle. This is much more my type of war. But listen, I need you to guard some wounded. I’m taking a group of men over to see what in Jeb’s name is going on with Zerg.”
In the background there was another thunderous boom as one of the cannons misfired and ripped itself and those around it apart.
“Yes, that lot over there?” He gestured correctly to the crowd and I nodded. “I’ll see that they’re tended to. Take Vacar with you, his talent is wasted on Aetherians and other such savages.” We laughed and he called to his priesthood, “Come on lads, we’re going to preserve life as we take it! Vacar, go with Kay, see what Zerg’s doing.”
Vacar silently consented, not quite forgetting our last encounter in the arena, and we left; we took Thomas and his riflemen and rushed into the storm, sticking closely together as we came to the sight of the explosion.
It was a large flat plain of stone before the gate and the storm seemed to be swirling thickest here. Men were slaughtering each other atop the growing white mounds as the wind smothered campfires and strangled torches. I sent my men out to search for Epsilon or some other Moderator and stood with Vacar, looking for a point at which to intervene. That was when Vacar called for me to duck.
A giant metal fist slammed into my side and I heard my ribs crunch. I flew, carried the by force of the blow and closer to the middle of the plain of battle. I gasped for breath, body taken aback at the pain of the blow. My hand jerkily crept to my side and pulled back a vial filled with a pink liquid. I pulled the top with my teeth, finding my arm unable to move, and downed the bottle. I juddered as my bones realigned and rebuilt themselves, but then my head finally stopped spinning and my vision undoubled itself.
Vacar stood atop the corpse of a headless Golem as the other two stared own at him. He was helpless, limping in one leg, barely able to move. One of the two mighty hulks raised their square fist. But before it could fall it’s head was shattered by a boulder, spraying shrapnel like broken teeth. The other Golem sought to see the assailant, but found its arm missing, wrenched from its side by invisible arms. It staggered, slouching to compensate for its new centre of gravity. This was to no avail, as a great spear of ice then pierced its torso, and its eyes blinked before it toppled.
Bokane ran to aid the limping Vacar, but found the wand flying from his hand. He stopped, skidding in the snow before running back and fumbling for it. Just as he found it, Zerg attacked. In the air before Bokane thousands of icy shards formed before him. He raised his wand in defence, a shimmering violet barrier forming before him just as they descended upon him. They shattered against the barrier for a full minute before the Kreatian relented. Then Bokane stood back up completely unharmed, raised his wand at the seemingly impressed Kreatian Lord, and they locked eyes. Bokane then swung his arm in an arc motion, but before he did anything meaningful he was struck by an invisible force which felled him, sending him into the deepest sleep he’d had in a long time.
Zerg was an impressive sight, dressed all in the furs of wolves and other ferocious beasts of the Kreatian plains, thaumium chains wrapped around his neck and over his shoulders. His pale blue skin was almost invisible in the great blizzard around him. Clasped in him was a hastily forged golden staff, wrapped around a thick, charred wand. He then began to trudge through the snow.
I lay still in the snow, training my perk upon him as he drew closer. Then, just as I had a good shot, the ice around me rose up and bound my hands together in their frozen vice. I tried to struggle, but a great icy blade rose up beside me, stopping mere centimetres from my own eye.
“The next one, if my aim is good, will emasculate you lap dog. If my aim is poor and you struggle too greater, it will sever your spine.” Zerg was now kneeling before me, grinning through his faint sandy beard, his skin almost transparent, holding some other being with. I gawked at him speechlessly. “I’m glad we have an understanding.”
He stood up and continued to march forward, when there was a swirling of the snow around him, and several moderators appeared around him. At their fore was Epsilon.
“Halt now Mountainslayer. You have one opportunity to end this. Don’t turn it down.” He tried his best, but Epsilon couldn’t mask the faint tremors of fear from his throat.
Zerg merely grinned, and the storm swirled upon them thicker than ever before. I saw little flashes of activity as if from behind a vaguely translucent curtain, flickering in the wind. There Zerg appeared behind a man, only for him to find his neck broken, there Epsilon flailed wildly in the storm, hoping beyond hope to hit something.
The storm, after continuing for too long, cleared completely. The sky became empty of all but the sun, and one could see the air battle at last, our ships victorious as their tiny but feisty little fleet fell down in flames. And there was Epsilon, still standing atop a small hill of snow which had formed, heaving heavily. The other moderators all lay dead, along with many other nameless figures from both sides, but Zerg was nowhere to be seen, and there was blood on the Moderator's sword. He looked around confusedly. Had he banished the beast? Was this victory? Hope entered his eyes, and the men let out a cheer.
That was when the snow behind him crumbled away, and the one who called it rose out of it as if prised up. In his hand was a small blade, and he plunged it into the back of Epsilon, slicing along the base of his spine. The moderator, that slayer and lord of men, collapsed in the dirt and died a heaving, pale, shivering cripple, no better than a beggar in armour. As the blood ran out into the dirt, Zerg turned around to the gates.
“How many more must die Void? Can you not just face me as you once did? Or do you now feel too important for such things? Must you now send out boys and half-trained students to fight the lord of the frost? I must admit, I wouldn’t entirely blame you, were you anyone else. A man who has slain the mountains and the Winter itself? The bringer of the endless Spring? How could you hope to match me, to face me in combat again? But this somehow didn’t scare you before. Now, come and face me coward. Or must I come behind those gates and kill every man, woman and child in what remains the Vanilla Craft?”
That was when the gates opened slowly, swing back to reveal our Administrator, staff in hand. His beard was shaggy and his hair wilted. His bloodshot eyes were like broken glass in their appearance. But there was also still dignity to him, a power. This man was going to fight, and he would win no matter what the cost.
“At last Void.” Zerg laughed, relishing the moment. “Now, we both know how this must proceed. The two sorcerors must clash once more, at last on an even plain. Both of us possess true magic, true power; not this farcical imitation the True Court bestow upon the feeble-minded to enforce their laws. You know it must be so.”
Void said nothing, just nodding. Both men threw their staffs and their thaumic chains aside and then stood with their feet apart. No man sought to intervene, all knowing the sacredness of this ritual. This was the battle to decide all, which the entire war hinged upon.
If Zerg fell the Kreatians would flee and quickly resort to fighting each other again, as they had before his release. If Void died the Vanillans were doomed and their allies would flee. Zerg would march across our lands and murder everyone he found, wiping out entire cultures as he did so. I would be taken to Mojang and publically executed at best. At worst I would be emasculated and maimed and forced to serve Jeb as his Harbinger; his slave. I would be granted immortality, kept alive as a reminder of Jeb’s power, and as an example to those who aspired to godhood. The last man who had served in this role was Enoch, leader of the Thaums in the Golden Revolution. At last Notch had judged his debt paid, and granted him death after over a thousand years of mixed servitude and torture.
The silence lasted two long, when all of a sudden both men raised their hands, and a dry roaring could be heard in the ears of every man for thousands of leagues. Yet nothing seemed to be happening to the naked eye. That was when the storm began to gather once more.
The sky became dark as clouds thick as rock formed from nothing, more like smoke than anything else. Then storm began to swirl around the two rigid combatants and the winds began to pick up and nearly blind everyone who faced directly into their stinging path. I was just beneath the winds, enough to look into the storm as it formed an opaque, seething wall around the two men. Snow began to swing in increasing sheets, blinding all men. That was when the lightning came, crackling along the edge of the storm in a desperate effort to match up to the confrontation within.
With my eyes watering as wind whipped my face and snow proceeded to coat it, I saw in the clouds the flashing outlines of two gargantuan warriors, larger than mountains, battling to the death, both with swords, the Southern one holding a sword made of the blizzard, the Northern one holding a sword make of lightning. As they slashed at each other the blades struck each other with immeasurable force, each clash of their blades causing a mighty thunder-crash which must have nearly collapsed the Nether itself.
The Southern figure held aloft its sword and from the clouds appeared a helpless airship, carried by wicked and treacherous winds to the battle. It slashed forward, throwing the ship towards its opponent as it did so. The Northern however raised its fist and a shield made of the black clouds appeared at its wrist, the airship shattering against it. Shards of wood that would have torn another man to shreds merely bounced off the skin of the Northern.
The Northern then swung underarm at the Southern, slashing his visage and sending a smoky cloud of incorporeal flesh flying upwards into the storm where it dissipated back into nothing. The Southern fell back on the ground, legs buckling from pain, clasping its wound.
I saw a gap in the storm. Zerg was lying on the ground in the same position as the Southern, with Void walking slowly but deliberately towards him as the Northern followed suit, a perfect reflection of his corporeal brother. I looked closely at the reeling figure of the Kreatian lord, and I could have sworn that for a second I saw normal, bleeding human skin beneath a shell of ice that was no longer impregnable. That was when I realised, all men are vulnerable. We must simply hide our mortality as best as possible until death pulls back the curtain and reveals us.
Then Thomas came down beside me in my introspection. I looked at him, still paralyzed by clarity. His beard was matted with blood and his nose was bent to the side and flattened. At his hip Amicus was hurriedly looped through his belt. He looked completely exhausted, but he still stood over me as the storm continued to swirl, sawing at my icy bonds. I wanted to thank him but no words would come for some bizarre reason.
I returned my eyes to the storm, but the two Administrators were gone. And now the Northern stood over the Southern, who flailed wildly with their blade. But the Northern swung and he shattered the icy blade, dispelling it. Then he held his sword over his head and lunged down, the Southern crying out with the shriek of a hurricane. But they could do nothing, the Southern was skewered and the two vanished.
The world was suddenly calmed, the roaring gone now, all realising its abrupt, jarring absence, despite many of these people not even noticing its presence to being with. The storm stopped swirling, and the clouds began to dissipate, the clouds becoming smoke without purpose, thinning and floating upwards, as if dissolving into nothing. As Thomas cut me free and handed me back Amicus, my eyes couldn’t leave the thinning circle where the lords had duelled.
Void stood mournfully over a pile of broken ice smother in ash. Then sadness turned to anger, and then he released this fell to his knees from exhaustion. But suddenly, he sensed it just before me, the sound of horses hooves and of men’s cries become uncomfortably louder. I looked into the mist, calling to Thomas and any others in the immediate area. That was when the eagle-feathered arrow struck Void in the chest and the Administrator collapsed.
And then from the thinning smoke the Rising Sun and all its power came into view.
The battle that followed was long and brutal, and some misguided individuals afterwards dared to describe it as glorious. I cannot quite describe what it was, all blurring together in adrenaline and desperation. Void was not treated as a living being, but as a corpse already, dragged back and forth between the armies like a child’s doll. None were more vicious than Jiibrael, who seemed invulnerable, having struck Void himself.
However, eventually a stray arrow found the gap between the plates of Jiibrael’s armour, and he felt mortality’s beckoning once more. He fled after that, rushed back to a medical tent for his wounds to be treated immediately and with great attention before he began to treat himself with some great reward of luxury. His men lost nerve after he was wounded, with rumours spreading quickly that someone had shot him in the throat and that he was as good as dead already, leading to a hasty but admittedly dignified retreat on their part.
And so we were left with Void, who was half-dead from blood-loos, and brought even closer to that last door by poison. But alas, for now he still breathed, faintly and delicately, with unseeing, wax-like eyes. Nonetheless, we had our leader returned.
They rushed him off back within the gates before too many could see what a sorry state he was in, and not long after the remaining Kreatians were either killed or driven back. Celebrations were held, the undertakers came out and the bodies were collected. We all made a great show of pretending it was some kind of great victory; that we had somehow stopped Zerg and Dominus and those yet to come.
My people were particularly revered in the battle for our various victories, such as the deaths of Gnome and the Administrator Secret had skewered and succeeded in retrieving the corpse of. Honestly, Secret seemed to have been hung up on getting a noteworthy kill to his name since his dispute with Linx several months prior, with his fierce denial of him having any real thought of the incident only cementing my belief. I thought it was interesting how people could become so hung up on little remarks like that.
However, the greatest accolades of course went to Viking, who had led the air-fleet. They had destroyed the enemy fleet, which had included a Divine gunboat on loan from some eager Official stationed nearby. However, when they realised that they couldn’t help us by reliably bombing the enemy due to the storm, they had used the cover of the storm to bomb their camp, seemingly destroying thousands of supplies as well as kill many of the reservist forces. All of this achieved, and with minimal casualties.
Nonetheless, as we revelled and we drank, we began to forget fear, plans and the enemy that still lay outside our gates. And perhaps if we hadn’t been so adamant in forgetting, we wouldn’t have remembered so much else, of previously faded disputes and gripes, and of justice that we felt needed to be done. Perhaps things would have turned out better that way.
The Administrator lay upon his bed, breaths sounding as if they were whistling through an old and empty house rather than a person. His entire body was entirely limp and motionless, his right arm falling off of the side of the bed like a cut of meat hanging off the edge of the butcher’s table. The chest of the once mighty administrator was bare, his robes ripped open. Even without the various green-tinted bruises and the puckering, swollen remains of the arrow wound marring his chest, it would have perturbed Ryan.
All of them had come to think, despite Void’s teachings and those of the True Court, that Void was something of a god in his own right. He’d always given this aura off of him, of wisdom and security… no, not security, permanence. He always knew what to say back in the old days; back when Dominus was still loyal and before the Onslaught. Hell, it was better even during the Onslaught as far as Ryan was concerned. They thought his wisdom made him invulnerable, immortal even. But now - with all illusions shattered - they saw what he truly was, a frail old man who was indeed very mortal. The fat was faded from his chest, leaving a puckering stomach and ribcage that might as well have been covered in paper. But, despite all this, the worst part was Void’s eyes.
His eyes were not glazed, watery and stationary as those of many men would be, but instead sharp, dry and hyperactive. They darted around the room, the whites now off-colour, almost consumed by the diverging veins. He was obviously still alive and aware yes, but this was somehow worse than stupor or even death in the eyes of the onlooker - perhaps even in those of the victim himself. Void, despite all this was still alive and perfectly aware of what was happening, and the eyes were a concrete reminder of this.
Ryan, despite knowing it was callous and cruel, simply wished he could just snuff it so that they could bury the body and try to move on. As long as he still breathed they had to put off the burial.
That *******, Jiibrael, the archangel, the broken relic, had tipped his arrow with poison. And while his people had been driven back eventually, Ryan wasn’t sure they even wanted to capture Void’s body. They didn’t need to; they just needed to delay them long enough. Void was brought to death’s door by internal bleeding, the sheer exertion of his duel, and of course, the poison. At this point there was no hope of reforming. The poison stopped that from happening, and this poison was made to last for a very long time. Void was more mortal than any other man in the Overworld at this point. And now he was reaching his final moments.
On the bright side, Dominus was too terrified to do anything for now at least. Their men had attacked again the following day, but they were quickly routed. The cannons had broken their front lines and those who made it through faced slaughter at the hands of the Vanillan rebels.
Ryan took a moment to laugh when he realised they’d started calling themselves “rebels” too, despite their initial protests.
The air-fleet had served its purpose well too. They would help to break the enemy’s ranks as they charged, and harass them as they retreated. Now Dominus had decided to pull his forces back, and they were digging in for Winter by the river. No doubt his scouts had found the passes leaving Acrisius blocked off by the snowstorms.
“The Realm needn’t be worried about until Jeb arrived.” Epsilon and Halberdson had assured him. “Until Jeb arrives, Dominus won’t dare to attack us. For fear of being trapped in the mountains and of Jeb’s wrath, Dominus will not dare return. In short, he’s been reduced to a non-entity until the Divines make their move.”
Ryan believed them, he certainly did. Any man who intended to march his men from their new encampment to the walls of the Craft in snow that deep had a deathwish, and Dominus was too hubris-filled for that. However, there was no guarantee of when the Divines would come, although it likely wouldn’t be for at least two months.
On top of this, they had found it, one of the Great Wells. It had not been active since the time of Qustom, and hopefully they wouldn’t have to use it. Wells were dangerous and unstable, and the mere mention of one changed this from a rebellion to a war with international implications. It would force the Southern Thaumlands, the Pigmen and the Court of Whispers to all take notice. Those mysterious nations beyond the Southern Veil might raise their heads from ignorance, and the Madrealms might actually be stirred to divert their attention to something beyond the Tempest. As such, Ryan was incredibly reluctant to do anything with it. But it was Void’s last command to find it and use it as a bargaining chip when Jeb arrived.
Fluffy, the doctor, broke from dabbing the sweat from Void’s leathery skin and leant over the Administrator, holding a glowing brass horn to Void’s chest and placing his ear on the other end. He then lifted himself and to the disturbance of Ryan raised the rag to his face and touched it with his tongue. The medical profession was a bizarre group.
Fluffy then turned to Ryan with a forcedly expressionless face. “It’s spread to his heart from what I can tell. It’s started beating insanely fast. There’s nothing I can do.”
Ryan clicked his tongue, drawn far away by this revelation, the distance delaying the impact but not softening it.
“Very well, leave us.”
The doctor looked like he wanted to say something more, as if he’d planned some sort of motivational, tough love speech, but then decided it was not the appropriate time for it. He promptly closed his black cow-hide bag, the metal clasp letting out a distracting and almost offensive click. He looked up, completely frozen by this sound.
Ryan had stopped, pulling a stool up the the side of the bed. Now he too was frozen, looking at the doctor as if he’d forgotten the very basics of manners. Fluffy promptly returned to action and hurried out the door, cursing himself as it banged shut.
Void’s head lolled dully towards Ryan, and the faint wind of his voice carried the vague outline of the words “Have you found it?”
Ryan sniffed qiuckly and rubbed his twitching right eye in a manner that graciously hid it from view. However, as he rubbed he only succeeded in making it water involuntarily.
“We’ve found it. The Well is safe. We’ve sent a letter to Jeb announcing that it is in our hands.” There was a note of rekindled energy in his voice.
Void’s mouth curled itself up at the corners, with wrinkles forming across his face like crumpled paper. His eyelids slowly crept down, occasionally fluttering lightly back up but largely offering no resistance. His breathing softened further. He lay there still a few moments, but then his eyes opened once more, and with great effort pushed himself up, barking out great rattling coughs.
Ryan reached out to help him up, but Void merely waved him off. When he felt he was in a comfortable sitting position, Void reached out to Ryan with his arm, which looked like a dead branch now. Ryan gingerly reached out to take it, and they shook hands for that last time. And as the arm fell limp for one last time, Ryan heard upon the faint breeze the words “well done”.
He did the necessary checks. He listened to his checks, the great thunderous heart he had heard thud in his ears as a boy was now silent. The eyes now moved no more, the glazed stupor of death covering them completely.
Ryan fell upon the body of Void and lay there for a long while, heaving and sobbing. Then, a long time after, no one quite knew how long he’d been there and what he had seen, the man in the corner approached Ryan.
“I have sent the necessary messages Administrator, let us pray that Jeb is sane.” Halberdson dryly recited.
***
The tent was empty and seemingly neglected. The pegs were loosely hammered in, and in one corner one peg had even come loose, with the cloth trying desperately to flee. The cloth however, was a wonderful shade of magenta, with silver trimmed across it and the golden mountain of Kreatious glaring out of the centre of it. Even in the swirling blizzard and blinding snow the emblem seemed to burn with a bizarre light, making it stand out even in conditions which would render the eyes unable to seem anything else clearly.
The mountain on the emblem was something of a legend; Zerg’s claim to fame; the reason his men feared and loved him in equal measure. It was the reason they called him Mountain-Slayer.
But this was on the mind of neither Jiibrael (who carried himself with a newfound confidence since the death of Void) nor Dominus, nor Ellen as they trudged towards the tent. Now they had forgotten all his mystique, his so-called power. Now they sought only to carelessly and limitlessly rebuke and belittle.
The Emperor of the Realm was the first to enter, sword in hand.
The tent was surprisingly well-kept inside. The large bed was made, but there was the distinct impression that it hadn’t been touched in a number of days. To the right there was a small table around which three slaves sat shivering, their large brown noses wobbling as they jerked their heads towards Dominus. On the table lay a sword which had been left unattended for far too long. Ice was starting to fuse it to its scabbard. One of the more attentive slaves, smarter than many of the rest of his kind, saw the sword of Dominus, and lunged for the blade.
He gripped the hilt and tugged. The half-white frost broke away. He readied to swing it to defend his master, despite his lack of experience. He twitched, pain entering his face. There was a knife in his neck, and it seemed to take him a moment to realise quite what was happening. Then he realised what it was in his throat and began to play along and cough blood, before Ellen’s body slammed into him, pulling the razor from his throat before throwing his form through the fabric and out into the cold.
“That was my favourite slave, I do hope you intend to find a replacement.” Zerg drolly spouted as the other two slaves backed up, stumbling over their stools and then scrambling across the floor.
Dominus ceased smiling at his wife and looked at the other half of the room. There was the upheaved cloth in the corner, with snow pouring in. However, somewhat bizarrely the snow seemed slowly drawn towards a certain corner of the tent where Zerg stood. Or at least, what remained of Zerg; one could not be certain he was still entirely there either physically or mentally.
Zerg’s face was illuminated softly by a calming blue light which came from within a cage which had a thick blanket smothering it. What was illuminated was very much a sad sight.
Gone was the ice blue, iron-like skin. In truth beneath it were arms thin as twigs, with the withered skin hanging like fleshy icicles beneath the now absent muscle. The skin itself was like paper and in more than one place seemed torn almost, dead skin falling off of him in impossible quantities. The face staring at Dominus seemed loose and instinctively sour. It seemed to be about to fall apart, with his right eye dragged down seemingly lower than his left, as if sliding down into a net of bagging flesh. His hair was almost non-existent, with a few desperate tufts clinging on, drooping off the Kreatian’s head as if trying to flee like rats from a ship.
“What?” Zerg spat, lip curling up on the left. “Come to finish me off? Threaten me with taking what little I have left? Well guess what! I’m not afraid of you! I’ve killed better men than you on a whim. I’ve killed Damned Mountains. I’ve lost everything I held dear. You have nothing more you can take.”
Dominus snarled and pulled out a letter, throwing it at Zerg, who didn’t even bother to try and catch it.
“You failed us completely. Jeb is telling us to hole up in the snows and not to engage. Apparently they have a Well. A bloody well!” Jiibrael explained, plainly irked by this on a deeply personal level.
There was murder in Dominus eyes, but Zerg didn’t seem to notice it. His eyes were still fixed on the glowing fabric. There was silence.
“Well?” Dominus asked, incredulous.
“What?” Zerg responded, still not looking away from the fabric. “What does this have to do with me?”
“You failed to kill him, as well as tell us they had a Well!” Dominus growled, patience beyond breaking point.
This seemed to send Zerg into deep thought. “I once killed mountains Dominus, you know that.”
“And you failed to kill Void.”
“Intelligent mountains, that could talk and determine their weather. Cruel mountains that terrorised my people. I saved them through the death of a race.”
“Yet you failed to save us.”
“How they begged for my mercy. I remember the last one, I took its heart out myself. I kept it, and learned its secrets. The ways of the frost and ice. And from that mountain sprang life. The Golden Mountain born.”
“Past glories. You’re irrelevant Zerg, a joke.” Jiibrael interjected.
Dominus was beyond anger now, and his hatred had turned cold.
“Oh shut up you impetuous child. Your glory is stolen.” Zerg rolled his eyes and flared his nostrils, still resolving to only stare at the cloth.
“Really now?” Jiibrael scowled, barbing it further with a smirk. “I guess I can steal this too with ease.”
Jiibrael shoved Zerg aside and pulled at the cloth. Immediately a spike of ice poked through and pierced his hand. The King leapt back, screaming in agony. Ellen drew her blade and hurt it at Zerg. However, as it spun through the air the winds turn the other way, and it slowed to a halt before flying back at Ellen.
The Empress dodged to the right, falling on top of the table, and shattering its legs. The knife went spinning off and slashed through the fabric, going Notch knows where.
Dominus, seeing his wife and friend in peril, rushed Zerg, but was lifted by a similar gust of wind before slamming into the ground on his tailbone, the pain that followed acted as a paralytic, freezing his spine and arms into rigid positions as he recollected himself.
Jiibrael attempted to rise, but Zerg swung his fragile foot, and greaves of ice formed on his leg and foot, slamming into his jaw. The Archangel’s head lolled and he lay still, breathing faint.
“Get out!” Zerg shouted. “Get out! You shall have no more help from me!”
Dominus glared at the man in disgust, but now reconsidered his planned tirade. Zerg no longer appeared to him as a weak twig, but as a jagged shard of broken glass; he might have been fragile, but he was still dangerous. Dominus would handle this later.
And so he and his wife warily dragged Jiibrael from the tent, and returned to their people, where he was delicately tended. As he sat beside his wounded friend, Dominus couldn’t help but wonder what was to be done about this glass man, and how he was to be disposed of correctly.
He determined eventually, after much, debating with his advisors, getting bored of debating with his advisors, getting drunk with his advisors, dismissing his advisors, and then cracking jokes about his advisors to his wife, that he would leave the Kreatian be for now. He was not yet satisfied with the harm inflicted upon the Vanillans, and wished to inflict his fair share of the hurt personally. He would stay, and he would help them.
***
“Okay Abby, come on... Be careful.... Mind the step.” Bokane mumbled to the… rather distracted young woman, trying desperately not to sound like a dog owner as he walked her up the winding mud path to the courthouses.
On either side of them was a rather bored looking, but somehow threatening jailor. They had that passive-aggressive danger to them. It was the case with them that as long as you stayed out of their way, they would give you the time of day politely and perhaps share a drink with you. However, were you to inconvenience them in the slightest they would be remembered in their family and social circles as one of the great evils in the world, and that eventually one of their descendents would encounter one of yours, and proceed to berate them on the subject.
It had been a week since word reached them that Jeb had called a ceasefire for the next two months while he made preparations for a Divine march on the Craft. A guaranteed period of peace, with Dominus being legitimately threatened if he tried anything. Ryan wasn’t expecting negotiations to come of it, none of them were. It just provided them with a time for rest and recuperation.
They’d injured Dominus’ forces badly, and the harsh winter was guaranteed to thin their ranks further, through frostbite, hypothermia and starvation. Meanwhile, they were able to take refuge within the Craft itself, and establish for themselves various camps and cities alongside their people. Places of refuge which they could use should they lose the outer city, and places from which peoples could be rebuilt.
The various groups of masons and the Titans were out in the fields constantly, digging trenches, building walls, flattening land and erecting more permanent barracks’ and armouries. Hell, they were even building large fortifications and expanding the city in parts. The buildings were large, smooth-walled and sturdy. To Bokane, watching them build from the city walls was like watching locusts swarming over crops in reverse. It was something to behold.
And now Bokane shuffled up to the courtyard, with Abby just glaring forward with piercing eyes, back slightly slouched. There was a restlessness to her, with her fists twitching open and closed. Abby’s hair was becoming more and more tangled and plainly hadn’t been washed in several days, despite the fact that she had possessed full access to the necessary facilities. Her lips might as well have been stitched shut, and the quivered angrily, words seeming to be trying to form but being strangled by her grief before they could come to fruition.
They entered the courtroom with difficulty; the doors were in that awkward state where for no good reason whatsoever they seemed to lean down from their hinges and scrape haltingly across the floor, only to revert to their usual positions when someone came to do something about it. Bokane then slowly led Abby to her seat alongside her brother and the forlorn looking attorney of defence.
Halfway through sitting down Abby’s arm suddenly stiffened and she became immovable. She glared at her attorney and spat. “What are my odds?”
The lawyer, a young, obvious dropout who might once have been proud and aloof, but was now permanently browbeaten and embarassed into a position where he was always seemingly shrinking away from you, even when his posture was perfect. His left eye was prone to twitching and watering, leading him to be always turned to the left, obscuring the watering eye but still allowing him to look at the person he wanted to speak.
He put on a brave face, smiling in an overcompensating manner and nodded, murmuring some miscellaneous assurances in an overly quiet voice. Bokane couldn’t make it out himself, but even if Abby could, it was unlikely she would have been anymore disconcerted.
She looked as if she were about to bolt away, like a frightened fox, at least until her brother chimed in, “Hear that, little vixen? We have a good case. A good solid case to defend you.”
His smile, while obviously fake to Bokane - having spoken to him in morbid tones as to the likelihood of Abby receiving a death sentence - seemed even more repulsive to his sister.
She was about to shoot off when suddenly her brother grabbed her arm and whispered to her, “Stay strong damn you. The Baarban family is above fleeing justice. We shall do what is right and justice will prevail. What would father say? His cherished daughter, the one he built up as his true heir dead in the mud with a crossbow bolt in her back?” His voice was harsh, and hints of bitterness were mixed with genuine brotherly concern, but this was all she needed.
She nodded, glanced spitefully at the judge and sat down, straightening her posture and wiping the hair out of her eyes with her shackles. There was a cold poise to her now, one that Bokane hadn’t seen before from her, at least not brought to the forefront of her face. There wasn’t a sense that this was not a change, but that this was the removal of a mask. It unnerved him that someone he knew as so warm and friendly was now so subtly and yet so simply revealed as a pretender. However, at the same time, it added mystery to her person, making her somehow even more desirable in Bokane’s heart.
Bokane looked across the courtroom. In the judge’s chair sat Cossack, all of his detestable girth somehow stuffed into the speaker’s chair. On either side of Cossack were two other s The two of them shared a look which had haunted Bokane for some eleven, maybe twelve years, since the very first day they had met. It had been small, but it made a lasting impact. It was an alienating look of superiority that could make an unborn child feel unwanted in the womb. The first time they met, Cossack had not said a word to him, merely refused his outstretched hand with this same silent mockery.
Bokane knew from this look that Cossack realised what this meant to him, and that the banker fully intended to torment him; draw it out as long as possible; ensure the total destruction of the defence.
“Sir, you’d best get t’your seat counsellmun.” Suggested the passively murderous jailor.
Bokane then put on an ironic, dimpling smile and sat in the chair beside the two Mojangites, Bird and Bone. The former seemed reluctant to be there, craving the dignified and blissful mundanity of his home. The latter however seemed thoroughly invested in the trial.
Where his commanding officer saw their presence among the Vanillans as something of an illegal and unsanctioned exile, Thomas had seen it as an opportunity. He was immersing himself in Gaian culture, customs and of course its military and political life. One could think he was a spy if not for his impossible circumstance. He was utterly taken by the turbulent and urgent nothings of Kay’s court.
They created the constant image that they were up to something and were always taking another intangible step towards immortality and paradise, but in truth nothing they ever said amounted to anything. The only thing Kay was good at, as far as Bokane was concerned, was throwing spears at a wild bull, then acting surprised when he was gored by the animal and subsequently rousing a crusade back home to destroy said bull’s entire family.
So, as Bone explained the history of the House of Solvoleur (the first Gaian dynasty, from which Peter descended) to his greatly distracted companion, Bokane shuffled into place, sitting rigidly with his hands in his lap and his legs crossed. He rapped his fingers in the most intricate rhythms he could think of, in an effort to stop himself from looking at Cossack or Abby, in order to keep his blood from evaporating and his heart beating at a normal rate.
Aaron was nowhere to be seen, out performing drills with Secret and Small. Instead there was simply his prosecutor, a confident native Gaian of lax posture and amicable expression. He’d been trained in Mojang following the Onslaught, and had since built himself up as the benchmark for a good solicitor in Gaia’s courts. They had spared no expense.
Then, from the corner the captive priest walked forth and mumbled his half-hearted words of blessing. Then he shuffled back to the corner, the chains around his ankles rattling as they snagged on a loose nail in the floor.
There were many such imperfections in this building, and in the other hastily established structures around the Gaian encampment. The tiles were hastily fastened; windmills make with budget mechanisms which had to be replaced frequently; the wood was poorly cured and the stones often cracked and brittle. But Kay didn’t care for this, he simply had a pretty layer of paint put over the buildings so that Ryan thought him efficient.
Cossack rose from his chair to the podium, where he began the traditional Gaian verse.
“When the earth is scorched and the sky’s tapestry is burnt away.” Spoke he, with a dry authority.
“We will remain. Gaia will provide for us.” Responded the crowd, Bokane mouthing the words as if saying them out loud would scorch his tongue.
“When our kings lie dead, our cities sacked and our land is salted and fallow.”
“We will remember our foes, and we will repay them. May the earth swallow them first, for Gaia’s wrath is untold.”
“When Divinity ascends this earth and the Blind Watch is ended.”
“We will rise to prominence. The Divines will ascend and Gaia will take their place upon this earth.”
“After all others have fallen.”
“We will remain.”
“Let us reflect.”
And the crowd bowed their heads. Bokane had never understood the Gaian church. A mass of contradictions as far as he was concerned.
The Gaians were undeniably worshippers of the Divines, they had been for several-hundred years. There was the Eternal Grove, who still worshipped Gaia as a full deity, but they were technically outlaws. The only reason they appeared at Peter’s funeral was because they thought they had a chance of killing Kay and installing Slim as king.
But then there was Notch and Gaia’s Blessed. They were slightly different and the majority of the population followed them. They had merged the two faiths very successfully. In the mythology of the Blessed mythology the Divines, after killing Ishinge in the Endless War, were cursed by the Tainted god to bear physical forms and walk upon this Earth, unable to return to the Aether. They also believed that one day, Gaia’s lost son Sansoleil would return to the world and slay his cousins, the Divines, and free them of their physical forms. Since the ascension of Notch the Gaian faith had seen an increase in popularity outside of the Kingdom.
Cossack of course, was not a convert, at least not a true one. Faith to him was a tool to be used. He merely wished to ingratiate himself with the crowd, and had made a number of similar cloying grabs at popularity, such as the building of an orphanage.
Bokane took a deep breath as Cossack returned to his sitting position, wordlessly declaring himself king of the room in the absence of a higher authority, and he told himself that it would all be fine. He told himself that they had a strong case and that Abby would be fine. He looked back up with defiance and strength in his eyes, his ego sewn back together.
Naturally this was a stupid and pointless effort and quite honestly Bokane should have known better. The seams of his ego were thoroughly torn out and left on the floor.
Cossack was merciless in the trial. Their best witnesses all either had their words twisted into a well-made noose for the defendant, or thoroughly contradicted each other. Abby, while maintaining her poise, came across as abrasive, callous and thoroughly unrepentant. Her brother came across as an oaf by, in a fit of desperation, denying that the act of assaulting someone with a hammer could be possibly construed as assault.
The foreign dropout proved frail, insecure and all around useless. While the initial statement of defence seemed promising, he fell apart from there. When questioning witnesses he was confident but only served to hurt his case, forgetting what questions to ask to get the information he needed to back his grandiose defences, baffling the jury and those watching when he made them. After realising that he was the only one reaching these conclusions, he began to stagger. From this point on the prosecutor was able to browbeat him into submission.
By the end of it he seemed to shrink away from the air itself. He didn’t even stay for the verdict. After his humiliation he travelled to the nearest brothel where he proceeded to get drunk out of his mind, anger several fellow drunks, and find himself naked in a bush, body badly bruised, covered in sheep dung and with large, crude drawings of male genitalia drawn all over his face and torso. While the day’s events effectively maimed and killed his already emasculated legal career, he at the very least wrote a series of very successful comedic plays based around his misfortunes.
But alas, at the end of the trial Bokane stood glaring at the floor. At this point he was ready to tell Bone that if he regaled them with another tale of the exploits of some Solvoleur *******, he would gladly dig up the corpse of one, chain it to Bone and have a Priest marry the two.
Cossack and the judges were rising to head into an undoubtedly overly lavish room to laugh about the trial and drink for half an hour, and then they would come out with the same conclusion they had held at the start. After that Abby would be taken back to prison for a hasty executed and they would move on to trying her brother (who Bokane had no love for and was definite was guilty).
But the Baarban brother was not going to allow this to play out it seemed. A look of utter disgust came over his face as Cossack and his peers exited the room. Baarban rose too from his seat stiffly. His hand was inside his fine leather doublet, and his foot tapped restlessly. His eyes seemed to be darting from guard to guard.
Panic came over Bokane, even more so when one of the guards began to nod towards the impatient man and began walking towards the judges’ door. He looked around panicking. Former Companions everywhere. At least a dozen and all of them were armed. Baarban then began to slowly draw his hand out. Bokane looked at Abby, heart pounding, unsure what to do. But she was smiling for the first time in a very long time, and it repulsed him, but also tightened her hold on him.
Then the doors swung open, and a hornblower blew his horn, and Kay proudly marched in, back from the building sites, shoes dripping mud and the rest of him smeared with dust and dirt. He then smiled at the judges and called to them.
“Wait a moment lads, let me join you. I must speak with you alone.” He smiled, not seeming to realise the environment he was in, or simply not caring. He had an affable radiance to him in that moment that Bokane never saw matched.
And with that the Monarch strutted up to them
They weren’t in there for very long, and the dour looks on their faces made Bokane very certain that none of the judges had wanted this conclusion. They found her guilty of course, but instead of execution she was to be given a comfortable exile alongside her brother. They would be returned to their father, Gandor Baarben in Tyrissa, beyond the Southern Veil, as soon as the war ended. They would never be able to return to Gaia’s domain, but they would live, and Abby was safe. That was all that mattered.
A laxity came across her face as she heard the news, and then she began to laugh, and she hugged her brother, who wept silently. Bokane wasn’t even sure if she noticed her brother’s tears as they stained her dress, or that he noticed that her unwashed form stained his fine clothes. And the two stood there a very long time, as the crowd began to file out slowly.
Bokane was there at the end, after all but he, Kay, the Baarbans, a few guards, a straggler or two and the judges remained.
The two at last disengaged from each other and Abby, smiling wider than she’d ever smiled, the sun itself bursting from within her cheeks, turned to Kay. “How can we thank you m’lord for your mercy.”
Bokane suddenly felt a certain turning in his feelings. She never smiled at him like that. His own grin faded slightly, but was somewhat renewed when he saw Cossack scowling like a grumpy toddler at the two siblings and by connection himself.
Kay, still surrounded by that cloud of radiant affability, smiled softly back, leaning on his royal sceptre like a walking stick.
“Don’t thank me. Bokane made a very convincing appeal; it really tore at my heartstrings.” He lifted his leathered hand gently and gestured open-palmed to Bokane.
Abby immediately ran to him and embraced him, planting a passionate if forceful kiss upon his cheek. She then pulled away from him, tears in her eyes and beaming.
Bokane looked past her, and saw a grinning Walt standing and raising a private toast to him with a skin of wine.
For now, all slights between Bokane and Kay were forgotten, the feud quashed. But as with all feuds, if forgotten instead of resolved they will some day be remembered, and when they are they will be replenished by years of forgotten bitterness. Kay knew this well, he just prayed that it could be forgotten long enough for resolution to come.
***
Extreme was a man who, while not quite old yet, had certainly been around longer than most of those he associated with. He was a native Gaian, with the signature olive skin and tar black hair. However, it had fallen away in the centre of his head, and around the temples in his firm beard were decorations of grey and even white. The baggy clothing that composed his usual attire worked in tandem with his feeble posture and small stature to conceal his muscular build and powerful arms.
As a child he’d been enraptured by stories of the Solvoleur dynasty, and of the Great Gaian Empire. In performances at the fairs of his youth, heart had fluttered as Isa Solvoleur raided Ishinge’s palace and stole Sansoleil from his grandfather. And how is heart had been tugged at as the two fell in love. And how he wept as the lovers departed, Sansoleil falling into a deep slumber, and Isa sealing him away, only to be struck down by Hamilkar before she could retrieve the Lost Sun.
These tales had convinced him to join the ranks of Gaia’s army, to preserve the descendents of the Solvoleurs, and for years he had served dutifully. When Peter and Dominus marched on the Legion, he was there in the frontlines, killing zealously and fighting to preserve the banner of Gaia as if it were an infant.
Sadly, the first forty years of his career proved uneventful, and while he had risen high enough through killing bandits and vagabonds to gather for himself a proper regiment.
In the liberation of Valhalla he had held Warden’s Arm, the key to their capital. For two weeks he and just fifty men had held the line there, pelted by arrow volleys and cannons before eventually being captured by Botannites. When Dominus’ men finally arrived there, they found the banners of four Valhallan rebel Houses scattered across the ground, 500 men lost in the attempts to take it. Of his men only a handful remained alive, and he was almost disemboweled by Botanny himself. They were held until the end of the war and returned to Gaia’s Domain as conquering heroes.
For this he was accepted into the Order of Gaia as Warden of the capital and Frostblade. By the time Kay rose to power he was one of the major candidates for the leadership of the Order of Gaia, following the death of Ixon Sharke following the Nether Highway.
Sadly, he took issue with the appointment of Kay as King on the grounds of his foreign birth, and as such was passed up for leadership of the Order. Bitter at the sudden incursion of foreigners upon his government he had, completely off the cuff, allowed the Eternal Grove to enter the funeral of Peter with weapons and attempt to murder his King. While Kay had made no attempts to apprehend him, and the coup had failed miserably, Extreme left the Kingdom in shame, taking a small group of his most loyal men with him.
They had travelled to Arcadia briefly, sold their services as sell-swords, until word reached them of events in Mojang. Then, inspired with rekindled patriotism they marched across the world to the Old Craft, ready to fight against the forces of Dominus.
Now Extreme lay in the snow, beside his eagle-eyed officer, Jaren. They were at the top of a large snow drift, looking down into a small crowd of workers, who were desperately trying to establish a small stronghold for their masters. An old castle, half-eaten by snow and thick pine trees but still in salvageable condition. It wouldn’t be luxurious, but it would allow them to shelter their kings and Administrators from the weather, and ensure that they were in fighting condition once Jeb at last returned.
Extreme pulled down his coarse linen scarf from his mouth, “What do you see?”
“Mostly workers.” Jaren responded in his heavy Southern accent, rather disinterested. “No one of significance… Hang on a second, think that might well be Lady Ellen herself… why does every man who am contractually obligated to despise have prettier and more loyal wife than the one I’m stuck with? The gods really are incompetent. Don’t see how people surrender their freedom to them.”
“I don’t care about your religious philosophy or your married life Jaren, what are their numbers and how well equipped are they? More importantly, do they have any damn horses?”
Their horses died crossing the mountains and they were down to their last pack mule. Furthermore they needed supplies to stock the pack mule with, otherwise they might as well just kill and eat the bloody thing.
Jaren sighed, “Give me a minute, need a more thorough search. There’s trees in my way but I think I see smoke coming from out over them. Wait here.”
And before Extreme could offer another word, the dark-skinned and nimbly built foreigner slipped off. Extreme reached for Jaren’s fur robes in vain but the warm fabric slipped through his fingers and he fell forward in the snow.
“Notch curse you Jaren.”
And Extreme lay there in the snow, completely rigid for the next umpteen minutes, silently vilifying his comrade. Four years they’d known each other and Jaren never failed to be a total ****. Eventually, as the snow had started to settle on Extreme’s form in a patchwork quilt, the Southerner came back, a giddy look on his face.
“Divines help me,” Extreme sighed as he came into earshot, “What did you do?”
“I set their tents and a bunch of trees on fire. That ought to keep them occupied. There are about 20 fully saddled horses stabled right where I thought they would be. Poorly defended for now.”
“For now?”
“Half of the horses are military. There’s a patrol out.”
“Which House?”
“I counted a Florin Banner on the officer’s horse, but the rest belonged to Lord Kordan.” A dourness came over his voice when he said the second half of the sentence, his eagerness cut down in its stride.
Extreme halted at this. From his experience, Florinians were fancy buggers who valued style over substance. Most of their officers were dainty little things who thought that being able to twirl a sword inanely and skip across the damn battlefield meant you were some sort of master swordsman. The Korda were another story altogether.
“Take five men and get those horses. We’re leaving.”
And with that the two of them silently swept down the side of the drift, small clouds of white forming around their heels as they did so. Urgency carried them forward, but the same sense of urgency slowed them, softening their steps and movements, and forcing them to stop behind every piece of cover.
Then they arrived at the camp, and wasted no time in setting about their business.
Jaren ran off to grab his usual crowd of fellow minorities and that one guy no one really knows and as such is always happy to be affirmed in the notion that perhaps he does exist.
“Pack up the supplies.” Extreme called to his people. “We’re leaving, heading for Dominus’ camp. Me and my partner found a few of their people. At last we’ll have a place to sell our goods.”
The vast majority of them picked up on this and kept their hands to their weapons, but also attempted to conceal them and the contents of their supplies; which by and large were weapon-based.
But of course, there was always that one bloke who didn’t quite follow and wandered through the snow to ask many stupid questions of his commander. In this case it was a stout bloke called Pandarus. Very well-read and the group’s cook and alchemist. Any ailment, he could treat. How a man like him had never found himself a good employer however, made itself very plain after about a week of continued contact. The man had no understanding of context or social cues, partly due to a sheltered upbringing, but also due to a naturally introverted and self-focused nature. He spoke rarely, but when he did it felt out of line and redundant. But he was still a well-meaning soul, and he was best left to doing rather than talking.
Nonetheless, he resolved to challenge himself that day and ventured into said problematic area. He followed Extreme to his tent, calling to him and waving fruitlessly. Finally, he ducked in after and began talking to his commander as he set about packing what had once been the saddlebags of his horse.
“Mr… uh, Extreme,” Stumbled he slightly too loudly, like a child, having the general idea of what he wanted to say, but suddenly realising he needed to fill in the blanks. “I thought you said we were going to join the King in the Old-”
Extreme’s speed was alarming, considering his limp. He whipped around and a stifling glove covered Pandarus’ mouth. The alchemist’s eyes widened but instead of struggling, he stayed as still as possible. Perhaps he was a little more self-aware than he was given credit. Most men Extreme knew would have tried to stab his for this, and he didn’t want to lose anyone that night.
“Keep your mouth shut boy, you little oaf.” He rebuked, in a harsh whisper. “There are Korda in these woods. And I don’t intend to die tonight. Not for your sake or for the sake of expressing our diehard loyalty to the foreign king of our homeland. We’re going to play this smart and then we can start flouting the authority of Dominus and Jeb. Is that understood?”
Pandarus stared back at his commander, nodding furiously, terror giving him solidarity.
Then a loud horn was heard. A sharp, tinny, thoroughly intolerable noise blowing as overly-elaborate a tune as possible.
“Is it Jaren?”
“No,” Growled Extreme, “Florinian horn.”
“You certain?”
“Absolutely. No one else could announce themselves with an instrument that pretentiously awful.”
And with that he grabbed his lantern shield. An obscure weapon that Extreme had taken a liking for. A small buckler shield with a gauntlet built into it. From the steel fist protruded two five inch blades, with a long spear-like blade stick out from beneath. And then from the centre of the buckler itself was a large spike. Whilst overly elaborate, Extreme found it helpful in fending off his foes. And if it proved ineffective, he kept a small broadsword at his side and if worst came to the worst he had a small crossbow at his side.
Concealing the crossbow, and sword, and his thick leather hide beneath a thick bear-skin cloak, he marched out to meet them.
“Hail to the men of this encampment, we look for your leader!” Called out a tiny herald, who held that damned horn in his hand. “We wish only to learn what you purpose in these woods are, then you may be on your way.”
There were five of the Florinians, including the herald. Their leader was obvious, some noble who was evidently some form of philosopher, as he wore a light leather shell with a flimsy-looking rapier, ideal for the dancing which he called fighting. At the side of his mount was a sack-cloth bag that seemed stained with blood. It was probably the head of some pig he had accidentally skewered after a day of missing every target possible; it was a supposed sign of strength.
The others were dressed in heavier armour, which was generally iron in origin, but ridiculously decorated and embroidered.
“I am their master. These men are sell-swords and workers in my employ. We’re looking for Dominus’ encampment, and intend to sell to him our produce. However, we got lost in that cursed snowstorm last night, and couldn’t find you. If you want to talk to us, your master over there can do it for you.” Extreme impressed himself with how blunt and clear he could be whilst also not being overly confrontational.
The leader smiled. “I am their leader, Pebbles, King of Florin.”
Extreme was not expecting this, this could be problematic. “Ah, I was unaware m’lord, forgive me for my curtness.”
“It is fine.” He smiled coldly. “I’m sure your men will provide some valuable sustenance for ours. However, forgive me in conceding early that we will not be paying for it.”
All of the Gaian party present in the little street between the tents fell completely silent.
“What do you mean.” Extreme narrowed his pupils and cocked his head to the side.
“I believe it will cover the cost of the horses you tried to steal.”
The heartbeat of the camp was audibly increasing. Much stronger and the ground would have begun to shake from the force of it.
Pebbles smiled coldly, and cut the bag at his side loose. It hit the hard snow with a squelch, and out of it rolled what Extreme recognised as the head of Jaren.
Pandarus, seeing the head of his comrade so dismembered, shrieked and began to run. He didn’t make it far, three crossbow bolts finding themselves in his back and two in his head before he made it four paces.
“You are under arrest.” The Florinian boasted, hopping down from his horse, and drawing from his side the rapier and a bullwhip with a metal blade at the end. “Any comments?”
Extreme opened his mouth, and dryly began.
“When the earth is scorched and the sky’s tapestry is burnt away.”
“We will remain. Gaia will provide for us.” Responded the his men.
“When our kings lie dead, our cities sacked and our land is salted and fallow.”
“We will remember our foes, and we will repay them. May the earth swallow them first, for Gaia’s wrath is untold.”
“I thought I smelt a Gaian turd. Been around far too long.” Pebbles spat.
“When Divinity ascends this earth and the Blind Watch is ended.” Extreme continued, unfazed.
“We will rise to prominence. The Divines will ascend and Gaia will take their place upon this earth.”
“After all others have fallen.”
“We will remain.”
“Kill them, leave the leader alive. He’ll make for great sport.” Pebbles sneared, twirling his rapier.
All this time the Korda were flitting between the tents, their special levered crossbows ready to pour bolts into those he led.
“Onwards Gaians!”
And with that the battle began. The Korda were just as horrifying as people said. They burst out from behind the tents with their crossbows, and in just a few second their target would have a bloody coating of cruel metal bolts.
The Gaians however, fought nobly. Many, crossbows in their forms, brought their swords down upon the crossbows, sending splintered wood flying before bringing their swords back around and felling the necks of the Korda. But alas, the Korda fired too fast. All of them found themselves weighed down by an ever-growing volley of crossbow bolts. By the time a Gaian cornered and cut down one of their mysterious assailants, two of them had given out and collapsed into the snow.
In the centre however, the battle was even fiercer.
In the opening moments of the battle Extreme had rushed the Florinians, and now was locked in combat with the five, finding them much stronger than he anticipated. Meanwhile, the remainder of his men faced off against the Florinian King, who would dance around them, whipping them and cutting them until they bled out into the dirt, watering the land with his victory. The Herald was still mounted.
One of the Florinians rushed him, charging forward on his horse, hurling a spear at Extreme. He twisted, the spear lightly scratching the leather armour but not finding flesh. Then the Gaian bowed his head and ran forward, slicing the front leg off of the Florinian’s mount, sending him flying forward into the snow.
Pebble ran his sword through the throat of a young man, blood spilling from his mouth and throat. Another found themselves falling forward, the metal point of a whip embedded in their heel.
The other two Florinians felt smarter than their friend, and hopped down from their horses before rushing at Extreme, who mocked them from afar.
The first arced his rapier through the air, trying to cleave Extreme’s arm from his shoulder. he met the blow with the buckler, before striking him a blow to the jaw. Extreme’s foe staggered back, nose bent to the side.
The second tried to tackle the veteran, but from his target sliding to the side and planting the long blade into him back, severing his spine and causing him to twitch helplessly. Extreme instinctively threw him through the fabric of the tent and into some dead man’s chambers, where he twitched and cried. The other had now recovered himself, and was ready to fight in earnest.
He struck first once more, Extreme drawing the broadsword to stop him. the metal sang out as the edge of the Florinian’s blade met the flat of Extreme’s. He forced the blade back, staggering the man. Extreme then pursued him, egged on by adrenaline, throwing blow after blow into the Florinian’s guard. He readied to swing the spiked fist at his opponent’s stomach, when suddenly a spear found its way into his flank. He roared out like a baited bear.
The rider had risen from his stupor and retrieved his spear, and was now twisting it around in the flank of the exile. But his triumph didn’t last long.
Extreme kicked the man with the rapier in the chest and threw him back into the snow. The buckler then snapped the spear clean in half, rendering it near useless. Extreme then battered him across the face with the buckler, a crunching noise resounding from his neck. He fell limp to the ground.
The other rose to fight again, but this time Extreme plunged the talons of his into his neck before he could swing, and he stumbled back for a few moments before collapsing back against a torch.
He turned to see Pebbles finish the last of his men, still grinning cooly, drawing his rapier across the helpless man’s throat. The blood drained from his face and out through his throat, and then he fell to his knees before tumbling to the side. Pebbles then closed his eyes in a tranquil manner, held up his sword and sniffed it, savouring the scent.
Sadly, in this gesture of complete, utter and honestly adorable insanity, Extreme had drawn his crossbow, and put a bolt into the throat of the herald. He had then tugged the herald out of his saddle, and sent him sprawling into the snow alongside all of the other dead.
“Goodbye! Next time make sure you’ve won before you engage in the theatrics.” Extreme called, whipping the reigns of his horse and riding onwards and out of the camp.
“Stop him!” Pebbles called, the Korda running through the forests after him.
One of them stopped before him, demanding instructions. Unwilling to issue further orders, Pebbles resolved to heabutt him into unconsciousness and steal his crossbow. He then promptly hopped onto his horse and began pursuing Extreme, quickly catching up to his game.
Extreme, first thinking he was in the clear as he burst from the small wood and onto the plains, turned his head, only to see the Florinian King, and then to be struck in the back with three crossbow bolts in quick succession.
Extreme lurched forward, groaning audibly. The Florinian attempted to fire further, but found that his bolts were spent, and whipped his horse onwards. Extreme followed suit and the chase resumed.
Extreme was pursued far beyond the point where it could be justified. Three hours of the chase, going further and further towards the Vanillan lines. However, as artsy and impractical as the Florinians were, they were also stubborn perfectionists, and Pebbles embodied this totally. He only turned back when at last, his horse lost its footing on a patch of ice, and he fell into the snow.
A further hour later, Extreme’s horse gave out, collapsing into the snow. Eyes heavy, back burning and strength sapped, Extreme dragged himself from under the horse, and hobbled his way onwards, the walls coming into view.
After this point Extreme lost track of all time. The blood pouring from his back murdered time for him. He was only focused and getting closer to those walls. He was unable to register anything in front of him. Only his increasingly numb feet were still functioning, and even they were beginning to falter.
Then, around him figures began to swirl. Muttering strange whispers. The names of those he wronged swirled around him. “Kay… Cossack… Aaron… Gaia… Cossack. Cossack would want to see this one.” Then his sense died, and with it his world.
An indistinguishable amount of time later, Extreme awoke. His robes were gone and he wore all white. Even matches would have been blinding to him, but sadly the light from the sun shone in his window, and drove his eyes closed line rabbits into a burrow.
He lay still a while, unsure what to do. Then the door creaked open, and he feigned sleep. He clenched his eyes shut a little too tightly to be convincing.
“Oh for Notch’s sake,” Came the familiar voice of Cossack. “Wake up Extreme. It’s time to redeem yourself.”
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Like fantasy? Like Minecraft? Check out a blend of the two here! Fall and a Rise: A Vanillacraft Tale!
Well! It's been a little while! Back to school was busy, but I was able to get this out. No word on when the next part will be, hopefully sooner but I need to stop lying. I hope you like this one guys. Personally pretty pleased with it.
Part 9: A Celebration of Tragedy
I always loved a good bit of silence in the company of friends. Sometimes it was awkward yes, but there was a strange intimacy to just sitting there and taking in those who you had at your side. That was why we were gathered in the room beneath the half-finished palace, which contained all necessary luxuries.
On the Eastern wall there was a door to a sauna and baths. The Southern wall had a small stage which this night was empty, with silken curtains covering it lightly. Well-stuffed bookshelves were on either side of this miniature theatre for the more academically inclined of us. I quickly noticed that I, Small and, quite oddly, Gracey, were the only ones who actually used this facility but kept it nonetheless. The West wall was consumed by a bar stocked with alcohol, cigarettes and all other of those semi-sinful vices many men craved. I never took much pleasure in them personally, but that didn’t stop me from using them to complete the image of dignified tranquility I tried to communicate and sometimes actually succeeded in portraying.
I presently sat on a curved bench in the centre of the room, a pipe of opium held in hand. Also in the room was the ever-opinionated Halberdson, and a small group of other foreign diplomats whose names I was so committed to remembering that they immediately vanished from my thoughts just afterwards. Some quiet bugger from a company in the Fade Craft whom I wanted to set up in Gaia. The other was the well-built and formerly athletic "friend" of the Fade who had invited himself along, and who was now so drunk his grandchildren would probably be born cross eyed and swaying. He was one of those forcibly loud people who tried so hard to be memorable that they became completely forgettable.
“This world is going to bloody Nether.” Halberdson grumbled, gaining the quiet nods of myself and the silent one, and the raucous applause of the sturdy man.
“Quite so!” He roared, sitting up and stirring himself into a total frenzy of cliches. “No respect among this youth! Except for you of course Mr Kay - you seem quite the exception. But back in Mojang and the Fade Craft all of these cursed upstarts - no regard for those who made the system in which they thrive! It irks me how we’re suddenly so awful. They use our system and base themselves upon our greatest. Then they get into power and they’re so determined to push us aside and decry us as outdated fools, and try and undo all that we built! It’s sickening! That’s what it is!”
“I can drink to that.” The Fade conceded, broken from his amusement at his friend’s ramblings at a point he actually partially agreed with.
The rest of us followed suit, glasses glinting in the dim light as we toasted them.
“That’s not half of the problem my friend.” Halberdson broke in, shaking his head. “Our generation has produced some gems of course - our Peter, Gregor Lomadia, Gandor Baarban, Your brother,” He gestured to the Fade, “All great men.
However, let’s be honest with ourselves, we’ve overseen the decline of the Empire and haven’t done much to stop it.”
There were grumbled agreements.
“Think about it. In the past 60 years how badly has the True Court suffered? We are the ones who saw the withdrawal of men from Pigmen lands and Shore of Oddities. We approved the sacrificing of the Thaumlands, and we did nothing when that oaf Dinner Bone decided to burn half of it. Underworld has flourished whilst those businesses which are supposed to be respectable on the Bridge have become degenerate pimps and slavers. The Eastern Crafts are in revolt after we allowed Vechs to invade the Killer Craft and send hundreds - thousands of men into his arenas for slaughter. Israphel himself saw fit to try and overthrow our system. I’m not saying he wasn’t a nasty piece of work, but it still shows the problem.” Seeing that he still had us despite this last point, Halberdson asked, “What do you make of it Kay?”
“Well, the way I see it last chance we had was an alliance between Herobrine and Notch. However, quite sadly the old man ascended before his time. Now all we’re left with is Jeb; a braggart and a priss - more concerned with the condition of his hair than that of his military!” I stood up, swirling my glass as I did so, walking over to and leaning on the stage.
“Herobrine’s the best military commander I know, and the Pigmen are ridiculously dangerous. However, he’d need Notch’s dignity and strength to hold the Empire together, and with this war Dominus has orchestrated I expect we’ll be dealing with the Obsidian Families again before long, if not the Court of Whispers. If we’re to survive, Dinner Bone and Grumm need to send envoys to the Southern Veil, the fiefdoms, Madrealms and the Tainted Land. If we can, negotiate a treaty with the Court of Whispers for peace. If not, find an ally who can help us wipe the shits out.”
“Who would you suggest?” Halberdson seemed impressed and bemused, but not altogether disbelieving. “You seem to have given this thought.”
“Well, lying in bed with nought to do but read books on politics and past wars gives you a chance to think about in in the grand scheme of things.” I then walked over to a map of the Plane of Sanity in order demonstrate. “Look here. The governing council of the Madrealms has little interest in our affairs. Attempting to convince the Cloudshield to side with us would be a tournament in futility. However, this forgets the various lords who descend from the Old Continent and Grand Archipelago who have established colonies there. One could easily drum up some support from them. Perhaps find a mercenary company which saw the potential reward of launching raids upon the Tainted Land.”
Halberdson continued to eye it, seemingly seeing what I said but being greatly troubled by it. The Fade viewed it with pride, seeing opportunity.
“This is ridiculous,” The stout one broke in. “The Madrealms swear fealty to us. They’ll fight for us if we tell them to.”
“You seem to mistake convenient platitudes and indifference for loyalty. They humour us for now, but they know a sinking ship when they see one. They know the Court of Whispers has no interest in the Madrealms and that it won’t let the Endlings near it. Endlings don’t sail well either so they won’t touch the Madrealms or the Archipelago. As such, they have much more to gain from reneging on these promises.”
“What makes you so certain we’ll lose?” The stout one was now fuming, turning quite red in the face. “Even if the Madrealms misjudge us. We have the Lomadia family and their vassals in Horizon, the Tyrissan colony in the Southern Veil. They are men of their word, and more than willing to fund the war effort. Even then there’s the Noobian conscripts in the millions.”
I grinned. “Look over here, we have a standing army of about 10 million across all our territories to 2 million men of the Obsidian Families, and an undisclosed further number in the End who have been training for the last eight thousand years. The Eastern Thaums' standing army will vary between a few hundred thousand and potentially a million. The Court of Whispers itself has nearly 4 million in its ranks including Vechs’ conscripted forces. 3 and a half million of our "collective forces" are Noobians with varying levels of training. A further 1 million are Divines. Another 2 million are the forces belonging to Gregor Lomadia and those lords under his command. Gandor Baarban has about half a million down in Tyrissa. The remaining three million are divided between us, Dominus and the private armies of various Administrators and Lords. The Gregor Lomadia. He is a great man but never forget that he made his fortune through ruthlessness and deceipt. Chances are he’d continue making money off of the True Court until the last minute and then run off with Horizon under his arm. Remember what happened to Ichabod the Green of House Quintos?”
“Slander! Ichabod was a traitor!”
“Oh do shut up.” The Fade interrupted, narrow fingers weaved together. “Continue Gaian. What about Gandor Barban?”
“Thank you. Gandor won’t side with the True Court under any circumstances at this point. Three months ago, they would have followed Jeb into a pit of spikes wearing nought but their birthday suits. Now his children are on Jeb’s hit-list, and a certain someone just spared them from crimes he knew they were guilty of, and agreed to send them back to him.” I grinned.
“So, what?” The stout man burst in. “We’re supposed to let the Empire fall?”
“Nothing of the sort. Men would follow it if someone other than Jeb held power.” I smiled coolly.
There was dead silence. I nonetheless continued because honestly the area fascinated me, and the colour of the stout one was utterly hilarious to me.
“A terrifying concept I know. This line has ruled for eight thousand years. It’s vanishing would bring about a new era altogether.”
The Fade seemed the first man to recover. “If such a strange thing were to happen as this? Who would there be to rule instead?”
“Well, this is an area I haven’t given as much thought. However, Herobrine would be a viable candidate though he has much bad press. However, if he put Bone and Grumm’s heads on spikes as we’ve all wanted to do, that might help public opinion.” There was an uncomfortable laugh. “Then there’s potentially Ryan. He could if he wished call the Court of Whispers and Vechs and such into the war and then the predicted events would occur. However, Ryan lacks the motivation.
“Then there’s Gregor Lomadia, he could take it surely? Richest man in the True Court with one of the largest armies. Surely men would flock to him? Yes, but that would make him a target and he wouldn’t like that. He’d more likely try and install someone else in power. “So his mate Gandor Baarban is also a possibility. An experienced Administrator and a veteran strategist and soldier. Dinner Bone wouldn’t last a year if he tried and he sadly knows that, same with Grumm. Some of the lesser members of House Persson and Bone might make a claim but there’s no telling what would happen with them.
“However,” I paused a moment. “One could if they had the proper backing make a religious claim to the throne. They might well find a lot of support abroad. Purely as an example, in the Shore of Oddities the Blessed have allegedly found a lot of converts, but nothing substantiated do calm down my stout friend. Peter’s idiot son might well declare himself to be Sansoleil but I have no intent to do anything but survive this and kill that little **** if he tries anything. That group, the Order of Aera have been converting a lot of people in the Pigmen fiefdoms. Quite an impressive feat.”
“You sicken me.” The stout one spat. “You blasphemous degenerate… treason abounds within ye. Why if I didn’t hate those shits in the Realm so much I’d have your head on a damned pike!”
“Really now?” I responded, relishing the challenge. “ If you find yourself so irked, how about we settle this like men?”
“You want to fight me boy? I’ll kick your head right off the edge of the feckin’ world!”
“Little ambitious there, you’d barely last the walk to the door on those little stumps.” I laughed.
“Sorry, it seems my friend has had a little too much to drink.” The Fade cut in, he and Halberdson stepping in front of his tomato-like face. “We’d best get him home. It’s been… an experience speaking with you. I trust we’ll see you at the coronation ceremony?”
“Naturally. I’ll see all three of you there.”
And with that the three of them left, the two withered man coaxing along the boar.
I remained, and as they finally removed the glaring boar from the room, my real party entered.
“Ah, lads, you’re here.” I smiled.
Stood before me were several of my friends. Bokane, Secret, Aaron and Small, all grinning to themselves.
“So you’ve been eavesdropping then?” I cracked a smile.
“That fat bloke was comedy gold!” Secret broke in, putting on his gruffest voice. “No respect, none at all! Threaten my sensibilities and I’ll kick your head off the edge of the world!”
“Coward could barely lift his own foot from the floor, much less take you mate.” Bokane chuckled.
“Old Wretch. Halberdson’s right, people like him are the ones ruining this empire, or at least allowing the ruin to happen faster.” Small grumbled, obviously taking deep personal issue with the man.
“Oh someone get him a bloody drink!” Laughed Secret. “He’s a drunken wastrel, nothing more, let us not think of him anymore, much less let him dampen our spirits!”
There was a joint agreement on this.
Bokane was now over at the bar, grinning widely, walking behind the spotless counter and standing before a massive mirror which seemed to consume the entire wall. He slicked back his sandy hair and commenced his best impression of Gerald, the bartender we’d found.
“What’ll it be? Vodka for the short ‘un? Wine fer the rest? I keep the beer!” He mocked, pulling all that was required out from beneath.
“And all of the terrible impressions with it.” Laughed Aaron, before pulling out his pipe. “Grab us some tobacco from back there Bokane, will you?”
Bokane followed suit and pulled out a palm-sized sack of the minute brown flakes. He then grinned at Aaron and tossed the tiny sack leisurely. Aaron thanked him and the two sat down.
“Anyway Kay, funny as that was for the lot of us, you probably shouldn’t be antagonising that one.” Aaron said, he was still smiling but it had become muted and less radiant.
“Why’s that? He’s just some grumpy old ****, even his mate the Fade - what d’you call him, Fermon Yederin’s brother - thought he was an irritation.” I attempted to disarm Aaron with this, but he still made another attempt to assert control.
“Fair enough, but you don’t want rumours being spread about us genuinely wanting to overthrow Jeb.” Aaron reasoned.
“He can spread all the rumours he likes, Those rumours are already flying. If anything someone so universally disliked will discredit them further.” A fair parry but he wasn’t done yet.
“Are you quite certain of this?” Aaron furrowed his eyebrows.
“Trust me, I’ve seen the dirty looks he receives. He’s nobody of importance. Anyway, what of this banquet?”
Aaron tried to speak but Secret cut him off. Small was still drinking and Bokane was now taking an interest in the ceiling, smiling off idly into it.
“Should be a pleasant enough event. Ryan’ll become Administrator officially, we’ll get some wine and hopefully no one will kill each other.”
Tensions had been running high since Void’s death was announced, and as such a number of old feuds between Houses had broken out. The first ones to break the ceasefire were former Lomadia vassals, the Seguine, and a group of Mythics from the House of Carmonir. This wasn’t a drunken standoff either, this was an assassination. The Seguine had been ambushed after a dispute with the Carmonirs and the Lord Seguine’s youngest son had been quite deliberately shot, and while he hadn’t died it was a statement of intent. Feuds were not forgotten.
And while no one was stupid enough to do anything openly, the situation was getting worse from there. People seemed to have forgotten that Jeb was on his way, or perhaps that was why they were so jumpy. They expected that Divine intervention would result in their death, and as such were going about settling their debts.
“I hope so too.” I replied dully, keeping my face as sombre as possible.
“Kay,” Aaron burst in. “You can’t go around antagonising people now, I understand it’s become a bit of a habit, and being a king has given you even more license to do it but please-”
“Calm down Aaron.” I half-snapped, but quickly recomposed myself and said, “I understand your concern but I’m not that oafish. I understand the gravity of the situation and if I planned to do anything it would be with Ryan’s approval and you would be the first to know.” I looked away grinning. “Besides, I’m insulted that you’d think any assassination carried out by me would be that sloppy.”
There was a small round of laughter. Small shot me a wry grin.
“Except for Slim?” The assassin asked drolly.
“That’s different. That was a political statement.” I responded, perhaps too seriously. “What’s got you so happy Bokane.”
The Thaumaturge was the happiest I’d seen him in quite some time. His eyelids were halfway closed, and the eyes beneath them were a veritable tropical ocean they were so tranquil.
“Abby’s asked me to come back to Tyrissa with her after all this.” His smile widened with realisation as he actually spoke of this.
“Good on you mate,” Small smiled, seeming genuinely happy for his friend. “You’ve been fauning after her long enough, it’s about time something came of it.”
At first I was about to join in, a grin upon my face. My actions were doing good. But then a reality dawned on me, Bokane would leave us if he made it out of this alive. I hesitated, a stupid look upon my face. My brow seemed to become more defined and my mouth hung open as I looked down at the glass table-surface. Normally, I would have observed how stupid I looked, but in this case I was too busy introspecting.
This was a new one. I’d lost friends before but never like this. Usually they all either died or became enemies - in which case I either killed them or let them bugger off. However, thinking back on it, no one had ever simply moved away. I’m not sure I liked this indefinite and vague fate for one of my own. Anything could happen and I wouldn’t be able to stop it. He could forget me, perhaps by choice? He could look back and eventually decide that I was just a terrible person and come to regret our time together. He could be turned against me and I would be powerless to know.
“Really?” Aaron broke in, standing up with a frown carved into his features. “I mean, I understand what she means to you Bokane, but remember what she’s done!”
“I can’t… totally disagree Bokane. I mean, I know I let her off with exile but, we could really use you back here.” I entered, a certain pleading in my tone.
Bokane ignored me and glared at him, eyes burning with a cold fire. His entire body was starting to tremble with passionate anger and it came out in his voice, which quavered slightly but was nonetheless clear and concise.
“What? She bestowed upon you an injury that afflicted you for at best a week!”
“She also embezzled our funds!”
“There was no proof she was involved! I have no love for her brother!”
“She also helped Atreidon kidnap me.” I interjected meakly, still staring at the table. “That was a thing that... happened.”
“Oi, we were all duped on that front. I almost fell for it myself.” Bokane responded, the embers spitting from his eyes seemed to dull. Then seeing my discomfort he added, “Almost.”
He rounded on Aaron again, his fury revived. “Anything more to add? Any other personal feuds you want me to fight for you?”
“She tried to kill me after I executed that traitor in the battlefield!” Both were roaring now.
My personal wrath was ignited at the mention of Linx.
“Perhaps you shouldn’t have damn well shot him, got down from your holy mount and tried to stay within the rules for once!”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I’m trying to say that you think you’re better than the rest of us! Stay out of this Secret! I’m sick of this! You’re always so high and mighty! Trying to be the just redeemer of all of us! Keep us all in line! Thinking your moral compass is infallible and as such the law doesn’t apply to you. If you hadn’t discovered the Family was pulling a con you probably would have killed Kay and taken the throne for yourself!”
Had I looked up I would have seen Aaron’s fists clenched to the point where his palms were white. His nose was wrinkled with contempt and the bridge was red. He looked like he was ready to lay into Bokane with the bejewelled rings upon his knuckles until he had beaten him into a shape which was more meek and less repulsive to him. Small was sitting in the chair, unsure what to say. Secret was rising and looking like he was about to join Aaron in any beating of Bokane.
“Enough!” I cried out, raising my hands and looking at the two in fury.
“Kay I-” Aaron was ready to respond but I would hear nothing of it.
“Sit down. Both of you. You too Secret.”
Silence hung in the air alongside the burning authority of my words. I glowered at all of them equally. Small, wise as he was sat back and decided not to intervene, but kept eying Bokane with sympathy.
I sighed in a manner that came out almost as a growl. “Aaron, don’t badmouth the girl. I let her off for a reason. She’s broken and punished enough. I won’t tolerate my General bitching like some haughty woman of leisure in Mojang.”
The olive-skinned man lowered his gaze and nodded subtly. “And stop assuming that all men must indulge in your personal feuds. I don’t ask you to- Nevermind... Just stop assuming that.”
Aaron seemed to detect the slip in it. I’d almost given them away. I decided just to continue in the hope of interrupting any suspicions he had.
“Bokane, I’m sorry but you’re not going with Abby.”
“What?” Bokane spat out. “You can’t be serious?”
“I’m sorry Bokane, but I need you here. If we ever do business with the Baarban’s after this you will be my first choice to act as ambassador, but that is as far as I will go.”
“I will go where I please! I am my own man, not your chess piece.”
“I am your King, Bokane! And you are in my debt! You will stay here and you will suck it the **** up!” I growled.
“Why?”
This was where I faltered, I halted a second too long, a reason evading me. A cruel smile began to sneak upon the face of Bokane. He laughed, harshly and mockingly, his judgement of my character cleared. “Selfish child.” He guffawed, swaggering back slowly towards Aaron’s chair. “I guess I’m stuck then; and on such solid grounds! Thank you my King! All is clear!”
He extended his middle finger to me and spat upon the General, phelgm staining his trousers. Aaron had had enough, he rose, fists clenched again, reading to sculpt the man a sense of respect for his superiors. Secret too rose, ready to join him in this task. Small reached out, trying to calm the two, but I beat him to it. I might have been wise to let him do it, it would have probably been much more artful.
“Stop!” There was a pause as the two halted, Bokane ready to draw his wand on them and do Notch knows what. “Let him go.”
And with that Bokane and I locked gazes, my forehead now engraved with spiteful crevices. He seemed to weigh in the palm of his hand whether or not to run at me, but then turned his head and stomped off to the door, seeing fit to send a lamp, several glasses and an ashtray tumbling to the floor alongside the table they were placed on, and slam the door with a head-splitting crack.
And the four of us remained glowering there, and he steamed outside. All in total silence.
***
“Can we trust him?” Walt murmured, stroking his chin contemplatively as he looked out the window.
They sat in Cossack’s room as the sun began to set, painting the room gold through the small window on the Eastern wall. The circular portal itself was now just a mass of light, as if its frame had been used to imprison the sun within the wall.
He had not yet had curtains installed due to resources being allocated elsewhere. However, the rest of the room was nothing less than brand new.
The dresser, the desk and the legs of the bed were all made of richest mahogany. The legs of all of these were carved to mimic the legs of a mighty hound, and duly glinting brass was studded into the corners and in round dots along the edges.
The floor had no carpet, but the rug lain down over the relatively bare and unimpressive floorboards might as well have qualified as one. It was stretched from the top right corner, where it was held down by the bed, all the way to the bottom left corner, where the dresser pinned it to the floor.
Gracey was sitting bow-legged upon the bed, smoking a Southern “lung-eater”, and up until a few minutes prior he had been smoking up a thick, stifling black fog around him. Walt had gotten sick of it much more quickly than he normally would have due to his nerves about the coming evening. His hair was matted as per usual, even the crowning of a new administrator failed to convince him to clean himself up.
This evening would mark their first move against the Brotherhood. Extreme would assassinate Tauto Chrone with the aid of a group of fellow former deserters who had returned to Gaia after events in Mojang. Most of them had lost family or friends to the Brotherhood and all were well-trained, and with a little luck and a few drunken Brothers, they would succeed and exact Gaia’s vengeance. Tejmin would also aid in the assassination, antagonising Chrone and eventually challenging him to a duel, during which the deserters would fall upon the Brothers present and kill as many as possible.
After this the Brotherhood would be disjointed and infighting would break out. Half of them were only fighting on our side because they were loyal to Chrone and trusted that he could overcome Tubby, who had joined the war effort specifically to kill Tauto and settle their score. They would do half of the killing for us.
“It’s going to go fine.” Cossack dismissed, as much to himself as to Walt. “Extreme’s a deserter and no one knows he’s here, so it would make sense that we don’t either. Our ignorance is credible.”
Gracey snorted. “This is normally the part where Ryan breaks down the door and has us executed without trial.”
Cossack was really starting to hate the skeletal man. Cossack was a man of means and very rarely paid attention to personality and Gracey was undoubtedly efficient, but his presence was corrupting and malignant. There was this toxic nature which he had at first been capable of ignoring but quickly became inescapable. It was even worse when he was drunk. This man had seen some terrible things, and he had partaken in many of them too, and when there was a beer or two in him he had few reservations about sharing his experiences with the uninitiated. What made it even worse was the fact that he’d never sound regretful about what he’d done, or genuinely angry about what was done to it, you could tell some sick part of him loved every second of it. You felt damned unclean after spending a few minutes with him when you knew these things, and Cossack wasn’t a saint either.
“Shouldn’t you be off with Brit? Detectiving?” Cossack seethed, teeth at the point of grinding each other out of existence.
Walt continued to stare out of the window, hand pressed against the glass tensely.
“Nah, Kay’s got him off looking for the big man, the Silhouette. Although honestly, even without orders he’d probably be off looking for him.” Gracey chuckled, tracking a fly sailing around the ceiling.
“Why’s that?” Cossack was genuinely curious about Brit.
“Brit’s never seen anything like the Silhouette before. He knew there was some nutball in a mask running the show in multiple cities, multiple crafts even, but he never realised the scale and detail of the operation before. I suppose it was the appearance of Glibby. I guess he reckons that if someone can persuade Glibby to work for them and acknowledge them as a higher authority, they’re dangerous.”
“Then why would Brit go looking for him?” Cossack asked, not understanding why someone would dance on top of a fire in barefoot.
“He’s curious. Like me he wants to understand something bigger, to be more than he is. Brit’s one of the most talented guys I know.” Gracey stood up and started pacing back and forth, “He’s spent years working backstreet cases and working with idiots. The biggest fish he’s ever caught was the occasional slaver or money launderer. "****ing idiots! Could drive a man insane to be forever condemned to mop up their stupidity. No, if Brit takes down the Silhouette, or even learns his name he goes down in history. Finally gets the respect he deserves.” He smiled softly, the first genuine smile Cossack remembered him giving, but it quickly faded. “He’s actually got a chance at that. What in hell do I have? I could kill someone noteworthy? Shank Ryan at the dinner tonight! That would be rich! No, I’m no one. Jeb wouldn’t acknowledge my efforts, and you lot would string me up faster than he could if he broke character and did. I’m just another faceless individual to never be remembered to begin with, let alone be forgotten. Least I can do is ensure Brit does something worthy remembering.”
And with that he cursed, threw his cigar to the floor, crushed it angrily and swept out.
***
The dinner was in full swing, with all pretence of this being a memorial service for our fallen leader being dropped. The fiddles were out, fireworks near deafened and blinded us all and wizards bent our minds with elaborate tricks and farces. Upon the stage was a large orchestra from which the music soared, and from the crowd beneath it cracked the feet of hundreds of rebel leaders. The Vanillan banners were spread across the sky above them so thickly they almost formed a net.
Four massive, sprawling tables were laid out in the courtyard, between the stage at one end, and Ryan’s table on its raised pedestal. At this, we could see the Administrators and moderators, these gods among men, laughing to each other and catching up on matters with old friends. Ryan himself however, refrained from this. He sat in the centre, emotions cooled and eyes calmed, but with a storm seeming to brew behind this, and he searched through us all. He did not drink except in small, drawn out sips every ten odd minutes. He had elevated himself above us, to contend against Jeb in truth. He would have to.
He had Kay to mingle amidst the rabble. And so far he was doing a bang-up job. He was stood atop the table farthest to the East. Here the men all had a decent view of him, be they on the balconies above, or sat on the benches. There he danced along to a particularly popular song called “When Nether floods” with several others, drunk out of their minds and laughing along with the men around them. Before this he had rather successfully whipped up the crowd’s spirits with tales of Dominus’ domestic blunders, which he had witnessed firsthand over the course of the Brotherhood-Realm war.
However, the stout man he had spoken to earlier grew annoyed at Kay’s jests, believing to know his true intent. At first he was able to feign indifference, and when his irritation grew visible he was able to pretend he was able to pretend he had a headache. However, when it grew tangible, and the very air around him seemed to spark, he was faced with a choice; he could either up and leave, or slog it out and make his anger known. To those who knew the Rokeson family, they knew what path he would take. Be it either to his detriment or his credit, Kay did not know the Rokesons, nor did he particularly care.
And as such, where other men would have taken notice of Orsino Rokeson glaring daggers at him, Kay merely smiled condescendingly and continued.
“Gentlemen,” Kay spoke out. “We are of course the underdogs in this war of ours. We face the True Court of Mojang do we not after all? Our Lord Herobrine is unstoppable and Jeb infallible? They have promised, if they capture us, to mount your heads on spikes and to emasculate myself like a common hound and keep me as a pet, finally fulfilling my moniker at last. Well, I ask you gentlemen, did you have anything better to do this Winter?” The crowd laughed at this, and Kay waited until they settled down to continue with a more sombre part of his speech, taking the liberty of chewing a small chunk of liquorish.
Shortly the only sounds coming from the courtyard were the crackle of candles, the occasional shattering cough and the rustle of Kay’s beard as he chewed the liquorice. All had ceased for this one man, who relished his control over the crowd. Even the wind seemed to move slower, so as to catch his words. His master, the new Administrator looked at him with tranquil curiosity.
“But I wish I could say it were that simple. This is a serious matter after all. We face ourselves with a braggart god at the throne who needs to be taught a few necessary lessons about leadership and humility in tandem.” There were muttered agreements. “The empire has only so far gotten by on bluffs and reputation. I have no doubt that when the Divine legions arrive, they will be woefully under-manned and ill-prepared and expect us all to turn on each other and surrender. However, Jeb needs to realise that he needs to strategize, and be more careful in his choices of allies, lest he make the same mistakes as his father. We do not want this True Court to collapse do we? Well, if it is to survive it must undergo certain challenges so that it may learn. Dominus has sadly put us in the position where we must knock our ruler’s ego.”
This was the point where Rokeson had enough. He stood up, throwing aside his padded chair and glaring at Kay.
“Blasphemous being, you lie to us! You led us on this crusade as part of a cock-measuring contest with Dominus, and now you fancy you can blackmail the True Court! Shameful display.”
“Sit down.”
“Go shag a tree.” He gave a glare that was somehow both firey and icy at once, as if the sender felt both and neither at the same time.
Kay sighed and laughed, and then hopped down from the table before swaying from one foot to the other in the general direction of Orsino. He opened his mouth to speak, but he was cut across by the most unlikely source. The gaunt Fade Kay had spoken to earlier now stood beside the two, back erect but slightly hunched at the shoulders.
“You make serious accusations.” He began, seething with this man. “Very serious for a political joke. You cruise upon the name of your brother; Expecting that it will bring you respect. This will be no different than any other cause you take up. You’ll spend a month or two at most until the lustre starts to mildly dull, and it’s suggested that you might need to work for what you want. Then it’s back to the brothel where you still find you find no pleasure. And then to the bottle.”
Orsino then went full retard. With Kay looking at him as he said this, head cocked slightly back as he laughed, Orsino gripped the thick wooden handle of his pistol from within his moleskin coat and drew it. Before he could take aim there was a click, a flash, a cracking noise and then blood. Orsino’s hand was damn near torn off by the bullet wound through the wrist and the burns across the rest of the area. He fell back, shrieking that a mother in labour, and two of his attendants ran forward and pulled him away.
Kay then returned to the tabletop and the laughter returned after an awkward ten minutes.
Meanwhile, Tejmin approached the Brotherhood crowd - consisting of Tauto himself, a young Brother called Rambo and four initiates, the others out among the common rabble celebrating the incredibly vague sentiment of the evening - with five of his finest men at his heels, making a show of looking drunk. And within the space of a few minutes he wobbled into the Brother and threw him to the floor.
“Watch where you lurch yourself dog! Blind as a rock and just as dense.” The Brother cursed with his back turned, pulling himself to his knees. Tejmin attempted to offer a dim-witted response. “No, you don’t slur at me; be away. Your next accident won’t be forgiven so easy.”
“Who said that was accidental Rambo?” Tauto calmly interjected, placing his olive hand across the chest of his underling. “Say what you will Gaian. I can tell a real drunkard from a fake at sight. And I doubt Kay’s thick enough to keep you as captain of the Order unless you had some restraint.”
Tejmin paused a moment, observing the man he was tasked in helping to kill. Honestly, after all the stories, he was rather disappointed when he first saw him in person at Peter’s funeral. Tauto Chrone was the man who revived his chapter and brought the Craft to its knees. He rebuilt the Brotherhood slave trade. He got Gerrit banished. He killed Dominus’ eldest at Qustom Peak and personally executed Elysium and Trivius after the coup in Rome. If Komplex embodied chaotic violence, he embodied calculated slaughter.
But then Kay had killed him and something was lost from his mystique. It was like death letting someone become immortal because his shoelaces were untied and he tripped during the chase; you suddenly stop being able to take it seriously.
Even now, as he stood dignified before Tejmin, having successfully seen through what he thought was a half-decent performance, he was nothing like the bogeyman he was said to be. Instead of a hulking demon with horns, dressed in the bones of his foes and with blood constantly smearing his face, he was a simple human being. He was smarter than most to be sure, and had a streak of cruelty above many others. However you wouldn’t know it by his look. He wore a fancy doublet, and his face was rather handsomely defined. His olive skin was clear of any blemishes and his eyes were a rather warm hazel. He wasn’t even in military dress, only having his sword and glove as a precaution.
“You killed my father at the Nether Highway.” Tejmin lied rather limply, determining to get on with it.
“Is that all?” Tauto laughed in response, waving his hand in condescending circles.
Tejmin shrugged. “I want payment.”
Tauto rolled his eyes and reached for his coin purse. He fumbled with it a moment with numb fingers, the coins within rattling loudly. He then, smirking, tossed the heavy bag to the man who now stood like a statue with forced lividness.
Tejmin’s arm shot to life again, and rigidly caught the bag, squeezing it tentatively. He, slowly and deliberately, opened tugged the string at the top of the bag until it was open and the gold within glittered. He regarded it a moment before turning his hand gently, the coins pouring on to the floor tortuously.
“Wrong.” Tejmin said, gesturing to the knife at his side. “Need I be any clearer? Or are you both brainless and boneless?”
“No, I was…” Chrone began, smiling cuttingly, “just hoping that this one time I could go out and not track someone else’s blood all over the new rug. I mean, Jolly is getting really tired of cleaning up after me. I mean it takes ages-”
Tejmin’s lip curled at this. “Are you going to come and die or not? I’ve got drinking to get around to.”
The Brother laughed. “I like you, let’s go do this. I assume somewhere out of the way, so as not to show disunity?”
“Naturally.” Tejmin answered irritably. “I know a good place. You’re good with a knife I hear?”
“Very, we’ll settle it that way. Come then Brothers, we’ll deal with this quickly and be back to continue our ambling.
Rambo, get the duelling broth. Traditional rules or Baarban’s gambit?”
“Do you know where we can find an altar, a willing priest, a dress and a newborn badger this time of night?”
Tauto contemplated this a moment and decided against it, on account of badger’s blood being particularly hard to get out. “Baarban’s gambit it is.”
And thus Tejmin led the Brothers through winding streets to a small, rather secluded courtyard before Ryan’s stables, as he had planned. The two groups selected their opposing ends of the stables.
The four Gaians piled up to the end of the stables, where Tejmin set about undoing the straps of his doublet as his squire took his master’s knife and ran his finger along the blade. He frowned when he found no crimson upon the blade, or any shot of pain climbing his arm, pulled a flat stone from his pocket. He struck the stone several times, sending off sparks on one occasion and repeated the initial action. Satisfied by the flow from the tip of his index finger he sheathed the metal sail and returned it to his master.
Tejmin drew the blade and turned barechested to his fellow, who had done the same, and now held a similar knife in his palm. The Brother they called rambo came forth with the broth that would make them truly mortal for the duel. If either of them fell in this test of endurance and strategy, they were grounded, and they had no hope of reform.
Tejmin wiped his mouth of the tasteless but somehow repulsive liquid, before taking a knee and readying for the duel to commence.
Tejmin felt pride building in his throat. For a moment he forget the plan, and a terribly fanciful notion burrowed itself into his mind; this would be his legacy. He would equal the King he served in ability, slaying the mighty Tauto Chrone of the Brotherhood for good. He would be damned if he let Extreme steal this glory from him.
Chrone laxly joined him on his knees, one palm pressed against the hay-strewn and roughly cobbled floor. Then, just as Rambo, this evening’s self-appointed master of ceremonies, was about to call out for the battle to commence, there was a crash, a cry, and a man collapsed, a halberd mounting his spine and riding it to the floor.
Tejmin looked up as the exiles poured in, brandishing the weapons of the realm and clad beneath their colours, swinging halberds and axes. And at their fore was a figure unrecognisable, plated from head to toe and with a helm in the shape of a bull, that obscured his face beneath a prison-grate within the mouth. Even his signature weapon was sacrificed to afford him anonymity, replaced by a hulking ******* blade. Yes somehow Tejmin knew this was his newfound rival, Extreme, the outcast who would dare steal his immortality.
But how could he act to interrupt a plan so important, and risk all his King hoped to achieve? He wrestled with this important detail as the battle unfolded.
While outnumbered three to one by the exiles, the Brothers were valiant, holding their ground nobly. In single combat the Brothers held the obvious advantage, but in packs, and with their foes in varying states of intoxication the exiles could easily plant halberds in their backs and bring them to kneel.
Rambo sought to fight the mighty beast of a form that Extreme carried, being the mostly heavily armoured of his Brothers available. In his hand he swung his spiked flail at the brow of the bull, caving in its eye and staggering the creature. He rounded for a backhanded swing at its gaping maw, spurred on by triumph. But his wrist was struck by the *******, and amidst the screech of metal bending, one could hear the snapping of bones.
The Brother clasped his shattered limb and the bull rounded on him again. This time the blade landed at the base of the neck, severing some important lifeline beneath the skin and locking up the Brother’s body; or perhaps Rambo merely realised that his life was over and stopped trying. Whatever was the case, he didn’t budge except when the bull planted a boot against his chest and cast him to the floor. He then set about wiping his sword off on the corpse promptly.
Chrone, who had up to this point been dancing around his assailants, taking his time in landing calculated blows upon them which sapped them of life, saw this in horror. The death of a full Brother, not just an initiate, was something of a shock to his system. His fury bubbled up and he cut down the last of the fly-like men who had encircled him. He then launched himself at Extreme and aimed the sharp point of his knife at the bull’s maw.
The bull, still cleaning his blade, saw the foreign object advancing and caught the arm holding it. He dropped his sword a moment and grabbed the thrashing Tauto under the arms before throwing him out into the moonlit courtyard.
The shirtless brother rolled back up, muck and straw clinging to his back, scratches mingling with long-standing scars as he scraped the coarse stones. Extreme lumbered forwards tediously as the remaining Brothers were cut down by the exiles. Seeing that his opponent was moving at such a rate, Tauto looked behind him, finding his path cut off by two men bearing longbows. Instead he ran for a sword on the floor, scooping it up, spinning it to get a feel for the weight, and scampering back into a fighting position.
Tejmin saw the thieving bull advancing on the leader of the Brothers, gesturing to his archers not to fire, and instead realigning his grip upon the weary leather straps of his hilt.
“Intervene after I lie dead or not at all archers. Justice must be served fairly, and this is as fair as he should expect. How rightful, that the mighty Brother Tauto Chrone should die without armour on, for he never proved deserving of the metal wasted to preserve him.”
Then, with a great cry, he ran forward.
Arcing the blade at Tauto’s head Extreme charged forwards as the beast pictured in his helm. The Brother leapt aside, landing perfectly in a fighting stance, as the bull surged past. The assailant, not as brainless as his unlikely patron, stopped himself, with a short but ear-bleeding scraping of metal, and swung back around at an advancing Tauto.
Caught unawares, believing the exile not to have witnessed his approach, was slow in his response, dodging the worst of it, but blood was still drawn in a sizable red path on his dull olive skin, just above his left nipple. Leaping back, the Brother wiped away some of the blood from his chest and recollected himself. He wiped the sweat from his brow, jaw hanging laxly open. To the onlooker he would look totally spent, but there was a calculation that had not yet left his eyes. He gestured to Extreme to come again.
The Bull held his head to one side arrogantly before advancing, this time slower and more controlled. Tauto stood there motionless as he advanced, the footsteps echoing, breathing heavily and breathlessly. Tejmin, who now stood looked on with disgust. He knew not who to feel said emotion towards; Tauto for giving up so easily; or Extreme for his haughtiness.
And now the bull was close once more, and he engaged a sweeping horizontal attack, at the waist of his foe. Yet the Brother now sprung into life and stepped back, out of reach of the two-handed fury. Now he stepped into the guard of the bull, and stabbed his knife at the hand of Extreme, piercing between the armour on his fingers and the back of his left hand. As the tip of the dagger ate into the flesh between the knuckles the bull roared. The hand flew away and the holder of the knife retreated, with it maiming the man’s index and middle fingers. The armoured fist swung wildly and Tauto leapt back again.
With the great two-handed sword now held clumsily in one hand and the creature reeling, the opportunity was ripe. Tauto swung his blade at the helmet, and the metal was caved and bent, and fell forward to expose the man’s neck sufficiently. He fell to his knees.
Tejmin’s mouth was agape.
Chrone raised his boot slowly and stomped on the bull’s maimed hoof. He yelped like a frightened pup and the sword left his hand. He reached for the bloody gauntlet, hurling curses.
The captain of the guard got an awful idea.
Another kick removed the helm altogether, snapping the ancient straps and revealing the bruised and bloody face.
Extreme’s hand left his crimson arm and haltingly and nervously slid down towards a pouch on his hip.
Tejmin couldn’t do it, could he? Would it be his immortality or his execution?
The Brother discarded his knife and raised the sword with both hands, the end pointed to the earth, ready to be planted and to take root.
That was when Tejmin buried the knife just below Tauto’s kidneys. There was a fleshy thud, and the sword remained still.
Tejmin’s mouth was agape as he held the Brother at his mercy. He could scarcely connect the events that had happened. Now he was immortal, he was about to finish off one of the most venerable warlord of the most distinguished lines of all time. Such actions required the words of a poet to truly honour. And that’s when a terrible notion popped into his head. Just as he was about to rip the dagger up and end his foe he gave the first line of the epic he sowed that night. Just one short sentence.
“Kay Mandy sends his regards.” Tejmin breathed ecstatically, and he laughed.
And how he laughed, that cold, unfeeling laugh. That laugh lit the night ablaze with a chorus of malignant triumph. He didn’t even feel it.
Komplex’s sword severed his arm at the shoulder just as he began to pull up, and it fell limp. Instead of tearing upwards the knife drew downwards, tearing the flesh a short ways before it fell out.
Tejmin, still laughing, and not quite registering the event, stepped backwards. “And with that he is killed! I, Tejmin, lowly foreigner, finishes the job a King could not! Oh if they could see me they would start the celebrations now!”
There was a distant shattering sound and Extreme vanished in a cloud of smoke, appearing somewhere out of the way enough for him to escape through.
Then he looked back, Tejmin’s smile began to fade and he vacantly asked, “Is he not killed?” He looked to the side and saw his missing arm as it began to bleed profusely, and looked at Komplex. A single tear ran down his cheek.
“If there is justice left, you shall die tonight.”
Komplex regarded him a moment through the slots of his armour, sword slicked with blood.
He then grimly said a single word, “If.”
And with that he whipped his hand, there was a bang, followed by the smell of gunsmoke, and Tejmin merely lay back on the ground, still the faint, sad remnants of a fading smile upon his features.
Botanny had slain the guards whilst Tejmin indulged his little fantasy, placing an arrow in each of their throats. The remaining exiles had fled the scene some time ago, along with Tejmin’s squire and his small party.
Within the next couple of days, all of them would suffer. The exiles would try to flee the nation, believing all was lost and that they must flee immediately, and be hung from gallows by Jeb after they were caught. The two Gaians would be dismissed from the army immediately for cowardice and held in prison several years on made up charges, despite the fact that they knew nought of the planned conspiracy, and still pondered on what happened that night for years after. And Tejmin’s squire would try to flee also, and be captured by Ray and Starletts, who now hid in the foothills near the mountain. They were not cruel to him, but they kept him in captivity nonetheless, and this dampened his spirits. He escaped before the war was over, but he fell from some height and walked with a strong limp from that way on.
But the true sadness of that night, was that as I joked, and danced and sang, the Brothers tended to Tauto. And while they tended his wounds the Leader sat there, and plotted and schemed the cruellest method of revenge. He knew, because of the fleeting arrogance of a young man, who his true assailant was. And his revenge led to sorrows far greater than those even Jeb could inflict. But the greatest blunder was not yet come.
The bar was dimly lit as usual. Cossack had recommended they get some lightstone put in or perhaps a redstone lamp system, but he had always refused; he felt that candles were much more atmospheric. The various leather benches in the centre were still spotless but would soon show marks of wear and tear from the eternally restless nature of their occupant.
Cossack liked Kay’s energy and sense of obligation, but it often proved counter-productive in the long run. He was like a pup, he would take one object and show a liking for it. He would then chew the object into oblivion before moving on to something else, having spent so much energy on the object that he could never muster any will to look upon it again, but would still never let go of his ownership of it. This was a reservation he’d had when Kay had been left the throne, that this would happen to the running of Gaia’s domain, and that he’d eventually take up some new crusade to keep himself occupied.
However, it was even worse when he was interrupted in the middle of a task, for he would hack away at the next with his usual vigour and then wear himself blunt upon it, only to turn his head and see a loose end. And if he could see it he would drop all possible to tie it up, it would gnaw upon his mind and pull like a spoilt child on his attention. He had to tie it, and he had to do it to the same end he had set out towards initially, with no willingness to vary it.
It was due to this that Cossack found himself in this predicament, trying to fight total war against their enemies and an unseen war against one of their allies simultaneously. He didn’t want to do it - well, that’s not entirely true, he definitely loathed the Brotherhood entirely and wouldn’t have been at all disappointed to see them slaughtered under even slightly altered circumstances - but he felt it was the only way to get his friend back on track.
To try and pull him away from this task would be like trying to dig up a mountain with only your hands. You wouldn’t succeed and it would likely leave you quite incapable of doing anything else for a long time, allowing Kay to further spiral. His hope was to lead Kay to the end of this tunnel, and guide him back around once he emerged. Until then he had to ensure the King didn’t dash his brains out upon the rocks as he scurried in the dark. He couldn’t stop him from receiving blows, but he could soften them a bit and perhaps avoid a few.
Nonetheless, he was certain that Kay’s total mental recovery depended upon the destruction of the Brotherhood. As such he was going to ensure Kay’s will would be carried out with as little mess as possible.
And then it came down to the actions of one oaf, high on his own ego; Tejmin. Cursed be that man, whom they had trusted to act with restraint, and to put the benefit of the Kingdom ahead of personal glory. While Extreme had failed to kill Tauto Chrone, blood had been spilt on the part of the Brotherhood, and their leader had been attacked at a vulnerable point. It could also not be reasonably traced back to Gaia. In fact, it would have been beneficial to the war effort, as they could claim Dominus had sent the men to break the truce, and if Extreme’s identity had been revealed, it could be claimed as part of an effort to sow discontent between the Gaians and Brotherhood.
But no, Tejmin had stabbed their Chaplain, and, to make matters unsalvageable, had claimed Kay sent him - which was untrue on multiple levels. And now; Kay was on the bad side of the Brotherhood; Cossack was on the bad side of Kay; the Circle was on the bad side of Cossack, and none of them wanted Aaron or the others to find out.
And so Cossack descended the stairs to Kay’s lounge, which he was using as something of an office while renovations were done upon his chambers. Inferior wood had been used on the roof of the King’s bedroom and had collapsed during a storm. The timbers then proceeded in catching fire on a shattered lamp and destroying much of his majesty’s chambers, setting back construction of the palace by several days.
They’d emerged from the carriage several hours after the end of the banquet, Cossack, Kay, Aaron, Pi, Secret, Small, Walt and the Patriarch of the Blessed (whom Cossack had noted was much more commonly seen around the palace during that period). They had emerged into the soothing night air, proudly swaggering and laughing. The Patriach, Isidore IV, was the only one of them not at varying degrees of drunkenness. However, he still enjoyed the laughter of his peers as Aaron, Secret and Kay recounted some of their more bizarre exploits.
“Do you remember that fat bird I met on the Eve of Long Harvest? She was terribly rude. Never looked me in the eye and was roaring the whole time.” Secret slurred, easily one of the drunker members of the party.
“Well, if it's the one I’m thinking of Secret, that’s because she was a literal cow, in labour, and in the middle of a field.” Aaron jabbed. “From what we can gather you tripped over it and spent the next twenty minutes trying to strike up a conversation. Then Small and I picked you up and managed to drag you to Kay’s.”
“No.” Secret grinned. “Couldn’t have been that drunk.”
“Definitely were.”
“Never thought I’d been that drunk in my life. Can barely remember the sensation.” He leant forward, massaging his temples. “Guess this is the first time I’ve properly had a drink in a long time. Small, was I always like that?”
Small nodded, very cheery indeed. “All the time. Wasn’t until Vanilla that you suddenly became all straitlaced for a while. Got very sanctimonious in the first few years.” Small adopted a purposefully nasally voice in mockery of Secret’s accent. “‘You drink away your mind, might as well brain yourself.’ It was unbelievable, and uncharacteristically theatrical.” He saw fit to loosely wave his extended hand in a nonchalant manner that struck Walt on the armed.
“Notch, I was a right sanctimonious *****.” Secret said, smiling sadly.
“Rightly so.” Interjected the Patriarch. “Restraint is the core of holiness, and holiness brings us ever closer to Sansoleil’s return.”
Secret ignored him. “I think it started a few months before we arrived. Vechs hadn’t figured out we’d physically escaped yet. Vareide was very much still hunting for us directly - in an effort to salvage prestige. Terrible couple of weeks. About this time of year actually. You remember it, don’t you lads?”
Kay nodded, remembering fondly their days of flight and fugitivity. Aaron and Small remembered those they had been forced to kill in order to escape the Games of Vareide. Cossack remembered that chilling glimpse into the future he’d had that day twelve years prior that day. His first fleeting glimpse of the fury and apathy towards murder underlining Kay’s persona of roguish affability.
And yet, Kay still seemed to look back on that day as something from a children’s adventure book. The heroes escaping from the evil overlord’s clutches via wit and trickery, the proverbial fox stealing the farmer’s hens from under his own nose. Perhaps it was a coping mechanism. He wouldn’t accept what had happened, that those men, who had trusted him dearly, had been left to die by his command. Perhaps he pretended that they never died at all.
It was at times like this that Cossack questioned his faith and loyalty to this man; this killer and crook, who hid himself beneath a veneer of civil bravado. When in a more cynical mood, Cossack dismissed the idea on the notion of what worse could come if the rest of them weren’t there to keep Kay in line.
When in a more warm disposition, as he had been more openly adjusted towards as late, Cossack considered what potential there was in Kay. Kay Mandy was a man of outstanding ability, intelligence, passion and charm - one of those fated from mere temperament to impact their surroundings - and Cossack wanted to help him achieve his full potential, and ensure that these qualities were remembered. There was also the fact that he and Kay genuinely liked each other’s company and believe it or not usually wasn’t on a psychotic revenge campaign, but that’s simply not profound enough to pad out this chapter.
“I remember it vividly.” Secret continued, after having let silence hung for a few minutes. “I remember, there was something Astro said.” Kay winced at the memory of the astronomer, and the others similarly looked crestfallen, either through sentiment or a sense of obligation. “He looked about and said, ‘the salad days lie rotten! From hereon in to dull our wits is to dash out our brains!’ I’m sure he was quoting something else, you’ll probably know it Kay.”
Kay, who had been looking out across the fiercely shaken blades of the fields was shaken from his stupor.
“I remember it. One of Xephos’ first, a novel actually before a play. As the sky-man gazed upon his ground-born friend and the haggard one, having slain the first of the Pale One’s servants, a look of grave severity came upon his face. ‘Dear friends’ spoke he, ‘The salad days lie rotten, from hereon in, to dull our wits is to dash out our brains!’ And with that the trio descended into the tunnels, to pursue the pale usurper and his stolen bride."
“Notch Kay, I didn’t want a history lecture.” Secret laughed.
“Sorry, force of habit. Read the book as a kid, back before Israphel was written in as the antagonist. Then, when I returned from the front and went to Mojang, I saw it was on. First time I’d been able to engage in something properly cultural in three years. There was something around that performance. A fleeting magic that cannot be wholly recaptured. Can probably remember every damn line, every facial expression, the contours of the background and the way in which the light fell upon their faces.” His hands were raised before his face, rubbing the bridge of his nose, almost praying to some incorporeal Muse to give him the words to articulate his feelings properly.
He then laughed, let his hands fall laxly. “Jeb! Sorry Secret; looks like I’ve just done stole your character development!”
There was a round of chuckling.
Then nothing much of importance happened as the group rolled closer to Kay’s palace (jokingly given the moniker “The Court of Righteous Protest”) which at that moment was a ways apart from the various Gaian settlements. There was the makings of a proper town or even a city across their region of the countryside, but the villages had yet to bridge the moors of the area in order to coalesce into a single sizeable entity yet. There were only two properly developed areas in the Gaian lands. The first was, of course, the palace, which was turning more and more into a community unto itself by the day, with buildings such as the prison, the court-house and the air-dock being built in the vicinity.
The other was a fortress a mile or two to the West, where the Gaian army, much of it being on leave at this time, trained and gathered. Kay and Cossack attended whatever meetings they could, but spent most of their time visiting other leaders or receiving them in his parlour, where they would discuss potential business deals for after the war, keep up morale and weed out dissenters.
To the untrained eye it seemed merely eternal leisure, but the novelty of playing diplomat was quickly wearing thin on Kay and he’d taken to trying to find out what camps people were really in and who would run first. Cossack had been away earlier that evening, and was quite perturbed to discover that Kay had decided to bait one of those Rokeson boars. While he was right in thinking them a political non-entity, particularly Nathaniel, it was still not wise to blow one of their hands off in public. It simply didn’t look good on propaganda to maim your alleged supporters, even if they were about to try and shoot you.
Returning to the topic of the palace itself - it was an impressive building. There were the startings of walls surrounding the hill on which it was built. The palace building was a large mansion with two great wings reaching out around an expansive series of gardens and fountains. For reasons of security there was also a large keep looming from behind the monolithic palace, from the top of which one could see the ant-like silhouettes of sentries moving slowly.
Off to the east however, on a little peninsula of a cliff was a great beacon of light amidst an intricate garden of hedges and marble. These were the shrines of the Craft; bizarre oddities which could allow those who would offer tribute to travel between their brothers and sisters that were spread throughout the land. An old art lost after the Golden Revolution, with some saying it was a Vithian technology, lost in the Plague of Ignorance.
In the valley before it was a growing village, with a market already being established, and a few lucky individuals setting up heavily regulated farms around the edge of it. Kay had allowed a few of the farmers to start cultivating hay from the tall grass coating the foot of his hill. You could, as a result, from the raised path to the grounds, see hunched men wandering the fields with sickles and scythes, felling the meagre stalks and starting to bunch them.
Then Cossack saw an unnatural glow from the mansion. Then he saw wisps of struggling smoke ascending, and fear hit him.
“It’s on bloody fire!” He screamed. “The palace is on fire!”
Kay shot up from his seat and immediately pulled himself across Cossack, glaring out the window with both shoulders hanging out over the road. He cried out to the driver to get up there faster. However, as they drew closer to the gate, and a few panicked soldiers came out to meet the royal caravan, Kay called to Secret and Aaron to come with him hurriedly and threw the door open. He then rushed forward to speak with the most senior person available.
It was in moments like these that Kay was able to shine through. He took the situation seriously, but was able to speak clearly and concisely about what needed to be done, getting all necessary information. He ran into his courtyard with his General and ranger in tow, and Cossack was certain he was ordering idle and stunned men about, making plans for a more efficient fire fighting system, and finding out precisely what happened, all whilst maintaining little more by way of stress than a furrowed brow and hollow tone.
Cossack would have joined them, but the Patriarch, an older man than himself, well into his sixties, was unable to keep up the pace. And as such he stayed behind to offer the man support. Truth be told, Cossack didn’t mind the man. Politically they were on the same playing field. He just found the whole Sansoleil legend a little too melodramatic to take as serious religion. Cossack didn’t altogether dislike being allowed to take his time with this man.
But then, as Isidore voiced his views on the status of the Testificate in society, a sharp cry rang across the moors.
“Mr Cossack!” It called, in a feminine yelp.
It was Rosa, Cossack’s servant-girl, lantern in hand. A bright young thing, dark-skinned and in her early teens, whom Cossack had taken a shine to. She scrambled up the side of the track, clawing at the earth with her ragged fingernails. The banker rushed forward, grabbed her hand and eased her up that last stretch. She then tripped slightly as she came up, fell to her knees and began panting.
“What is it girl?” He asked, leaning in and patting her on the shoulder. “Are you hurt.”
She turned to him, horror reflected in her eyes and forcing them to water. “It was horrible sir! These moors are the purgatory he wanders! He seeks to do further mischief unto us before the Watcher drags him to the hells for his damnation!”
“What are you talking about Rosa?” Disconcertion was crawling up Cossack's backbone.
He’d seen Rosa break her finger without flinching and now she was in tears.
“Mr Linx. The Captain.” She called, the tears subsiding and her bones quaking, with pangs of rage spiking through her. “He wanders these moors, gaunt as a skelerton and grey as the storm into which his corpse vanished! He still wears a suit, falsifying his gentry, and on his back he still holds our weapons like great shackles upon him.” Then the moment of clarity subsided, she determined she couldn’t take the quaking and returned to warmer tears.
Cossack wrapped his arms around her back and held her tight.
“Small!” He called out to the artist, who watched cooly from a distance. “Help me get her inside!”
Small, a little drunk and as usual an aloof being, regarded Cossack with a slight indignation. Met And with that they lifted the small girl and guided the old man up to the maimed palace.
Cossack had told Kay of the sighting of Linx. It hadn’t gone down well and pretty soon Kay had Secret and Aaron out scouring the countryside for the traitor, or more importantly his likely companions. It was lucky they left when they did, for a messenger then entered the hall with news from Extreme, telling of his failure and of Tejmin’s betrayal and officially murdering Kay’s good temperament. But he didn’t snap at them, or roar or attack anyone, he just sat in the corner of his and cursed endlessly. Cossack saw fit to leave him, and call together the remnants of the conspiracy. Brit was still chasing the Silhouette’s trail; Gracey was drunk and as such even more insipid than usual; Key was at first helpful but then it dawned on him that his friend and partner was dead and gone, and began to break down in resolution; Walt was the only one who maintained full composure.
The businessman and the banker sat down and awaited the demands of the Brotherhood in the hall of Kay’s Court - the bar. They had issued orders to Extreme to come to the Palace as soon as possible, disguising himself as well as he could and taking shelter in a secluded cell at the foot of the hill - where Cossack had lodged the Warden and his exiles originally - and that they would be spoken to the next morning if it were safe. Then, an hours after dawn broke, Aaron and Secret returned, and immediately fell asleep in their lodgings. And nothing further happened that night.
Two days later, Cossack found himself in this position. The Brotherhood had spread about the story that a group of Realm soldiers fell upon Chrone and Tejmin while they duelled, and that Tauto was making a full recovery. He appeared on Kay’s doorstep the next day, bandaged, bruised, and obscenely pale. He had not been angry, he hadn’t even stayed that long. He merely presented Kay with a letter, exchanged a few pleasantries, and left the room empty. One could even be mistaken in thinking he refused to accept that anything had happened, and that he believed his own lie.
The letter was to remind us of the Brotherhood’s wrath, and to stand as a testament as to why Tauto Chrone was a man to be feared. He testified with all conviction in this letter, that if blood payment was not made, he would see Kay’s entire court impaled along the walls of the Outer City. However, if Kay complied with his demand, a word of this wouldn’t be breathed to any other living being, and all would be utterly forgiven. As five Brothers had fallen that day, three Gaian officers too would die. They could be of any repute, of any import and Kay could be as open or discrete as he pleased about their deaths. However, there was one clause that would not be revoked under any circumstances. Abigail Baarban and her Brother would die.
Kay had read it, and he sat there in silence for a long time, chewing mournfully on a black whip of liquorice. And then he looked at Cossack, gravely staring up at the banker, both unaware Cossack was there, and more aware than any other person could’ve been.
“We have to do it Cossack.” He sighed with a thin stoicism.
Cossack nodded respectfully.
“There is one term you need to follow though Cossack.” Kay continued, struggling to look Cossack in the eye. “You kill Abby.”
“What?”
“Cossack, I know you’re softening up. Human life actually seems to mean something to you now, and it seems to mean less and less to me.” He heaved with self-targeted contempt. “I need you to have the conscience now. Shoot her for me, and let the image of her body stick with you. In future operations, don’t let it escape you. Let the memory of that corpse, of that failure be the motivation not to let it happen again.” He started to scowl with swollen eyes, curling his fingers into his whitened palms. “Remember, that life was in your hands and you lost it, and that will forever be your fault.” He seemed unable to fully communicate what he felt, hands now extended out before him and opened, fingers reaching out in a dazed manner. “But don’t show it Cossack. Sitting about and moping won’t help anyone. When you have time and are alone, let it out if necessary, but never let the others see it. Never know who will someday use it against you.”
Cossack looked on him with sunken and aching eyes. “Is this what you did?”
He sat in nothingness for a moment, “Once, eventually they started to pile up, and I started to forgive myself. And that’s where I made the mistake.” He stood up and began stumbling towards the bar, before stopping himself and turning to Cossack as if nought had occurred in the last few minutes. “Oh, send Gracey and Walt down too while you’re at it, and get Rosa to take this to the Patriarch, I’ve been meaning to speak to him about some matters of faith. Besides, I’ve got a birthday to plan.”
He gave Cossack a letter which felt as if it had quite a sizeable letter in it and perhaps a piece of jewellery, after pouring some wax on the seal and stamping it zealously with the signet ring of House Solvoleur. He smiled slightly, laid a pat on Cossack’s shoulder, and made to turn for the bar. His features immediately dropped after he thought his face was sufficiently turned away.
And as Cossack ascended the stairs, he heard the shattering of glass, and the curses returned; the muffled curses of a man who wasn’t beaten, and refused to be out done. But this time something worried him, he could have sworn he heard a bitter laugh, and even though there was no echo from it, it seemed to carry across the moors without restraint, its spirit lingering on in the heart of many a man for a long time to come.
***
Earlier that night, Brit was striding in his usual upright manner through one of the older cities in the Old Craft. It was a city of old Testificate make, back before they were struck with Notch’s Plague upon them, when they were the Vithians - before they became the Witnessed, the Testificate. One could tell it was their by the smooth marble surfaces of the streets and official buildings, point-perfect edges and the reliefs upon the walls. These were the aspects worst affected by time.
Brass reliefs that had been battered by time and iron, and stripped of their paint by wind and rain. What had once resembled the aloof and proud elite of Vithian legend and nobility; their thinkers, artists, humanitarians, merchants and the First Ones that they had worshipped… These hadn’t been a war-like people.
Yet now they wandered dully through those very streets, heads bowed in submission, shuffling as if forgetting how to lift their legs, and their idols now stood warped and twisted from glorious tributes to decaying eldritch caricatures. Their metal bones were warped downwards. In places some particularly thorough marauders had sought to melt the faces of the brass beings, failing to finish the job and leaving them contorted beyond comprehension. Their painted flesh was chipped and peeled, colours faded and patterns decomposed. More disturbingly, some had seen fit to paint in the eyes of the deities in coal black, completing the images of demons. What had once been revered now struck fear into the hearts of those who passed.
But Brit took little notice of these aberrations. He felt little pity for the Vithian race. They had been haughty enough to try to unite with a few overly ambitious kingdoms and Thaumic try and break an adamantine throne. Now their children suffered in their place, ambling through those streets, tortured by their subtle awareness of a culture long forgotten, that they couldn’t hope to recapture or even re-comprehend. He was disappointed to discover that Kay freed those under Gaia’s banner.
The town belonged to Halberdson now, at least until the end of the war, when he fully intended to return to his own land holdings in the Haze Craft. His men were largely outside of the city however, having been called to the Outer City in order to guard the outer defenses. Halberdson himself, however, remained in the city, watching over it through the circular image of the relief of some old pagan deity, Feleus or Gertross or some other lost name with no face left to match it to.
He rose up a flight of off-white steps from a channel down the middle of the town’s main square, where the reliefs and the drunk lay in equal measure. At the other end of the square was Halberdson’s house, a proud old building of the same faithfull stone that had surrounded him in the chasm. It was at one time a municipal building, and now faced the same mundane fate.
Brit had no interest in Halberdson, and turned right upon reaching the steps leading up to the metal front door, instead following a few side streets until he found a dank and ancient-looking restaurant which clung on to business due to it being the only restaurant serving quality food for quite some distance. However, even this wouldn’t conserve it for much longer. There was a single gaunt-faced man sitting outside who looked at him, curtly asked him what would “fill yer gob” and sent him to the seat that was reserved for him.
This was where he was to meet his new contact. A lead on the Silhouette naturally, a man who claimed to have been with Ghostly in his last few months. No one special, no Moderator or Administrator. Just a servant. And this man was making some interesting claims about a mysterious unnamed figure who had some stunning parallels with the Silhouette.
His story was already out in a sense. He claimed that he had been the disgrace Administrator’s butler, and that he had hidden for some time on an estate in Lava Craft, near the mountainous border with Mojang. He had remained there comfortably and under an assumed name for several years or more. This servant had been utterly unaware of his identity, and claimed that he never suspected a thing until the final days.
Every few months a figure, who he knew was the patron of the estate and himself, he identified as “a strange fellow who I assumed to be a noble by the way he carried himself”, would appear to their little mansion in the mountains, and he and Ghostly would lock themselves in an office for several hours.
However, several months before Ghostly turned up dead in Mojang these two bizarre men had gotten into quite a heated debate. He had heard the shouting even through the lead door of the office. The two grew careless in their, and the unidentified figure made a strong allusion to him being “king of the Zine Craft” as he burst out of the room. It was then that the door slammed shut with no conceivable source despite Ghostly being on the other side of the room. Realising that all other noteworthy figures in Ghostly’s government had been captured, killed or were still fighting, the servant concluded that this figure must be the rogue administrator himself.
He declined to come to work for the next several days, feigning sickness. On the third day a Divine inquisitor appeared and burnt the mansion to the ground, executing all servants. Upon receiving word of this, the servant fled the Craft for the Myth Craft, where he was conscripted into the private army of their administrator, now finding himself within the confines of the Vanilla Craft. At some point during this he had sold this to a popular newsheet and managed to make himself a large sum of money.
Now Brit requested the full story of what happened. There were too many holes in its logical progression, and the ties to the Silhouette and Ghostly’s assassination were too great to ignore.
And now he entered the restaurant, finding the man, balding and oily skinned, waiting at their table. Their table was within a large and dusty booth, between two pale paper walls. Traditionally the other booths would be lit by candles overhead, but those times were over, and the innkeep too lazy to go to the trouble, and too cynical to believe that there would ever be enough people in there to justify it.
They exchanged the traditional pleasantries, and then the two sat down at either end of the small square table in uncharacteristically lavish chairs for the barren room.
They sat in silence a moment, regarding each other, when Brit wrapped his knuckles on the table and asked, “I have come for your true account of events.”
At this the servant laughed and extended a palm condescendingly. Brit scowled and handed him the agreed sum of duly marvellous gold coins.
“Now I shall commence.” He smiled with brow bent forward and head cocked to the side.
And so he told Brit what happened. He had been the butler at the property, but had knowingly sheltered Ghostly. What he also knew was that he worked for the Silhouette, having done some underhanded dealings for the Rokesons in the early 1820s, who had spoken of him and his network with admiration, pride and fear all at once.
Occasionally a man the servant believed to be either the Silhouette himself or a representative would appear - always the same man - the two would speak. The servant made sure to listen in on all dealings behind their backs - except when Glibby appeared and stood guard, as he was “much contented the positioning of [his] head on his shoulders, as opposed to decorating that foul creature’s cave”. They seemed to be quite familiar and laughed a lot of past escapades. While he couldn’t make out the full nature of their relationship, they had fought alongside each other on various occasions and seemed to have studied under Sangiin at the same time.
But then, about four months before the death of Ghostly, they had a heated debate. From the sound of it there had been little more than a rent dispute. However, other issues were definitely discussed, and the servant was of the strongest conviction that the Flux and Jeb were mentioned frequently. Ghostly all but threw the Silhouette down the stairs of the manor. Ghostly vanished from the grounds the next day, and the servant saw fit to take the week off on account of the stress this put him under. The next day a Divine Inquisitor appeared in the grounds with a full regiment, rounded up the servants, and executed all of them before burning the house to the ground.
The remainder of the story was the same, bar voluntarily enlisting as opposed to being conscripted, and Brit found himself quite unsatisfied.
“Who was he?”
The servant grinned. “Who?”
“The Silhouette,” Brit clasped his teeth together, already predicting that this man was going to play a merry little charade. “What did he look like? Did you get a name or allusion to his place of birth or relatives?”
He looked at Brit, smiling laxly, believing he held full power over the situation.
“That’ll cost extra.” He grinned with twisted teeth.
Brit began to rise, moving his hand towards his prized tool, when something changed. There was a restrained gasping from the main hall, and there was a crack as a table turned over on its side. You could hear the scrape of boots and the pounding of a man’s boots on the floor as they flew up, trying vainly to run whilst the torso was laid horizontal.
Neither or them even considered getting up to check. They couldn’t even breath safely. That was when a faint glow appeared through the translucent paper wall, a soft and reassuring orange perverted into a malicious bullseye. A faint black hand could be seen holding it by a stick as it was moved to the candelabra in the middle of that table.
“Sorry about the racket, that will end soon.” The hand muttered absent-mindedly, that familiar distinctness returning to Brit’s mind.
It was as a symphony that one remembered for its tone and perhaps the instruments behind it, but couldn’t remember its rhythm, meter or melody, and yet still found yourself remembering entirely as it was played.
There was a thud which drew Brit’s eyes to the other wall, a final gasp and then silence.
He looked back just as the last of the four candles was set wriggling, illuminating the Silhouette’s form entirely as he took position behind it. The bent figure then scraped a chair across the wooden floor tortuously, causing Brit to wince horrible, and placed himself down into the cushioning silk.
“Well Mr Brit, it is a pleasure to see you again.” He began with a cold gentility, clasping his hands together before him and leaning forwards.
“I can say the same.” Brit returned.
There was silence.
“You appear to have been trying to contact me.” The Silhouette attempted to drive it out in a glorious charge.
“Indeed.”
Silence took to the room again. Brit looked at the servant across from him. He shook to the point where the outline of him seemed to blur slightly. He didn’t sweat, but he was crying. It was silent and restrained, but it was prevalent. Hope had been smothered within his mind, and no being could save him.
“Well, if your colleague would step outside a moment, we could resolve this and be home quickly - well, me more than yourself. You evidently haven’t formulated a proper plan of discussion.” He scraped his chair backwards again. “From what I’ve heard you must do that for all encounters otherwise you might as well be deaf and dumb. I’m starting to believe these rumour-mongers to be true.”
Brit scowled through the paper, watching the Silhouette as both he and the servant began to slowly rise. The servant’s eyes continued to stream, but his face was totally resigned and acceptant. Brit decided it was time to test some waters.
Brit stood up, drawing a pistol and aiming it unmistakably at the Silhouette’s heart.
The bent figure stopped just as he began to straighten up and looked at Brit through invisible but obviously impassive eyes.
“I wouldn’t advise that.” He said simply.
“Why? I could kill you and plunge a vast criminal empire into civil war. Not an altogether unproductive afternoon.” The detective spouted cooly.
There was a wheezing, heave of a laugh which broke down into coughing. “You expect it to be that simple?”
“Pretty much. I have a King backing my investigation. I can essentially do whatsoever I please. Why should I fear killing you? Is Glibby out there? Or some other familiar thug? Perhaps someone new?”
“Oh no, there’s absolutely no one out there. No one you couldn’t handle. I know you won’t kill me because you know that if you strike me down it won’t do a damn bit of good. Nothing will change and you won’t have figured out how I work. Couldn’t let that weigh on you for long could we?” There was an incorporeal smile that one could tell was riddled with sadism. “I would advise you to stop investigating, but honestly you aren’t doing me much harm - so far you’ve just rooted out two traitors for me. And you’d completely ignore me too.” He turned his head slowly to the servant. “Now, will you kindly step outside?”
And as that haggard Silhouette waved his hand commandingly, and the servant walked slowly out into the main floor of the restaurant, Brit stood still. Then the choking began, and one could tell the figure was grinning, perfectly invisible as he was.
Then, after the lowest minute of Brit’s life, he stopped writhing, the Silhouette condescendingly turned his head to Brit, and extinguished the candles. He was gone, and Brit continued, fuming in total silence.
***
Several nights before either of these encounters, Astro stood out on the moors, in unpleasant company. As the winds caused the gentle bobbing of the sea of knee-high grass around them, the wizard took account of his company.
The principle member of their part was right in front of him, dressed in what could be described as his “usual” attire, scruffy felt and moleskin clothing, a trench coat, shirt, waistcoat and breeches. An itchy wool ascot was worn around his throat where there should’ve been a noose. His limp purple eye was unsettling as ever, not seeming to gaze at anything, but seeming instead to be watching all at once, giving a loose omniscience to it. In his hand he looked almost tenderly at a picture in his watch, tracing his finger over it. Had Astro not known the monster calling himself Hamish better, he might assume there was a loved one in there.
There were two others who should’ve been there as well. Muffin had skipped off into the grass after a half-whispered discussion which the wind had carried away from Astro. Linx had also been there at some point, leaving after a similar discussion, this one littered with laughter. Astro hadn’t seen either of them definitely, having had a silk sack fixed over his eyes, but he’d become far too acquainted with their voices over the past few weeks to mistake them for anyone else.
Beat had wanted to come, but had drunkenly slurred his way towards the horses, and before they left there was some sort of struggle, and Linx seemed to fell him. Beat, child that he was, spoke of telling Falcon of their excursion. Hamish had laughed at him, saying that he had “no care for the Falcon’s wishes in this matter”.
They rode for some hours, until eventually they came to this moor, with an unfamiliar hilltop palace in the distance. They’d disembarked from their horses, and handed them to the handling of some attendant of Hamish’s, who seemed to have had his jaw shattered one too many times.
Now, shackled still, Astro awaited some indication from Hamish as to what they were doing here, but it was growing increasingly obvious to the wizard as to where they were.
“This is Kay’s new palace, isn’t it?” The wizard asked with great trepidation that seemed to speed time mercilessly towards an unwanted conclusion.
“Yes, the Court of Righteous Protest. The Divines are calling it “The Even Falser Court”, The Whispers I hear are calling it “The Third Court”, and are contemplating a political alliance. Ryan won’t think of it though, and Kay’s little moniker for the place is just a mockery of the rumours. At least that’s what he says.” Hamish spoke in an uncharacteristically monotone manner.
“What, no psychotic rant about your being a dark reflection of Kay?”
Hamish turned to him, eyebrows cocked, and burnt half of his mouth grinning sickeningly. He snorted and shook his head, looking back at the place.
“I want you to reconsider my offer Astro.”
“I said no too many times to count Officer.” Astro snarled as he walked toward Hamish.
“Key words being too many.” Hamish smiled again.
Suddenly, a scream rang out across the moor.
“That’ll be Linx.” The half-faced man mumbled.
Then, dread filled Astro. The roof of the Gaian palace was rapidly catching fire.
“That’ll be Muffin.” Hamish turned to Astro.
He seemed to open his mouth to speak but Astro was already reaching out with his mind and hand to snap the man’s spine. Finding his magic ineffective on the Endling, he swung his chains outward. They lashed forwards, striking Hamish on the brow and releasing his blood from his veins. He fell back, clutching his crown as red stained his face.
Astro readied to swing again, but found the butt of Linx’s rifle driving the wind from him. He fell to the side, groaning. He attempted to rise but found a mud-stained boot pressed against his face.
“Not so strong when you can’t magic your way through a fight, are you Astro?” Hamish laughed, extending his free hand to Linx.
Once he stood, he reached beneath his shirt and pulled out a talisman with a glowing gem in the centre.
“Special order,” Hamish scoffed. “Dominus gave us them specifically for your capture. We can touch you as much as we damn well please.”
Linx moved his foot from the head of the wizard, leaving mud and flint across his face. Through the mistake, Astro’s head sprung up in blind fury.
“Go hang yourself!” Astro shouted out. “I’ll damn well garotte you with that trinket if you flaunt it any further!”
Linx’s foot pushed his mouth back into the muck before he could rise.
Hamish swung his boot back, but found Linx pressing a hand against his chest.
“We still need the Guild’s cooperation.” Explained the traitor. “If their leader is too damaged at the end of it all they’ll forfeit the deal pretty quickly. And who will Falcon blame for that?”
Hamish opened his free hand in concession. Instead he gestured to Linx to pull Astro up, mud smeared over both sides of his scowling face.
“Who did you get?” Hamish grinned.
“Got lucky. Cossack’s assistant, Rosa was out on a nighttime errand of some sort. I knew her back when Peter was still King. She’ll spread the horrified word to our mutual friend.”
Hamish broke down laughing and Astro resisted the urge to try and claw out the man’s eyes.
“That’s perfect.” Hamish wiped away a small tear.
Muffin burst from the grass.
“Did you see it?” He contorted his face into a smile a few miles too wide.
Hamish placed a hand on his shoulder in a brotherly manner, swaggering around him as he did so.
“You did great Muffin-man,” He half-shouted. “Couldn’t have committed a better bit of arson myself.”
The hunched sketch of a man looked at him like a puppy, twitching painfully every few seconds.
“Well Astro, you’ve seen what I’ll do just on a whim.” Hamish began confidently. “I’d advise you agree to my offer. Defy me further and I’ll do this a little more regularly.”
Astro glared at him. “What’ll that accomplish.”
“I’m going to drive Kay over the edge, finish the job, unless you agree to do this.”
“What’s the difference?” The wizard spat.
“In one eventuality Kay gets really, really angry. In the other I reduce him to a vegetable.” He smiled tranquilly. “A few more ghost sightings, a couple more arsons. Perhaps I’ll ask Falcon to send Unknown after the dead one’s friend, the thaumaturge. Convince her we could use that to our advantage. That’d really do it.”
“I’ve already told you, I’ve fulfilled my part of the bargain. I’ll get them to hand it over to Falcon as long as she agrees to-”
“You know this isn’t about Falcon, Astro. No one here cares about her beyond getting paid and causing anarchy. Why do you think I didn’t bring Unknown or Beat? This is a strictly personal deal. I want to **** off Kay, you want me not to end him whilst doing it. We have a mutual interest.”
He lifted to blood-stained hand from his forehead, and held it out before him. It was the tainted one, slightly larger than the other, with pointed fingers as opposed to rounded heads. Past the silken glove, one could see the cracked flakes of coal black skin.
Astro’s eyes shot utter contempt into him, but at the same time they were split. Did he trust him and commit this one terrible deed, betraying the trust of his friend in the process? Or did he reprove this deceiver, and allow a thorn in that same friend’s side to dig itself into his heart? Or did he chose option three and try and shatter his skull again before making a run for it? Remembering how successful option 3 had been before, he quickly discarded it in the mud, leaving him with just two horrible possibilities.
And with gaping mouth and knitted brow, Astro extended his hand, covered in muck, to the blood-red hand of his enemy. As their hands met, that of a real man and that of a thinly disguised facsimile of one, and the blood and dirt mixed across the two men’s hands, Astro shivered.
Through the thick and soft glove he felt something indescribable in its eldritch and poisonous aura. It was that feeling of being defiled, as if you must immediately cleanse yourself spiritually, physically, and mentally of all association with the font from which such corruption spouted.
And the wind seemed to slow itself a moment. And the stars seemed to brighten themselves a moment, as if widening their eyes in horror. And the pact sealed itself on the men, bound in earth and blood, the two creatures were linked. And the lambs were led one step closer to the knife. And the next morn reports from the front came back. Although it had passed, the storm was not yet done, and it was returning for one last charge, to lay claim to what remained.
Well, really sorry about this wait. Massive cock-ups on my part. Exam period, good lord. And of course school in general. However, the latest part is at last here and I'm already working on the next part. I have a clear idea of where I'm going, and am trying to push this portion of the story towards completion at last. This is it, we're nearing the end-times people.
As Kay assumes direct control of the Circle with a brand new scheme, the cracks in the paintwork begin to appear. Bokane has an epiphany about how to resolve his situation with the others, while the Brotherhood's recompense is enacted.
Part 11:Due Recompense
The room was fairly large with unconvincing floral print crawling unevenly along the walls in a vain campaign to contain the inherent shabbiness of the room. In a curving L-shape the room held two beds, in the shorter arm, opposite the door, with clearly frayed but well-polishing sheets gleaming self-consciously on the beds. They were pressed against the walls in a manner best-designed to save space, on either side of a window made too large for its purpose out of wood barely strong enough to hold the weight of the wall. Nonetheless, this disgrace of a frame had been painted in what seemed to be quite expensive cream paint in a manner so hasty as to negate any benefit it might have given to the lop-sided portal.
To return to the beds for a moment, there was a shocking contrast between the two. The one on the left was a total mess, the quilt lumping in various points within its “authentic silk” (as the landlord artfully put it) cocoon. The quilt was heavily bent halfway over as if it were a leaden sail. At the foot of the bed one could see a filthy, blunt-headed steel hammer, perching calmly against the comparatively feeble leg. The one to the right was meticulously kept, a chest laid at the end, wherein one could find the inhabitant’s clothes.
Held on the wall by a nail placed far too close to the corner was a painting that might actually have shown some wealth among the dwellers of the room, the steel-grey eyes of Gandor Baarban. His features were sunken and protuberant. He had a wide and squashed-looking head that, when taken out of context, always gave the impression of a man of a much larger girth than you would really find.
Thankfully, as this portrait portrayed his torso as well, one could see that the thick neck and hanging chin were unable to sustain themselves, giving way to an almost comically limber form. A red doublet covered with medals and tight black trousers displayed the insecurely angry body of the so-called god of the seas. He was one of those men who, if he felt he wasn’t being taken seriously, seemed to lash out and harm something in order to prove his power. Unlike his counterpart in the New Continent, he had never learned to be comfortable with his power, and didn’t seem to realise he’d ever attained it.
On the wall extending from the crux of the “L”, along the longer arm, there was a large bathing room, which, while having a highly ornate door, was where the owner had abandoned his facade and left his tenants to fend for themselves. The room was little more than a collection of chamber pots and a water pump, with draughty and shutterless windows. The walls within it were bare and wooden, and it was obscenely cold, forcing the tenants to drag in a large brazier and place it in the centre. One could still see the large crack in one of the brittle clay tiles where they have dropped the hulking metal frame at one point.
But now, at the mouth of the, as sunlight poured amidst from the haycocks and half-built windmills, three people were perched around a table. There was Abigail, the youngest of the four, radiant in all meanings. She was laughing, and talking away as she did so, and grinning endlessly. Her fiance’s hold on her feelings and actions was loosened, with a new vibrancy claiming these in his stead and transforming her into something unrecognizably familiar.
There was her brother, Cillian “Killer” Baarban. The meak little sod for whom father had no hope. He sat there, and he smiled, triumph from the trial not yet gone, clinging on to the impossibility of his circumstances as a sign of victory. He smiled a kind, small, contented smile that said all. He didn’t speak, he didn’t laugh, he just stayed perfectly and smiled along as his sister spoke of endless plans for when they returned. Of how she wished to see the lakes of Tyrissa again, as the doves sailed across them and the moon turned the lakes to cream. Of how she would embrace father, and tell him of all their tales. Of how their siblings would react to see them home. Of how the Thaumaturge would fit right in, of how Abigail’s sisters would love to meet him.
Then there was the Thaumaturge, Bokane, speaking in bitter defiance of a King and Council with whom he had no more patience. He never spoke too harshly of his ruler, conceding that he enabled their circumstances as well, but in the end couldn’t help but come back to the wondrous escape, his glorious revolution. Of how he would finally escape the oaf who had dragged him across the earth without any regard for his views on the matter, any attempt to seek his advice, or even to acknowledge his presence. And they tolerated this with grins, spirits too high to ask him to stop.
And then the Thaumaturge realised that he had other engagements, some task given to him by his traitorous comrades to consume his time. And he left, feeling as if he had removed a great burden from his consciousness. As if somehow, by mouthing off about his problems, they had become something less, and that he had unfairly judged them. What had moments before been a strong conviction was now an embarrassing outburst, a flight of fancy, a fit of passion.
After a guilty walk down the hall, he poked his head through the door once more, affirming that he really did love them all. He affirmed for a further ten minutes how they were in truth his brothers, his family, and that despite the fighting they had done unto him more good than evil. He determined that his issues stemmed from his real brothers, whom he did in fact hate with a good deal of passion, and that their mockery had made him into the “bitter little arsehole” he professed to be. He resolved to make amends, and affirm to his brothers that while he would be leaving, he was also going to earn his right to retire, and pledge himself to all duties a thaumaturge could perform.
With that he vanished, and the Baarbans sat in silence for a good while, just smiling at each other, ruminating on their colleague.
There was a roar, a shattering sound and the door came down. There was roaring and screaming, and the room flooded with men in the armour of the Realm burst in, maces in hand. At their head charged the battered bull, one-eyed but still unstoppable, the great splitter of the wind clenched within his grip, swinging with force enough to cut open the earth itself.
The battle was short, bloody and memorable. Abby had dived for her hammer and within a few seconds three men found their skulls to be quite opened. She retreated onto her bed, ready to hold out against any man who came for her. Then a crack had sounded from behind the mass, and she was struck somewhere in the stomach. Next, she convulsed, she bled and she crumpled onto her unmade bed.
Killian however, he proved himself better than any man could have predicted that day. Not his sister, not his friends, not even his all-knowing father could have foreseen the sheer stubbornness he showed that day. He drew a saber and fell in right after his sister. He stood over the corpse of his sister, sword in hand, slashing furiously at any creature that came close, crying bloody murder at anyone who came too close.
And finally, after the bodies piled up significantly, the bull decided enough had been done. With a single downward swoop the blade of Killian was cleaved in two, and the bar at the end of the bed with it, throwing him on to his front on the ground. A second swipe took the eldest Baarban son from this world without dignity, honour or proper respect. But he had stood furiously, staring down the Bull, his shattered sword in hand, and accepted death reluctantly but without complaint. He could have begged, or tried to make some grand speech, but he chose the path of true stoicism, and in the eyes of the banker that was the virtuous path.
As they bled out on the ground, the banker timidly inched forward among his pack of murderers and criminals, eyes empty as they surveyed the scene. From his hand dropped a large object of wood and metal, with a barrel still burning to the touch, which thudded on the floor tremendously. He just walked passed the brother, throwing a flower onto his body as he advanced. For him the true horror lay on the bed. His victim, lay without motion in her bed. Her eyes, mercifully, had closed. The mattress beneath her was already saturated with red, and the plumes of crimson continued to billow outwards. The banker sniffed, blinked twice, and then reached gently for the folded quilt, and dragged it out over his former comrade.
He murmured something to the Bull about being done there, and his people filed out. He stood there alone for a good few minutes, observing his work. Cossack pressed his palm against his forehead as if wishing to crush it, cursed an awful lot, and then marched out, planting the banner of the realm in the floor as he did so. Then there was the clatter of hooves, and they were gone.
***
“So I’m just feeling, I shouldn’t have been so hard on him, you know?” Bokane rambled to Small, who honestly wanted to hang himself.
It was like this every few weeks normally, and in more recent times the intervals were becoming fewer and farther between. Bokane would feel underappreciated, or meet a challenge, and he select a target for his ire, often Kay, Aaron, Cossack or, up until recently Astro (generally on the grounds of him being a “pompous **** who doesn’t know anything about real magic”). Then, he would blow up in their faces, the thaumaturge would be incredibly tense for a few hours, maybe days, during which he’d ***** about his opponents incessantly.
Small could live with such an interminable verbal conquest of the shadows behind other, arguably better men (at least in the cases of Aaron and Astro, or on a rare occasion, Secret), if it weren’t such a temporary and utterly self-indulgent waste of time. He would always hit someimpassable bedrock with his criticisms, and backpedal to exactly where he was before, as if bound by some mighty leash. Although, if he was furious with Cossack, the best he would do is dismiss the man as the least of his problems. Small had only held this office of confidence for a few brief months, since the early departure of Mini, and already it had frayed his previously loose nerves into mangled parodies of their former selves. Bokane had been speaking for just five minutes, and Small was already mourning all the paintings he could have been working on.
They were in some inn, not too far from the Gaian palace, just a quick jaunt down the hill from the Court’s gates. Bokane was accustomed to walking down on foot, strolling through the hillocks and going around the outside of the village, before entering the tavern through a lesser-known side door. It was much better for him when he was in ill spirits to subvert the eyes of the soldiers in the tavern.
In particular he was eager to avoid the eyes of the equally dour Bird Brain, whom he had branded “a massive sourpuss”, with not a hint of ire. For, while Bokane made his ire no secret, the Mojangite exile saw something of a kindred spirit in him and found himself strangely drawn to the Thaumaturge. He would approach him and try to converse about his situation, and would be faced with a stone wall from the Thaum for more reasons than personal incompatibility. On a lucky day Bone would be on hand to salvage him and prevent a dispute. While a full-blown argument hadn’t yet broken out yet, they had traded insults briefly and Small half-believed the pair quite enjoyed it.
“Do you understand what I’m saying?” Bokane posed to Small, who was enraptured by these observations in the same way you might observe a crack in paintwork you hadn’t seen before, or the slight bit of dirt around the rim of a doorknob.
“Yes, quite.” Small responded correctly.
“I know, I was such a fool. I mean, I’m still leaving, no doubt about that. But I need to damn well earn it. In fact, I’ll rotate my location every six months. Through Winter I shall remain here, through Summer I shall be with her.”
“Do you really believe you can woo her?” Small asked, with an expression showing nothing but the purest agony. “She’s just lost her fiance on many levels. And Rosa would have us believe she hasn’t as totally recovered from this as we thought.”
“Time will heal those wounds.” Bokane waved his hand nonchalantly. “I know how to wait. Got a two-year plan all worked out.”
Small stifled a laughing fit with a mercifully timed sneeze.
“A two year plan?” He struggled to smother incredulity and hilarity before they awoke.
“Precisely.” Bokane said, with total confidence and glowing complexion. “Anyway, tell you all about it later. I’d best be off. Got to go apologise to Kay and the others, set about regaining their respect.”
He flashed a grin and uncharacteristically made his way out of the front door, bumping into Key and Walt on the way through. He jovially greeted them before pressing on through and striding back across the moors towards the ever-growing palace.
With an amused but honestly rather weary look the two rounded on Small, Walt nodded, and the assassin pulled two stools out for them.
“So, I take it he’s gotten this silly notion about going to Tyrissa with Abby out of his head?” Key smiled hopelessly, stopping before his stool.
“If only. He’s just making it more complicated.” Small sighed, the bartender approached, Rory was his name, and Small cut him off before he could speak. “Hello Rory, what’ll we have lads?”
“Mulled wine.” Key answered instinctively.
“Lodyan Rye.” Walt responded, with a knowing look to Rory.
“I’ll get that for you now sir. It’s just in the back.” The bartender nodded as he walked through a door to his stores.
“Take your time.” Key then muttered in a lower tone. “Cossack’s calling a meeting of the Circle.”
“Notch on high, we’re not actually calling ourselves that are we?” Small groaned as the other bartenders began to give them a wide berth.
“Sadly the name’s stuck,” Walt added. “I don’t like it any more than you do, but I doubt any of us will like what we’re about to see… I know he was your friend Key, but he’s dropped us in a whole load of-”
“I’m sure he had his reasons. They were stupid reasons, but I won’t have his memory totally defiled.” Key raised a hand and Walt stopped, bobbed his head in dejected understanding before turning his face away.
“Any idea what it’s about?”
“You take a guess.” Walt grumbled.
“The Brotherhood wants recompense?”
“We don’t know what it is yet, they made an offer to Kay and Cossack and I doubt we’ll like it.”
“Calm down Walt,” Key interjected in a fed-up manner. “Kay’ll leave us be. We’re too prominent to harm. Plus, I don’t think he has the heart. He’s doing this for us after all. He swore to keep us safe under the Treaty, and I trust that he’s a man of his word.”
“He promised to protect you under the Treaty Key. He only agreed to buy my bread under that.” The businessman nervously persisted.
“Enough of this, we’ll see what Kay has to say.” Small grunted, before turning his head and calling out, “Rory, what’s taking so long?”
The bartender then dutifully came out with all of the alcohol promised.
Key raised a glass. “We will remain.”
The two smiled and all three started to drink. Then, wiping their mouths of the residue, they turned to the door and swaggered out with a reluctant bravado.
***
The hood was removed from Astro’s face and he glared around with total contempt, cocking his head back as if in an attempt to breath above the toxic aura of those he expected to see around him. But then, his brow knitted, and he regarded the face before him closer.
“Starletts?” He inquired, half excited by this, half concerned. “That you?”
The man was a husk of his former self, bent slightly forward, hair wilting. His face hadn’t been shaved in several weeks, and evidently his last attempt at shaving had been uneven and careless, for the beard grew in bizarre spines and tufts of varying lengths. Unrecognisable from the proud King of the Ghosts, whose smile had projected a cool confidence as well as a deep-rooted interest in everything you were about to say. Now his face tried to project that at times, but it was like an image occasionally shown jarringly through a broken mirror. You almost weren’t supposed to see it.
“It is.” Starletts hoarsely responded, throwing the hood to the floor.
“Well,” Astro started, unsure as to how much the man knew and what mental state he was in. “I must say it’s wonderful to see you again, how have you been recently-”
“Oh cut the rubbish Astro.” Starletts took the sentence and broke it over his knee. “I want to know about the Overlord.”
Astro furrowed his brow, but at the same time he saw an opportunity. He could win an ally here, someone he could use to fight back. He couldn’t deal with the Falcon until after the deal, but perhaps Starletts could be used to deal with Hamish or one of his little circle? Boy, getting Linx would be cathartic. Perhaps the Falcon’s footman, Unknown? Any way to weaken them before the time came. Ray very much couldn’t be counted on until she was back in their hands, and Mo wouldn’t risk severing the deal. Although, at the same time he had no clue how Starletts would react to the story of the Overlord. Flipping once more, Joe questioned what good Starletts had ever done for him, remembered that he was one of Ray’s closest mates and decided that anything that gave the Lord Mayor a headache was good for him.
It was thanks to Ray that he was still trapped there, not trusting Astro’s desire for her return enough, fearing that Astro and the Guild would reunite and flee.
“What do you know so far?” Astro sighed.
“I know that I - he is a character that Ray designed in the eventuality that they had to fight Void. Essentially a doomsday scenario.” He began, tears silently glistening and sticking in the corner of his eyes. “I know that he rebelled against Void with the aid of the Falcon and Ray, masquerading as Williams. I know that he fancied himself a glorious revolutionary, destined to be Qustom’s true successor. Spouted the same “people’s cause” tripe Dominus is always coming out with these days. Then he was defeated at the city of Aegis, and held in the cells of Mojang for several weeks, feigning insanity, before breaking loose during the attempted coup by dear young Kay. He must have escaped around the same time I did.”
He paused and regarded Astro, who gave him nothing but fearful hostility as he sat on the floor, wrists clamped together by hulking chains.
“What do you want to know? Seems you have it all worked out.” He scanned Starletts, now fearing some unseen torture device.
“Who was he? What was he like? What did he do?”
Astro’s guard fell slightly, realising that this was just a man seeking his own identity, trying to recover several lost months and the events within them. He nodded.
“All I know comes from second hand sources and a brief visit to his cell in Mojang. He was proud and angry, feeling a genuine sense of being wronged which he refused to question too long. One could say that an entitlement issue stemmed from this. He was remorseless in his outlook, feeling that all was done for the greater good. He was also arguably pragmatic. He hated being confused with his original self. I actually believe he’s genuinely mad in this respect, none of that rambling “time” nonsense.
“As for his crimes; he burned the tree of Gaia; sacked the Realm; murdered several moderators before the entire Craft, Ludio among them, and crippled Celtic; destroyed the Council of Lords; rallied the Noobian tribes at his back and fully intended to use a gauntlet and magical suit of armour to become a god.”
He delivered these words as dryly as possible, purposefully omitting the last question.
“Who was he?” Starletts asked, unsatisfied totally. “I know you’re aware, so is everyone inside and outside this damned hovel! I have guessed who it is! It’s not that subtle!”
“Then who was it?” Astro asked, with a slight sneer.
“I want you to damned well tell me.”
“And you said you’d guessed, who is the Overlord Star?”
“This is pointless.” Starletts shook his head.
“I only want to see how close you are. If you’re right I’ll tell you. Who is the Overlord?”
“I am the bloody Overlord!” He roared, and then fell panting.
“Yes, yes you are.” Astro confirmed with grave sincerity.
Starletts looked at Astro, fury in his eyes quickly cooling to sadness, and then he broke down into tortuous laughter.
“You know Astro,” He guffawed, “I wouldn’t give a damn. I really wouldn’t. If I had been off on some genocidal crusade, and I had no memory of it or control over it, I wouldn’t care. It’s not my problem. It was another man who did that. What bothers me is that I remember it all. Not fully, barely in a coherent manner, but that which remained bounced about up there in far too detailed a manner. It’s killed my wish to kill weirdly enough. And what is worst is that I’m going to have to kill again.”
Astro cocked an eyebrow, “Who?”
Starletts scowled deeper and sat down against the wall beside Astro, scraping down the wall with a threatening delicacy. It was as if he were a clay pot about to shatter in your face. He snarled in a low manner. He pulled a flask from his pocket that had stains creeping down from the mouth in plans to take the entire surface, and lifted it clumsily to his mouth, seemingly wrenching his head backwards as he drank. He then lowered his head again, and wiped a small, nagging dribble from the corner of his mouth, breathing as if his lungs were of lead.
After a pause that lasted far too long, Astro attempted to question him again, “Who would you kill?”
“Well, therein lies my question. Who decided it was wise to use the Overlord instead of myself? Who decided to betray me first? I could forgive Ray if the Falcon was going to try and pull this off without him, I’d be a necessary sacrifice then. I wouldn’t like it but I wouldn’t blame him that much. Also, more immediately, what ****er decided it was wise to have me embargoed from all information? On top of all this there’s you and Ray’s little conspiracy against the Falcon. I might well have to kill a lot of people.” Starletts blazed grandiosely, some pride returning to him, but whether it was that of the Ghost’s leader or that of the Overlord was unclear.
They sat in silence again. Astro turned his head to the Calaian slowly, opening his mouth slowly to speak. However, the Ghost didn’t see this and began to speak before the wizard, causing him to turn away again in an irritable manner.
“I’m sorry Astro, I’m in awful spirits recently.”
“I can tell.”
“Listen, I know I can trust you, and you can trust me. You’ve been a good friend to Ray and myself over these long years.” He placed his hand on Astro’s shoulder and offered him the flask, which Astro greedily grabbed and swallowed.
He panted a few moments, air forced from his lungs in his long guzzling. “Thank you. I appreciate that. Haven’t had a good drink in days.”
“Glad I can provide it. But Astro, what do you know, can you answer any of my questions?” Starletts sounded genuinely sincere.
The fury had become transparent, revealing the confused and desperate nature beneath.
Astro nodded, “I can answer your last question. But you must promise to do something for me.” Starletts readied to raise an impetuous complaint but the wizard cut across him. “I want you to kill Linx, then I’ll explain who the one who ordered you to be kept out of the loop is. I’m not going to lie to you in order to get you to murder more than one person Starletts. As it is, you’ve been manipulated enough, surely the promise of true information is better than misinformation.”
Starletts swayed indecisively. “Well, I suppose it’s a slight step up, but I don’t know why you can’t just tell me now.”
“Listen, I wish I could be more forthright with this information.” Astro explained, assuming a superior ground and talking down to Starletts. “But I need these people dead, the timing is opportune as Linx just revealed himself to the Gaians, and we could pin it on them. The other kill would be significant but we’d need to get rid of one of the underlings first. It’s as much a matter of your own safety. I wouldn’t want you going after them without sufficiently weakening them. Surely you understand?”
“Yes.” Starletts nodded, pretending to follow in a manner which convinced him that it made sense. “Yes I think I do. How would you propose to do this?”
“Tell Falcon and Ray that I told you who you are, they’ll capitulate on the information front and let you out again. Then, gain Linx’s friendship, take him out to a bar, or out hunting, or on a long stroll, and then get him killed. Preferably find a Gaian you can reveal him to and don’t get your hands dirtied. If necessary, help them along and put a knife in his back or smother him in his sleep. As long as he dies in a manner you wherein you aren’t culpable, I don’t care what means are used.” Astro struggled to suppress the passion he felt for this subject.
“Why not someone like Muffin?” Starletts asked confusedly, with embers of defiance glittering amidst the soot.
“Well, how much do you want to survive?” Astro dryly responded.
“Point taken.”
“Then will you do me this favour, old friend?”
Astro made to extend to him a single hand, but then realised both were clamped together. He as such, paused mid-movement, and awkwardly bent his hand towards Starletts, and the pair’s eyes met. Then the Ghost’s mouth began to quiver, then so did the wizard’s. Then one bent forward, and the other back, and the duo began to laugh heartily. And with that their pact was sealed.
***
I sat in the bar with a whip of liquorice held aimlessly in my teeth, rolling my tongue around it. The bitterness gave me focus, made me alert. I needed that. This was to be the start of true redemption. I would end the Brotherhood and then the war in a single purge on a single night. It all made sense. I just needed the aid of three men, three solitary individuals and nothing in the Plane of Sanity could stop me.
Cossack stood beside me, brow furrowed as we poured over the documents that would make us gods. He stroked his chin in a way that was absent-minded but also somehow purposeful, simultaneously showing detachment and total involvement. In his hand he held a glass of whisky, which was deadly still.
Then, there was the dull thud on the door, and Cossack called up for them to come in. Down spilled into the room with urgency never before seen. They were like a pack of wild horses as they soared down the stairs, not knowing what they would face. Walt, Key and Small, all with very dour looks on their faces. I graciously greeted them, embracing them strongly.
And then, behind them, in a more languid style, Gracey slid down the stairs on the bannister, staggering slightly as he landed, evidently still recovering from whatever he’d been up to the previous night. He shot a snide grin when he saw the distressed looks of the group meeting him. It was at times such as these where even I would struggle to justify his behaviour. He’d been through alot, and he had a good touch for assassination and violence, but no one could honestly say he was at all tolerable. Only Brit could somehow withstand him. Nonetheless, he too received my customary greeting, even though touching him sent my spine a quiver.
“Well gentlemen,” I began, my manner shiftly to be much more serious. “Tejmin stabbed Tauto Chrone, claimed I instructed him to do so, then got himself killed. He was a bloody idiot and has gotten us into a load of trouble, but after this meeting he is a saint cut down in his stride by the devilish Realm of Seven Kingdoms. He was our friend, and deserves a proper send-off. Is that understood?” I paused, half-glaring along the crowd.
Walt nodded but then scratched his neck vigorously, trying to whittle himself out of existence and by connection that meeting. Key nodded with that appreciative wisdom he seemed to possess from time to time, smiling slightly. Gracey was still glaring at the floor, somehow believing it responsible for his splitting headache, muttering a profanity-laden confirmation. Small was the only one totally impassive in his agreement.
“We are met with a difficult situation. The Brotherhood have killed Abby, and three other officers, and are threatening to go public if we try to retaliate. The question is whether or not we continue the plot. Because we have a good plan, a strong plan. This plan could damn well end the war and the Brotherhood in a single swoop. And of course, continuing it would be a great early birthday gift.” I smiled at this one and there was some uncomfortable laughter from Cossack and Walt.
Speaking of Cossack, he stepped forward and said in his supercilious manner, “I move that we continue with the plan.”
Gracey smiled and stepped forward, “I concur.”
Small seemed to be about to reciprocate, but Walt cut across him. “I would like to know what we’re agreeing to first. The Brotherhood ought to face justice, but we need to know that the plan we’re choosing isn’t as vulnerable to failure as the last one.”
This irritated me on many levels, and I shot Walt a momentarily withering look, that unnerved him greatly. “The plot won’t be as vulnerable to failure because there is much more on the line. That, and I will be overseeing this one personally. I value myself as much more subtle than Cossack, as does he. I should have done this to begin with, and perhaps I would’ve caught on to Tejmin’s weaknesses earlier, perhaps I wouldn’t have. However, the big issue was that the plan we used was inherently too blunt, something that was my responsibility as much as yours. As such,” I swallowed. “You have my deepest apologies for this situation.”
Walt nodded in an unsatisfied manner and stepped back, allowing Small and Key to vote in favour. Walt said nothing of his vote. Instead, he just allowed the illusion of unanimity to continue, and the others seemed to believe it. I however, didn’t. “We’re going to have to do something about him soon.” Thought I. “He’s going to become problematic.”
With the motion passed I determined to elaborate slightly. “The full details of the plan are not yet finalised. Before they can be, we need assurances. This operation is going to be fully legitimised, and, as I said, has a chance to end the war or at least make it much easier. Three men are needed by and large. One of them isn’t even totally necessary, but would be bloody useful to have.”
There were murmurs of consent, and a general desire for me to continue. Small nodded slowly before inquiring as to their identities.
“The first man is Ryan. As I said, totally legitimising this. Then, there is Patriarch Isidore. We’re going to convince him that I’m Peter’s ******* child, as the old king always believed. And no, it’s not quite what you’re thinking. Just trust me there, I’ll elaborate once it’s confirmed. As for the third.” I looked to Small and Gracey respectively. “Cossack, I leave this one to you. Your manner will be much more suited.”
Cossack spectacularly failed to disappoint.
With total, taciturn bluntness and no hesitation, he rose and explained the situation, “Small, Gracey, your job is to go to Aaron, get permission to take some of his men, and then to travel across the Fields to Dominus’ camp. Whilst there, you are to kidnap Lord Xephos and steal as many of his scripts and actors as you can. If you can figure out how, steal his entire theatre company, but if not, the bare minimum is Xephos himself.”
There was a solid ten seconds of silence before everyone broke down into laughter. Small was the first to recover, wiping his eyes.
“Just wondering, how serious was that instruction?” He earnestly asked, with a look of lustful ambition entering his eyes.
“Totally.” Cossack and I responded jointly, before laughing silently and looking at each other in a bemused manner.
“Well Gracey,” Small began, ruffling his hair and bending his brow slightly over his eyes. “We’ve got the kidnapping of the decade to plan.”
He gripped the wrist of the swaying skeleton and dragged him up the stairs, his accomplice four paces behind him all the way, swinging his legs wildly to keep up.
I smiled after the artist, before turning to the others.
“Key, I want you to organise a group of people for rapid action. A group of off-the-records thugs with no accountability. Anyone speaks ill of Jeb, Notch or the True Court, they beat the **** out of them. We’re creating the image of a nation that would never be disloyal to the Divines, and only wants the best for the True Court. All will be clear very soon.” I grinned in a wide river. “Walt, I don’t really have anything for you to do yet. Could you hang around the atrium and make sure that Isidore is well-received? Thanks.”
Naturally I had just assumed Walt had nodded and then returned to excitedly rummaging through the schematics and checklists. However, he hadn’t. Instead he stared at my back with the uncertainty of a man who had just found a narrow mountain path where there had just moments before been a wide, open road. Then, after a long pause, he leaned back from the metaphorical edge and walked up the stairs in an unsettled manner. I felt free to speak at last.
“This is the best plan I’ve ever had.” I giddily chortled.
“I can say it’s definitely the most ambitious. Bear in mind the risks. And don’t trust Waltham. ******* named a town after himself. That’s testament enough to his vanity, but now it seems he’s having second thoughts. And believe me, when a vain man gets scared loyalty dies.”
“So, you saw it too.” I sighed, falling slightly from heaven. “He owes me a lot, I thought that would count for something. You know, making him rich and powerful?”
“Problem is that he’s now afraid of losing that wealth and power. And in his eyes you’ve just failed to come through on an investment. A frightened businessman is one of the most unpredictably, spectacularly stupid creatures you will ever find.”
“Any other self-invented idioms?” I dryly poked.
“Tonnes.” He rolled forward proudly as he said this. “Anyway, Halberdson wants to speak to you at four. We’d best get ready to leave if we’re going to cram in a visit to Ryan before then.”
“You’re right Cossack, I’ll go and get my regalia after I finish this whip of liquorice. Can’t have the other leaders believe their figurehead genuinely likes to dress like a normal human being. That would be insane.”
Cossack laughed, waved me off and plodded up the stairs.
Then another set of footsteps came pounding down the stairs. I raised my head nervously, moving my hand to Amicus’ hilt. Then I saw Bokane poke his sandy head out from behind the doorframe, smiling widely. My hand remained close to the hilt. Then, I realised, he probably didn’t know. My face fell.
“Bokane…” I greeted, trying to support a false smile.
“Kay, I am so sorry about that tantrum I threw a few nights ago. I was totally in the wrong.” He began, an unstoppable energy carrying him from word to word, like a child describing a playdate with their friend. “I will be staying afterwards. Well, half the year, you see. Half the year in Gaia, carrying out duties here and helping with whatever you want. The other half I’ll spend in Tyrissa with Abby. It’ll be perfect.” He beamed widely, extending his arms excitedly.
Then he saw my face, the sheer misery that stretched taught my features, and his smile became uneasy, doubt eating it from within. It was, to be crude, the biggest kick up the **** I’d ever received. I’d ordered that hit. I could’ve done something to stop it. I had betrayed everything I had held dear. How could I tell him what I’d done… No, I can’t. This plan will avenge her a thousand times over. This is their fault. They did this. There was opportunity here too. No, not the time to think of that. I had to tell him.
“Bokane.” I began. “She’s dead.”
His smile faded totally. He staggered, and looked as if about to fall. I rushed forward to grab him, but he stabilised himself on the wall, turning slowly away from me. He raised the edge of his hand to his eye and brushed away unseen tears. I heard a low sobbing, as he hobbled forward woefully. His joints were stiff, but the rest of him seemed limp. It was as if a corpse were marching forward.
Then, the glass-like silence was destroyed, as he slammed his fist into a vase, sending bits of it flying everywhere. Then, like the clay shards, the fragments of broken silence seemed to bite into him, and he roared an inhuman roar. He swept the remaining items on the shelf before him onto the floor. He spun around and upturned the nearest table, and I winced as a large glass tray exploded.
I tried to approach him as he continued to storm, like a baited bear. He saw a large cabinet of wine bottles and marched towards it, as I jogged to keep up with him, attempting to get his attention.
Then, he whipped from his sleeve his wand, and, forgetting he’d left his satchel elsewhere, attempted to whip it again. Remembering this fact, he let out a string of curses at whichever party was responsible, and I felt them latch on to me, and attempt to hang me then and there. He then roared again and threw the wand through the glass cabinet door and shattered several rather expensive vintages, before his fire burnt out and he collapsed against the wall again.
His eyes were bloodshot from tears, and his features almost smeared by them. His fringe was now dirty and bloodied, held in his right hand. From between the knuckles on this hand oozed blood, freed by the vase, running wherever it pleased. He was in an awful condition. And then, suddenly, his eyes rolled back into his head, and from his nose blood began to flow eagerly. I, having stooped over him just a moment ago, was now running up the stairs, screaming for some sort of doctor, or physician, or wisewoman with a home remedy. Someone to end it.
I broke out into the hallway, babbling for such a healer, and Aaron ran up to me, brows knitted and eyes furious with purpose.
“What’s happening?” Asked he, as he grabbed me from behind and spun me around.
“Bokane’s having a fit.” I cried.
This shocked him into action, and in a moment he, myself and Walt were dragging the bleeding mage onto a sofa, staining ourselves crimson. A healer came rushing down the stairs, already mixing all-purpose herbs in his hands. Then, he actually saw his patient, and began brewing some mystical tea, demanding quiet, and banishing us from the bar.
We stood outside for a solid hour until Cossack fetched me to get into my regalia. I remember Aaron and Walt standing outside the gaping doorway down to the bar. Aaron was kicking the ground inanely from his perch on a table. Walt paced nervously back and forth before the entrance, appointing himself sentry of his friend. Key looked on from a velvety sofa, chin buried in his hands, and brows turned to a single wall of iron.
And, after getting appropriately dressed in the long, flowing green robes, the emerald-coated crown of Peter, and holding the black sceptre of House Solvoleur in my hand, I descended the stairs once more to find the room strangely evacuated. I looked around quizzically for a moment, a pack of six guards at my back, Cossack faithfully stood at my side with a document case dutifully fixed underarm like a rifle. Then, I smiled hopefully, requested that they remain where they were, and then rushed down the stairs.
Stood around Bokane were the three, all respectfully perched at a different point of the compass, leaving room for me to enter on what I knew from local geography was the Southern point. Wasn’t that amusing. I’d tried half my life to escape the bloody South and yet here I was, its figurehead. Great.
Bokane was lying on the sofa, still livid with fury. Blood no longer ran from his nose, and it had been washed from his faced. However, it seemed to have stained his skin, leaving a subtle outline which, while invisible, was somehow inescapable. You couldn’t help but imagine the crimson river still there, despite how shortly it had occupied his visage.
But the worst aspect was the look of utter despair on his face. No pit of despair was deeper than the one which had burrowed into him. His eyes were shattered into islands of yellow and off-white around his deep blue irises. His bottom lip hung low down, bending backwards to reveal empty blackness.
Aaron looked to me concernedly, and we shared a brief look. He nodded and gestured to the others to clear off. They filed back up the stairs, and I walked up to Bokane and sat at the foot of his sofa.
I placed a hand on his knee and sighed, looking morosely at the floor.
“Bokane,” I began in a low tone, “I am about to tell you who killed them.” He stirred, drawing up for war, but I cut across him. “But, I need you to promise not to go on a crazy revenge campaign. We’ve got a perfect chance for revenge. To go after them now would let them get away with it. Now, will you keep mum? And more importantly, will you help us avenge them?”
He stared at me for a solid five seconds with a growing sense of repressed, directionless fury. “Good.” Thought I. “We can use that.” Then, he nodded in a stiff manner that mirrored a rusted hinge.
“That’s good to hear,” continued I in my low voice, “The official story is that the Realm sent a raiding party after Abby as a message to Gandor Baarban. The truth is that this same group attacked Tauto Chrone and a group of Brotherhood Initiates outside Ryan’s banquet, and were slaughtered. However, during this attack, Tejmin, who had challenged Chrone to a duel of some sort, rushed up and stabbed the good Chaplain. This would be fine with me, if for one he had’ve succeeded in killing the *******, but even more so if he hadn’t said I sent him to do it.” I cursed, putting on a show of disgust that was only half-fake.
Bokane nodded.
“The Brotherhood took this as confirmation that I was responsible, sent a list of ridiculous demand that we start… executing officers to make up for the loss of five Brotherhood Initiates. I flatly refused of course, rightfully denying any responsibility and sending condolences. They ignored us, and went for the easy prey, Killian and Abigail.” I wiped a tear from my eye, choking back venom. “And now they consider us on even terms.”
Bokane looked at me with even greater fury, but it was directed away from me, leaving only a dull warmth on my cheeks. I for one felt empty inside. I wasn’t technically lying to him, but it felt ungodly twisted. However, I was plucked from nothingness as the Thaumaturge spoke in a shaky and quivering voice.
“How may I help?”
“I just need you, once you’re feeling a little better, to fix up an old trinket of Peter’s grandfather’s. Preferably before Isidore leaves. You remember him talking about it, don’t you? The Shift?”
Bokane lowered his eyebrows and curled his lip in curiosity. “You’re going balls out, aren’t you?”
I nodded solemnly.
“Good. You can count on my service.”
I smiled. “I’ll consider this an early birthday present.” I rubbed his knee gently. “Rest up, then talk to Walt about an hour from now. He’ll explain what I need.”
I then stood up and left, smiling coldly the whole time, ready to consecrate this marriage of villainy.
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Like fantasy? Like Minecraft? Check out a blend of the two here! Fall and a Rise: A Vanillacraft Tale!
Just read most part of the prologue and I have to say, it's amazing! Vivid discriptions, excellent grammar and sentences, coincide as the introduction continues. And I even feel a map unfolds before me when it comes to "the world as we knew it". And the arresting prologue reminds me of an ancient chinese myth about how the whole world was created after a giant man died of tiredness that came from proping up the sky. His body was made into every part of world.(somehow I find it a very sad story myself)
As for the improvement, I believe that many replies have expressed the same views I'm holding. Since my bad retention, remembering so many names could be not an easy job for me. Instead of taking them all out at once, I suggest that you can leave some for later referrence in the story to raise readers' curiosity.
Keep it up!
Not a bad idea. A character sheet has been mentioned before. I'll consider working n it.
Thanks for the feedback. Glad you like it.
Like fantasy? Like Minecraft? Check out a blend of the two here! Fall and a Rise: A Vanillacraft Tale!
So I finally finished reading the first part of the second chapter, after going back and re-reading your story from the beginning:
In terms of worldbuilding, the thing that stood out the most to me was your explanation of how respawing works in your world. I really, really love your use of the word "reforming." It's just this perfect combination of spiritual solemness with a badass, "Oh yes did we mention that when you die you get torn into dust, whisked away to an alternate dimension, and then magically reassembled into a new body?" kind of vibe. I also really like the idea that the way people die influences their well-being in the next life. That moment where Kay kills Secret felt truly emotional. On the other hand, I still haven't quite figured out how permanent death is in this world, although given Kay's reaction, I would assume it means Kay and Secret would never see each other again? The fact that the Enderdragon keeps reforming inside the same prison where it dies makes me doubt otherwise.
I have to say that of all the chapters I've read so far, the last one, "Ultimatum," felt the weakest. It was trying to be serious and funny at the same time, but as a result it felt like it was missing something. I also didn't really feel like I was really getting inside the head of a villain; Overlord's empathetic inner thoughts didn't resonate so well with his outward, cold-blooded actions. However, I did really enjoy Overlord's little dialogue with the four captive mods. That got a chuckle or two out of me.
Overall, nicely done so far. I'm sorry I couldn't read more before posting, but I wanted to make sure I got my thoughts in before I forgot. Whew boy, do I have a lot to catch up on! You are an incredibly avid writer.
Anyways, I should probably get back to working on the Convergence. Ciao!
Cheers Asan, it's great to get some more feedback.
Glad you like Kay and Antioch. Although... we're going to get some big development of Kay in Chapter 3. In fact, everyone gets a lot of development and there's a lot of major changes in the status quo. Yeah, I personally am not certain about Void myself. He's naturally a figure which the protagonists will try and uphold because Dominus is a bloody psychopath, and because they disapprove of his methods of seizing power. However, at the same time Void very much has a salt and pepper moral history. He brought down Zerg and avenged Qustom yes, but Qustom wasn't exactly an amazing leader near the end (in lore and the actual former admin of the server). However he also abstained from a massive conflict (The Great Onslaught) and then allowed the Brotherhood to terrorise the peoples of the Craft for a decade with no intervention. But at the same time Void does have a reason for this, fear that he'll attract the rest of the Brotherhood to the Craft and this will result in a takeover. There were also multiple occasions where he ignored allegations of corruption against his moderators.
As for the world-building, glad someone's finally asked about that. Just to clarify a few things, death is entirely related to random chance here. Sometimes people disintegrate when they die (in fact they usually do) and simply reform a few hours later in the last place they woke up. Sometimes they'll die and their bodies will stay there, in which case there's no coming back. Other (rare) times they will disintegrate but they'll not come back. No one really knows what happens then. This is why Kay was so nervous. He was afraid that Secret would be killed, and seeing as he just lost half his social circle he's not willing to let that happen.
Yeah, Ultimatum always was the weakest... aside from the chapter I do not speak of which has not made it into this copy (thankfully only the Vanillacraft post). It was done in the space of one maybe two days because I wanted to deal with the identity of the Overlord quickly as well as establish WIlliams, Antioch and Falcon. A lot of things could have been improved and fixed. But I'm still pleased with how the Overlord himself turned out.
But still, thank you so much for the constructive criticism. It's greatly appreciated.
Like fantasy? Like Minecraft? Check out a blend of the two here! Fall and a Rise: A Vanillacraft Tale!
Sorry this part has taken so long guys! I've been working on GCSEs. However, the next part should be a lot faster. This part covers the lead-up to Dom's attack. You know what that means...
Chapter 4: The Judgement of Gaia
Part 6:
I was barred from combat for the next several weeks following that meeting with Aaron and Carsey, in which time the Gaian army trained relentlessly. While I couldn’t train with the others thanks to Cossack breathing down my neck, after two weeks I was able to wander the city relatively freely.
At first Cossack insisted that I would be accompanied by a bodyguard of at least ten men at every step. However, I was able to talk him down from his pedestal of paranoia. I was allowed to wander the city with just one man accompanying me at any given time. As such, I chose Bokane. I couldn’t help but suspect there was something off about him. He kept mentioning Abby in a sympathetic manner and he’d become increasingly distant from everyone (especially Aaron), only seeming to confide in Walt and just barely tolerating Key and Small. As such I felt it was best I interrupted his unseen activities as frequently as possible.
On one such occasion we were puttering about down by the wall of the city, in our usual uncomfortable silence and I set about inquiring of him something that had been nagging me since Mojang. We were in a small, secluded alleyway and the night watch had just passed out of view.
“How fares Abby?” Asked I, setting up something of a preamble to justify the questions to follow.
Bokane instantly became even more morbid; he sniffed from the cold and explained, “She’s in mourning. Her fiancée was killed, then brought back to life without her knowledge, only for him to be re-murdered in a manner she thought unjust. Whether she’s right or not is debateable, but we shouldn’t be trying someone in such a fragile state.”
Cossack was overseeing the trial, and in a month or so the prosecution and defence would have all of their evidence. Abby’s brother had hired the best lawyer he could find out of the people gathered, settling on a foreigner, an academy dropout who was in desperate need of work and had silken tongue enough to sell his trade despite a lack of ability. I was leading the prosecution, and had gathered a crack team of lawyers. All the odds were stacked against her. She was accused of treason, assault and now something was arising about her brother and her misappropriating funds from the treasury.
“I cannot allow her to walk free.” I put down. “You saw Linx. He was one of them. Aaron too. He executed a traitor in the field when the opportunity presented itself. Abby didn’t seem to realise the implications of her husband’s treachery, or of her own. I need to make an example of her in order to ensure people understand that I am merciful, but not stupid. In all likelihood she’ll be executed. A guilty verdict is all I can promise. And that’s without even mentioning the raw goods she’s been stealing. We’ll get her brother on that definitely.”
There was a stone-strewn silence as Bokane stopped in the street. I continued a few steps, not bothering to look around. I could imagine his mouth hanging open as the reality sunk in. This was not the lead-in I’d hoped for. But I took what I had.
“Do you trust me Bokane?”
He halted, twice. First because of the suddenness of the question and his previous stupor, then because he actually had to think before responding, “Yes.”
I was naturally somewhat hurt. Astro and I had taken Bokane and lifted him and Mini out of the gutter. When he had been hurt or sick I had seen him nursed back to health. When he had been hungry I had seen him fed. When he was homeless I saw him housed and clothed. And it was all the more generous as he’d been undeniably hostile when I attempted to pick him up. The only reason I took him on board was because I felt sorry for Mini, and knew that the boy had adored Bokane.
Mini had looked up to him as an older brother, laughed with him as an older brother, ribbed him as an older brother. He’d done the same for me and the affection was mutual; perhaps I’d not always shown it properly but I had viewed him as a younger brother. Bokane should have known that I felt his loss in the same way, and that was why I’d uttered no words to him on the matter.
“Then why do you distrust me?”
“But I-”
“I know what you said with your tongue, but everything else said differently. Now speak freely.”
Bokane sighed a hefty sigh, as if readying to heave some great load from his lungs. “The reason I don’t… can’t trust you Kay… it’s complicated.”
“I have time.” It was far too cold and unintentionally threatening, but he seemed more willing to speak.
“I feel that you don’t trust me Kay. I do so much for you. I made that redstone bomb, I kept the city’s lights running. I enchant your armour to make sure you don’t die. I attempt to keep Ice's outdated corpses of Golems running! What appreciation do I get? What acknowledgement? Nothing. I am ignored. Always passed up for praise and singled out for punishment. That’s without mentioning that I’m constantly passed up for any chance to prove myself. Gracey and British are in more combat situations than I am. And I could take half your Notch-damn Gaians! And yet I’m stuck in a back room whining to the equally, but more wilfully forgotten Small about my situation!”
I scoffed, stomach turning. “What reward have I denied you? I pay you well. I house you lavishly. I admit you to councils of war you have no business to attend. When have I punished you? Aside from one instance where I was quite plainly out of my mind - which I have since apologised for like a grovelling beggar - on what occasions have I laid a hand on you in malice? And you know why I was out of my mind.” I was now subconsciously backing him up against a wall, glowering. I knew I was scaring him, but I wouldn’t have cared had Nether unleashed itself behind me. “You think I enjoy acting the raving madman? That I do it that often? That this instance of frailty and grief is reciprocated across my timeline?” I was on the verge of shouting now.
“I didn’t mean-”
“I know what you meant Bokane! I know that you don’t feel I’ve treated you as a special little snowflake and fawned over your every action as you feel I should. But I don’t know if you’ve noticed. We’re at ****ing war!” I gestured grandiosely, openly roaring now. “I have done all in my power to keep you safe on the side-lines as I did with Mini. I didn’t let you out because you didn’t show the goddamn maturity and backbone to handle such a situation! Mini showed the maturity, modesty and level-headedness to lead and act in a dignified manner. So I let him out to test him. And it just so happened that those bastards came and they murdered him in cold blood! Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes…” He was sullen and defeated, lying against a crate as if I’d just beaten him mercilessly and he had passively stood by.
I was sickened, I could hardly bear to look at him… But he was my friend. Perhaps I had side-lined him too quickly. If he wanted to fight I would let him do so.
“Kay?” Secret and Small had appeared from one of the towers along the wall. I’d forgotten they’d been stationed there tonight.
Since we had arrived the people of the Vanilla Craft had lived a bizarre existence of seemingly random shifts. Void and Halberdson’s men were constantly walking the walls, however in order to supplement them leaders were selected randomly to provide patrols and additional guards. Large parts of the army would train out in the fields, whilst on an eclectic series of shifts, the militaries of the Vanilla Craft would be given leave and allowed to visit the civilians.
This week, the Vangaardians were on leave and the Gaians were out on guard duty with Arcation and the Legionnaires.
“What’s going on here?” Secret asked wryly, knowing that we’d try and talk our way out of this.
“Nothing much,” I responded somewhat truthfully, with a hint of bitterness laced in. “Bokane and I had a spat. But he’s given me a few decent ideas.
Take him out on a few patrols Secret, then give him his own to manage. Small, you’ll be accompanying me from now on.”
“What?” Secret was startled. “Why would I take him- no offense intended to you Bokane, but this is completely out of the blue?”
“And why am I suddenly unfit to go out beyond the walls?” Small questioned, wounded deeply.
I dismissed it out of hand. “What use have I for a Thaumaturge? He’s plainly more of use out in the field. You’re a much more adequate companion, trust me Small. You’ll come with me, starting tomorrow. Good night gentlemen.”
And with that I strolled off in an ambling manner and little more was said that night.
And things went forth as expected. Bokane was a nuisance and his patrols were an absolute shambles. Secret went to Aaron and he set Bokane up with as many nothing tasks as he could. Enough to deceive him into believing that he had influence. And hopefully he was kept from whatever schemes he was developing.
Small proved to be a much more desirable companion than previously thought. At times it was easy to forget that he was really a very cultured man. He was a painter, philosopher, an avid reader and theatre-goer, a connoisseur of fine wines and on occasion had dabbled in poetry.
It of course took him a little bit to open up, but after a drink he was much more lax, and we conversed on such issues. His views on theology were not to my taste but he was eloquent in his views and debating him on them was nonetheless enjoyable. For those interested he was a pagan, believing the sun to be the only thing worth thanking. I believed in the traditional Divine pantheon of Jeb, Notch, Herobrine, Bone, Grumm, Seph, Steve and Ishinge; although above the others I revered Herobrine out of habit.
We similarly disagreed on literature and theatre. We both concluded that Trivius’ Sorrows were a modern classic, but disagreed on such works as those of the Yogs Theatre. I viewed their material as adept improvisation with an ever-evolving story. He viewed them as oafs who made money off of nonsense.
We’d stop here and there and survey the troops as they trained, Tejmin and Aaron training them vigorously. Tejmin would take firing drills, Aaron would lead the archers (when Secret was busy) and the infantry. The cavalry were absent, mostly because it was not in Gaia’s culture. I cannot say I disagreed. Horses were superfluous and unnecessarily risky. Why place your life in the hands of a being less intelligent than most humans just to move slightly faster, sacrificing stealth and agility in the process? Pointless if you asked me. The others could handle fighting horses with horses; we would handle them with pikes, rifles and good, old-fashioned human mobility.
Our number shad been reduced greatly by our exodus. To my knowledge Jeb hadn’t taken measures to slaughter our people, or even seek them out, but that didn’t stop our own people from fleeing our ranks. Every here and there our troops ran into a Divine patrol and may have been abducted. Many of our troops on leave had been rounded up but just as many had escaped Mojang. And we’d lost no munitions of worth. We had the armour all packed for leaving and by the time we were all made targets most of what we valued was fleeing for the Old Craft (as it had come to be known, as the Omega Iniative was deemed to be very silly and that Epsilon should feel bad for naming it in such a silly manner).
However, we’d still suffered a loss. Our military was down from 80,000 to 53,000, and our overall population down from 300,000 to 220,000. The others had suffered losses too, but none could boast a figure to match that.
Also out training particularly vigorously were the soldiers of Halberdson. They were fiercely loyal and strong fighters. I feared what would happen if we ever had to face them.
They were men of the horse who I did fear. Others were clumsy and easily routed. These men were flexible and steely. Their light and arced, but also far-reaching blades would hack through the foot-soldiers, whilst the horses bucked fiercely at the command of their riders. The horses were armoured lightly but effectively, and very able to leap dance past enemy blows. Lances were unheard of. Javelins and spears might be found among the first couple of lines, but nothing heavy. These men relied on speed.
Atreidon however was the most impressive as per usual. He took with him the Brotherhood initiatives and the Arcation mercenaries and cleared the fields in the day and in the night. They would plant and maintain torches and lanterns out in the plains, hoping to keep away the creatures of the night, and allow us to expand our defences. Already at the outer vestiges of the sea of light were being dug pitfalls, and small walls and barricades were being fashioned.
There were others, those of the other Crafts. Men of the Torch and Hammer Crafts were particularly prevalent from the Old Continent. From Horizon came the Craft’s neighbours. The men of the Myth Craft, and of the Fade Craft. There were of course rebels and vagabonds. Men who fought for the reinstatement of Ghostly’s line in Zine Craft. Men who had fled from Killer Craft when Jeb handed it to Vechs before his revolution. Men who sympathised with Vechs. Those of the Southern Thaumlands, who wished to strike back at the Divines for their betrayal after the Onslaught. Some even speculated that representatives of the Court of Whispers hid among our rank, and I couldn’t blame them for their suspicions.
Void had not been discriminate in his choosing of allies. He was a desperate man these days.
There were however distractions to keep our minds off of the desperation of our situation, and simply embrace the reality of it. There were plays held from among our ranks by players of all classes, re-enacting the bold actions of our heroes. Bards would sing satirical verses of our foes, mocking Dominus in particular and being careful to avoid insulting the Divines for the most part.
Most popular of all were the duels however, wherein the champions of all Crafts came together. Many fought and many were defeated. Death and injury were avoided as much as possible, but the presence of some of the world’s finest doctors spurred many on. Void prayed that no one important was harmed, but acknowledged that the people needed it to keep their spirits up.
Komplex and Atreidon turned their noses and bit many thumbs at such events, but not all were so easily discouraged. Among those most successful in these duels were Vacar and Shadows of the Arcation Priesthood (although it should be noted that all their members were regular competitors), Jolly St. Jay of the Brotherhood (the only regular competitor from their ranks), and of our own there was Aaron and Insert. And then there were a dozen or so other men from other places whose names I cared for not enough to learn them.
From outside the Craft, an occasional competitor was a warrior known as Venom, a man dressed in black with a devilish goatee. He was a mercenary; made his name off of his exploits against Vechs, and his fortune off of selling them. He’d not only beaten Vechs’ games more than once, but he’d broken out of them, then back into them, and then won them once more before escaping. In the arena he was utterly unbeatable. But he was not present frequently enough for any ire to be developed towards him, or any serious accusations to be made as to his honesty.
The one who suffered such rumours and venom was Insert. When Venom was present he was conveniently ill, and as such he was the only other major fighter who was completely undefeated. All had been bested by him. Jay, Vacar, Shadows, Aaron, Wolves… damn near every leader in the craft was bested by him.
Eventually he began besting the Arcation Priesthood in far too humiliating a manner. And on one day Vacar sought to expose him as a cheat. He went out to confront him, but were stopped by Gogyst and Walkers. Then, the four of them came together and held a little sit-down. They resolved that Vacar would challenge Insert once more, and they would then determine whether or not he was a scoundrel, or whether his invincibility was genuine.
Small and I were in the crowd. The arena was a large muddy square, rimmed by a chipped but sturdy wooden fence. In the centre was another ring of fences, surrounding a large fountain.
Insert was beaming around as his opponent limped off, looking about for his next opponent. In one hand was a spear which a blade about the size of a small sword attached. Hiding the other hand was a large round shield, concealing his torso totally.
Then out came Vacar, sword grasped tightly.
“Didn’t I beat you before?” Insert laughed.
He was met with silence, then he smiled and closed his eyes. An unspoken treaty was made. No holding back. Then he dashed forwards.
Vacar flashed to the left, the tooth-like blade missing its mark. The priest then spun, bringing his sword to meet Insert’s back. However, it only grazed the warrior’s armour; merely baiting the bear. Insert, now furious, immediately planted one metal foot into the earth and sprang back into Vacar, ploughing into him with his shield.
The force of the charge was great, like a bull or a wave sent forth by an angry god. He carried Vacar with him into the fountain, smashing through the fence around it and cracking the perfect stone basin and pouring dirty water over the two combatants.
Insert gripped the throat of Vacar with his leather-shrouded fingers, and began to dug in white-knuckled, with a grip so strong it could cease the North wind itself. The Arcationite began to gasp, prying at the hand of his attacker like a child at the hand of a parent dragging them along. Then he reached out and grabbed it, an old head of a statue. He gripped it, and then smashed it into the skull of Insert.
The shattering noise could be heard globally. Insert’s grip slackened and he rolled into the water. Vacar meanwhile reached for two shiny bluish green pearls from his belt and threw one into the air whilst grabbing Insert’s collar. There was a flash from the crowd, and an arrow shattered the pearl in mid-air.
I looked around and saw Besta retreating into the swathe of people. They’d planned this. I patted Small and sent him after the archer, and turned my gaze to the fight, ready to intervene should any further Arcationites choose to cheat.
The pair then appeared in a puff of bluish smoke, and began to descend. Vacar swung the champion around his head on sent him plummeting towards the earth, and the threw another pearl at the ground, where he appeared a split-second later. He would have immediately turned to face Insert, but the pearl shattered awkwardly and he arrived with his shin half-sunken into the mud, much to the amusement of all onlookers.
Insert slammed into the ground with a sickening rattling sound. He reached for his side, were a reinforced bottle contained a dark pink liquid which hummed with a faint aura of energy. He pulled the lid out as swiftly as he could and downed it. Immediately he writhed as bones realigned and the cracks in his skull began to seal over. The blood still ran from the gash on his temple however. Such potions were bizarre like that. What our bodies could heal comparatively easily, they could not, and what our bodies struggled with, they could do extremely easily.
Insert was then back on his feet and ready for his attacker.
The two clashed in a great flurry of blows. This was where we saw the two styles at odds. Insert was direct, thrusting and stabbing, clubbing Vacar with his shield where he could; all was done with a damn near unrivalled speed and precision. Vacar was lighter and more agile. He favoured dancing around Insert, slashing at his armour with the side of his blade and gradually wearing him down.
Then Vacar struck Insert a blow on his side, cutting on of the straps binding the two curved plates across his torso together. The blade then cut through the padding beneath his armour, and perhaps… deeper? Insert smashed Vacar across the jaw with his shield, throwing him to the ground. Vacar rolled and was on his feet before it could be thought possible. Insert however, froze.
Vacar looked at the tip of his blade, and on it was blood. The beast was wounded, and it was furious.
Insert descended on his foe with blows that truly only a master could stop. The two were in a deadlock, an impossibly fast and near impossible to follow deadlock of strikes and thrusts and parries. Then another entered the arena.
Behind Insert appeared the head of the Priesthood, Gogyst. The void beneath his hood betrayed nothing, but the firmness with which he grasped his staff betrayed all. I immediately leapt over the barrier and shakily ran towards Gogyst, feet sliding in the mud as I hurtled rustily from foot to foot.
Gogyst paid me no heed and sent fire spewing from the tip of his staff of tricks towards Insert, who blocked it with his shield. Vacar rushed at Insert, who sent him sliding through the mud with a kick to the breastplate. Then, as Gogyst’s flame sputtered and died Insert turned to face him.
As the Chief of the Priesthood readied himself to fight Insert head on, I slammed into him. Insert shrugged at this and returned to trading his flurry of blows with Vacar, seemingly even more storm-like in his assault.
I was left to face Gogyst in the mud, with Small nowhere to be seen, and Besta still unfound. We were both rolling like pigs in the slippery, seemingly foundation-less mud, but I moved first. Gogyst had dropped his staff just before me, and I grabbed it and used it to pull myself up, as he hoisted himself up with the fence. I spun to him, grabbing the shaft of the spear in such a way that I could club him with the blunt end should it be required.
Then, as I observed him, I noted that he was larger than I, and could easily disarm me. I didn’t want him getting his hands on the spear. Mods know what he would do should he get his hands on it. And so I threw it over the fence and into the gap. Not a man dared to touch it, knowing that Gogyst would not rest until he had them disembowelled should they steal it.
Gogyst was too angry to do anything but rush at me. Now here was an area I knew I could beat him. Hand to hand I could scarcely be matched by any of these men. Herobrine had trained me too well.
He swung with his grey metal fist with a driving blow which would have shattered my jaw. However, it was sluggish and slow. I gripped the grey mass and pulled it forward, smashing his nose with the other hand. He fell back, clasping his nose and I struck him twice, once upon each cheek, knowing I’d found them beneath his concealing hood from the satisfying outline I felt.
He fell back into the mud, his armour sullied with something other than blood for the first time in many a year.
Then his hood fell back, and beneath it I saw that which I had struck. All he had told me was true. His face was young, impossibly so. This man was over six hundred years old, perhaps more. His hair was ashen grey, and his eyes spoke of millennia, but not a single wrinkle appeared upon his face. He sat there dazed as he glared vaguely at me.
Then I was caught from behind, lifted by the legs and smashed through the fence. I slammed into the stone wall of the stands behind and slid down as he retreated. It was Walkers. And near behind him was Besta.
As they stood over me, a wordless cock of the head presented me with a choice. I could stay there leave Insert to whatever fate they had planned, and avoid a very painful beating. Or, I could stand up, and potentially buy Insert the time to best Vacar, but get pulverised by these two.
Whether I was thinking straight or not is debateable, but I stood up. This was the final straw. I was defending a man who had publically disgraced these men, from their view unjustly so. I had then assaulted their leader, revealed his secret and broken his nose. Now, they had battered me, and I had the gall to stand up.
Walkers drew his blade, and I drew Amicus. Here was a playing field I was not prepared for. It had been weeks since my accident had left me bedridden, and my ability with a sword had suffered for it. Hopefully the adrenalin would help me.
Gogyst gave Besta one look and he knew to back off. Gogyst watched as a silent spirit of vengeance, urging on his friend to put me in my place. He naturally swung first.
I caught the blade clumsily upside-down and tried to rush in for a swipe at his face. However, he turned and my fist screamed as it bounced off his helm. His hand then gripped my throat and hurled me over the fence into the arena. I rolled and picked myself up. He was already advancing.
I waited for him to swing again. He swung at my head, and I leaned back, the blade missing my good eye by a hair’s breadth. He prepared to swing again but I met him with the flat of my blade, and his shrieked down to the cross-guard before I threw it off. I swung at him again, hoping to catch him at the shoulder but he met me, and batted my blade aside with a forceful blow that it made my arm ache and threw me off-balance. He shunted me and I fell again.
I saw Small desperately trying to force his way into the arena, Besta holding him at bay. In the stands I saw Thomas and Bird forcing their way towards the arena. Vacar and Insert were locked in combat, oblivious to anything but their determination to destroy each other. Gogyst still stood vengefully glaring at me, seeming almost betrayed.
Walkers began thrusting his blade down at me, and I rolled in the mud like swine, trying desperately not to be slain.
Then, a great booming voice cried out, “CEASE THIS!”
Ryan materialised above me, and Walkers fell flat. Epsilon and Viking were now restraining the two thrashing champions. Celtic had Besta and Small separated. And now, Gogyst floated just before the Administrator himself, Void, completely frozen.
“What is the meaning of this Gogyst?” Void threatened, his tranquillity broken.
The jaw of the Arcation leader slackened and he began to speak. “We are attempting to expose a traitor.”
“And you intend to do this by starting a riot and driving your warrior to kill an injured man who isn’t even in his armour?”
I sat there, half-indignant, wondering how this would play out. They were accusing Insert, but they had no proof. Or did they? Were the right? Once set upon such lines of thought, the mind could not be drawn from them. Now, a man I’d trusted and respected for several years became little more than a fraud and a cheat.
I prayed to Herobrine I was wrong.
“We intend to expose this!” Vacar broke free from Epsilon, and, seeing that the straps on Insert’s armour were torn on one side, he tore from his chest the impregnable shell and the padding beneath in.
My heart leapt. Across Insert’s chest was emblazoned the unending jagged runes of the Endlings.
Shame took my heart.
“Void,” Insert pleaded. “What does this matter? I could go out there and kill Dominus now should he come. Jeb would be unable to act before you had his head on a pike!”
“And then what?” Void spat. “I knowingly allow some traitor to do my bidding. And then Jeb hangs me if I’m lucky, and if I’m unlucky I’m cast right into the Tempest after hours of torture.” Void knelt before Insert. “And I have a right mind to do the same to you. You have put every single man and woman who stands under my banner at risk. You’ve made us a target all for your selfish concept of glory. If I were Dominus, I would break every bone in your arms, and I would have a surgeon prise them all out while you watched.” Void paused, Insert was now kneeling before the administrator, seized by a terror I had only seen in the faces of men knowing they were about to face Notch himself. “But I am not Dominus. He is yours to deal with Mandy.” With that Insert fell to the ground in agony. Irons were clasped around his wrists as he writhed. And around his neck and legs were placed similar braces.
I had a chance to redeem myself here. And by Jeb I would not miss it. The only regret I have from that day, is that I didn’t kill him. I broke damn near every bone in his body with my weighted boots. But somehow I missed his neck…
***
Several days later a patrol was out on the plains at night, the only sounds to be heard were those of horses hooves pounding, and of the distant howls of the night’s various creatures. The sea of torches had been ever growing and they had to maintain them. The more torches went out, the closer the beasts got. They couldn’t all be glowstone, so this far from ideal sitatuation was what had to be settled for.
The patrol consisted of seven men, all Vangaardians. Of them, only two were of note.
There was Gorbanth, the demi-mod, and Wolves Glare, the lord of the small yet respected House.
Gorbanth was by far the more able of the two, actually leading the patrol. Hell, he was leading the entire House now. Whenever diplomacy was required, it was he who organised the meetings and handled negotiations. It was he who kept the people motivated. He actually led the military. What use was Wolves now? Nothing.
Before all this he’d been able to pretend he wasn’t running the show. Rage Peanut, Contra and Bem were still around then. They had shouldered the burden.
However, then Dominus rebelled and Rage was busy full time with his duties as moderator. Then the Forum was attacked and Contra was killed by Antioch. After Mojang no one had seen Bem, not a sign of him whatsoever. He was one of many just lost in the turmoil. He could be dead, in prison, or simply pissing about in Mojang without a care in the world. Now it was just Gorbanth, Trillian Glare and Trillian’s husk of a father.
Wolves had once been the champion of the Craft, the greatest warrior ever seen. Mourning Wood had claimed more men than any expensive blade. Then The Brotherhood came, and Wolves fell in with Celestick and Astro and their little crusade. Then, Celestick was thrown into the pit and Wolves fell into depression and he turned to abusing damn near anything except alcohol. Now he was just a presence. When attacked he would fight skilfully, and when spoken to he would speak back, but that was about all he could do now.
Sometimes Gorbanth and Trillian considered toppling him and having him executed, not that it would make any difference to the King. However, the official toppling of such a figure would result in a huge blow to the morale of his men, and draw unwanted eyes from outside. For now they were stuck with him.
But there and then Gorbanth had no business thinking about the politics of Vangaard. They were going out both to maintain the field of torches, but also to check on the Stone Titans and their progress on the wall.
Recently a group of Landmasons joined them called the Stone Titans. Masons who were incredibly powerful, like those who built the wall around the Farlands and the very Citadel of Mojang. Men who could shatter rock with their fists and assemble the shards into usable bricks with their mind, and then store it Notch knows where.
They were a rare breed these days. Most of them had gone over to Jeb’s direct control or had fled into hiding. Gorbanth felt it was a real pity. Since their vanishing structures had become more basic. No more were they as strong, and while their structures were less ornate than the ones built currently, they had a simple beauty to them.
The Stone Titans were the last free Landmasons of any consequence in the Old Continent. Allegedly a large group of them were living among the Half-Breeds on the Shore of Oddities though. And thankfully they had determined that the cause of the Vanilla Craft was the most righteous. Now they were working on a forward set of defences from which they could hold off the brunt of Dominus’ men. Position archers and Gaian riflemen atop and mow down the enemy from.
The reason it was so far forward however, somewhat baffled Gorbanth though. Some said that it was to allow the camp room to expand forward, and for additional defences to be built within. However, it still struck him as unnecessary.
Now they came to the nearest group of Landmasons, halted for the night. There were four of them sat around a modest fire before the wall, all huge and hulking.
One of them stood up, a man who called himself Pitch Bright. He was a large fellow and somewhat menacing from the sight of him, covered in dirt and his own caked blood, but he was also genial. Gorbanth had taken a liking to him.
“Halloo!” Pitch cried, standing from the fire and stomping over to Gorbanth with steps that should have shaken the earth.
“Hello Pitch. How’s the wall coming along?”
“Give us three more days ‘n you’ll have your wall. Dominus won’t be able to step wit’in four miles of your gates.”
“That’s good to hear.” Gorbanth said uncomfortably.
They both felt it. The feeling of eyes upon the back of their skulls. Gorbanth gripped the hilt of his sword and nudged Wolves, who in a rare fit of vague sobriety caught on and kept his hand near Mourning Wood. The first pebbles began to form around the hand of Pitch.
Then the first arrow flew. A Landmason was struck in the throat by an arrow fletched with gold feathers. Crawling over the wall several-dozen warriors poured fourth. The battle was quick and bloody.
A Valhallan noble rushed for Wolves with what seemed to be a hunting party. They weren’t equipped for battle. They were oafs urged on by whiskey and an urge to prove themselves. Wolves himself was opposition enough, but with Pitch creating rocks the size of men’s heads in his hands and throwing them as if they were fruit, they had little chance.
The noble was struck with a rock to the chest almost immediately after the battle began, shattering his ribs. He then began hoarsely crying for a retreat and his men followed. Despite the brevity of the encounter, six of them died in the first wave and three more died in the retreat. Gorbanth himself scaled the wall as they fled, looking out over their boundaries and into the night.
Amidst the stumbling undead he saw a figure that turned his blood to ice. Before this he had hoped they were early-comers. Some men who hoped to attack the camp while it was still weak and gain for themselves some minor glories. But no, silhouette against the full moon Gorbanth saw the horse-mounted silhouette of the King of the Rising Sun, Jiibrael; he was a ghost in the night, little more than a shadow, but his face was illuminated just enough for there to be no mistake. He dawdled for several seconds as he watched the Valhallans retreat, and then rode off himself.
Dominus was here, and with him death and all his friends would follow.
Like fantasy? Like Minecraft? Check out a blend of the two here! Fall and a Rise: A Vanillacraft Tale!
//bump
We're going to get some big updates soon lads. Dominus is making his move!
Like fantasy? Like Minecraft? Check out a blend of the two here! Fall and a Rise: A Vanillacraft Tale!
Nice story! Are you taking character apps?
Thanks for the read man, glad you like it. What point have you reached?
Yep, I sure am. Here's the app sheet (you will have to read a fair bit to actually see them appear though, we're entering the late stages of the story):
Name:
Age:
Species [Existing species are: Human; Divine; Thaum; Half-breed (half-mob creatures, generally creepers); Endling; Pigman (undead oralive); Undead (skeletal variety)]:
Gender:
Allegiance [Who they work for from what you've read in the story]:
Appearance/equipment:
Background/how they fit into the story:
Like fantasy? Like Minecraft? Check out a blend of the two here! Fall and a Rise: A Vanillacraft Tale!
Hey guys, been a while. Still a shorter wait than last part. Exams did get in the way with this one, but I'd say this one is really worth it. It is probably my best battle scene to date. Now, read, as Zerg and Dominus at last begin their attack on the Vanilla Craft.
Part 7: The Wrath of Kreatious
“What if they’re ready for us?” Dominus burst out after a long silence, a sweat forming on his forehead as his servants strapped his gleaming silver armour to him.
The tent was large by the standards of tents, but was still strangely claustrophobic. The snow on the ground had melted and all that could be seen was shrivelled grass. All that kept the tent warm was the gas lamp hung from the central pole.
In the corner of the room stood Ellen; the Raven; wife of Dominus; Empress of the Realm of Seven Kingdoms; daughter of Gregor Lomadia; mother of the late Elysium Dominii. She was armoured in a light but strong shell of reinforced steel.
At her side was her infamous dagger, which Dominus so frequently used against his enemies.
“Of course they’re ready my dear. Readiness can’t outrun death or justice. We have the luck of having both behind us. ” Her voice was calm, soothing.
Dominus was silent a moment more as his servants finished strapping on his armour and left the room instinctively.
“What if it happens again?”
“We won last time.”
“Barely. And the odds were in our favour then too. Now the Brotherhood has a smarter leader, we don’t have the army we were promised, and this time... I have no son to carry on my legacy.”
His wife flinched, swallowing sadly at the memory of their son. “You need not the Divines. You have the Kreatian horde and a dozen Administrators fighting among your ranks. And by Notch I know Zerg won’t let Void win again. The Vanillan lines shall crumble in the face of their dead leaders.” She smiled wryly and her husband followed suit; an artful bit of deception that.
A few men who had some vague resemblance to dead leaders and heroes had been selected, briefed on the lives of their predecessors and then Zerg had spent several months in Mojang spreading fear and terror into the hearts of the other Houses via cheap smoke and mirrors. A few men with convincing make-up of wounds here, a man who lost his head and somehow stayed standing there; and of course those who had known the dead men did half of the job for them. At this point all Zerg would have to do was strut out with his alleged army of ghosts and the entire rebel force would scatter to the winds. It also helped that they were among Zerg’s most fierce warriors. The only ones than bested them were the Golems.
They had suggested that the Kreatians led the assault, letting them have a head-start on charging the Vanillans. No one objected. If the Kreatian horde could do the killing for them, they would gladly let them win the war for them. His army was the most numerous after all, conscripting almost the entire province of Kreatious and garnering for himself 350,000 men. The largest standing army not run by the True Court. And no one could doubt that they were as fierce.
Then the terror came back. “What if Zerg fails?”
“Then you have someone to blame. No one in their right mind will seek to pin the blame on you. Zerg’s a psychopath and everyone knows it and hates him for it. The second he outlives his usefulness we will only be the first to push him under the horse’s hooves by a split-second.”
Dominus halted, shaking. “Stay close to me out there.” He turned to Ellen, holding her, eyes filled with sincerity. “If I die you are the one to carry on the name. It’s just you and… him.” He lowered his hand across her breastplate. “He is our future. It is for him we fight.”
“Then he shall be born glistening with Void’s blood.”
The Emperor of the Realm laughed and embraced his wife with a passionate but delicate enthusiasm.
“Might I interrupt? There seems to be a **** tonne of people outside. You could swear they were about to fight in some sort of international war or something. You know anything about this?” Dominus looked away from his wife for a moment.
At the entrance of the tent was Mathias, smirking. Had this come from anyone else Dominus probably would have personally broken his legs. However, he knew Mathias too well to take any of his sarcasm to heart.
“Sorry, we all need to stay sane somehow.” He grinned.
“Tell that to Wedgely.” Mathias said, unsure himself whether he meant to be witty or obscenely bitter.
Mathias had always had a personal dislike of the Wedgewood family, going back to his youth, wherein Wedgely’s late brother allegedly cheated in a jousting contest. Mathias’ jaw was broken by the force of the blow and to this date his jaw was still a little lopsided. What happened to the other Wedgewood? He’s the “late brother” for a reason.
When the city of Wedgewood was drawn in in order to replace Rome Mathias had expressed his distaste once more, but had kept quiet about it. Now it seemed he was getting a little fed up with damn near all the replacements except for Drakon. However, Dominus couldn’t deny that he himself was having trouble standing Wedgewood at the moment.
He was obsessed with avenging his family after what happened before Qustom Peak. He was one of the many who viewed the battle as a failure, least of all because those who killed his wife and children walked free. He was going to prove a problem soon enough. He hoped that once Tauto Chrone died Wedgely would mellow; otherwise he’d have to pray that his horse gave out and hurled him from it.
Dominus drew himself delicately away from Ellen, taking her warm hand delicately and lifted it to his lips. Then Dominus went to Mathias.
“Today we end this.” He placed a hand upon the shoulder of his friend.
“I pray we do Dominus.” Mathias smiled sadly back. “I can’t buy you out of this one.”
The two laughed nervously at the memory of their past exploits, then Dominus beckoned to Ellen, and the trio departed.
“What do you mean it’s not there?” Void shouted at the robed men in his room.
“We’ve almost gotten it Void. We mistranslated the map slightly, that’s all.” Ryan was apologetic in manner, but nonetheless stood firm.
“We don’t have time for these sorts of mistakes! We’re vulnerable thanks to this!” He came up close to his apprentice, snarling in his face. “Our only hope of holding them back was the Well! If we had it, Dominus wouldn’t come near us!”
“You stow too much faith in the possession of Wells Void.” Epsilon interjected, coming to Ryan’s rescue. “They are powerful yes, but you know Dominus has little regard for the damage they can do. Look at what he did with his well back in the last Craft! He summoned a damned dragon priest he couldn’t control that was killed by a sheep. You assume he’s going to suddenly halt when this is his knowledge of their power?”
Void stayed silent.
“Anyway, if you’re so confident that it’ll cause Dom to back off, we don’t need it. You hint that we have a Well and he won’t know what to do with himself. Dominus is mad but not stupid. We’ll hold him at bay until he either retreats or the Winter comes and starves his army.”
Void nodded. “You’re right Epsilon. I’m sorry.” He turned to Ryan again, somewhat more coldly. “How long will it take you to find it?”
“A week or so.”
Void sighed. “You’d better find it. Leave me.”
The group filed out slowly, one by one, shooting looks which spoke a thousand garbled, frantic apologies. Then, when he was at last alone Void cried out to his servant.
“Samuel!”
In came a man in a faded green robe, with a large flabby head and massive flopping nose shambled in with a blank look on his face.
Void reached down to the wine jug on his table and poured with shaking hands a glass full to spilling point. He lifted it with shaking hands and downed the whole thing quickly, spilling the red liquid through his wiry beard and staining his skin. His head then whipped back before flopping limply forwards, panting.
“Get me my armour.”
And with that the Testificate ambled out of the room, making incomprehensible noises to his comrades, leaving the Administrator to pant, and to worry, and to pre-emptively mourn.
“I can’t bloody stand horses.” Muttered I, sat atop one of the unruly beasts. “I don’t know how warfare ever became so centred on them. They’re impractical and easily outwitted.”
“Well Dominus has a horde of them, we need something to balance it out.” Aaron murmured as he finished helping me properly strap myself to the horse.
“We also have a horde of them, I think it’s pretty even-handed.”
“Well we need to be more even-handed.”
“I don’t think it’ll make a damn bit of difference when only about 100 of our people are actually competent enough to be a threat on horseback, even with Small reluctantly at their fore.”
“I don’t think you whining about it’ll make a damn bit of difference.”
We exchanged a grin and set ourselves to canter out. Both of us were fully armoured, head to toe, helmets and all. The armour had been made fresh and polished to a gleam. We couldn’t let our enemies think us unfastidious after all, we’d embarrass Void in front of his rich friends.
The battle was all set, and the Gaians were ready. Alongside Arcation and the men of the Fade Craft we’d be holding the enemy at the steps leading up to the city. We were going to let them spill in with their first couple of waves, letting them advance on the outer gates of the city. Then, Walt (among others) would enter the battle with the artillery at the rear, and Cossack would enter with the airships.
Thanks to the men of the Myth Craft, with some technical aid from Gracey, we’d been able to establish a large line of artillery pieces which could easily reduce anything approaching to mush, and significantly beat our foes in terms of range. Once a significant number of our foes had swept in we would use the artillery to separate them from the rest of the army and use this opportunity to slaughter those left within our reach. We predicted that this force would largely consist of Kreatians and hopefully Zerg himself. From what we’d gathered, Zerg and I’s brawl had become infamous, and his breakdown even more so. They’d leave him to die, along with all those who followed him. However, this didn’t make Zerg any less dangerous, and we still had to figure out how to deal with that “Undead Army”.
Cossack would lead the Gaian airship fleet (the largest out of all those assembled by a few dozen) and bomb our enemies in their retreat and hold off any enemy air support. However, with no solid evidence of there being an enemy fleet of any substance, their work was going to be largely reduced.
Then I split off from Aaron, who hurtled back to our lines; to Secret and to Small and to Bokane. I turned forwards, and moved out to meet Void and his fellow Administrators.
As I’d said, my brawl with Zerg was infamous. I was now a leading figure in this “rebellion”, and it would cost us face should I be absent.
And so we found ourselves, crunching through the snow and towards the enemy lines. They outnumbered us largely. The Realm always did. But we feared not numbers. What we feared was the steel the numbers bore, and the viciousness with which they would swing it.
There were about 30 of us, myself, Tauto, Gogyst, Void, Halberdson, Epsilon and 7 Administrators I did not recognise; the remainder were nobles and or guards who mattered very little to me (and to be honest it was hard to tell the difference between the two classes). There were more administrators behind our cause than this of course, these were simply the ones who were brave or well enough to face another in battle.
Across from us were Dominus’ significantly larger party. We had roughly 700,000 men at our backs, and he had a good number over a million. Of course there was his usual pantheon of mercenary kings and marionette generals. These need little introduction.
Wise One looked practically ashamed to be there as per usual. Wedgely was busy glaring at Chrone. Drakon was busy being proud and dignified, and the other soldiers among the Seven were trying to capture some grain of that conceded majesty. Jiibrael was too occupied calculating our weaknesses to actually pay any heed to our presence. Ellen looked like she was attempting to figure out the six best ways to kill us using only her eyes, eyes seemingly targeting Tauto in particular. Of course there was that snide ******* Synthenos smirking at everyone from beneath his little bride’s veil of a hood.
Around them were several dozen men of import. There were at least 10 administrators and two moderators who could represent their aging masters. Very few of these were of any real significance to me. However, there were some men who I should probably mention.
On behalf of the House of Lomadia was “lord” Lewis Xephos. A self-made man, earned his way up in society, building for himself a name from his well-loved plays, the Epic Israphel Saga (which rose to prominence following the exposure of Israphel as a traitor) and his various science-fiction and fantasy novels. Around these he built the well-known Yogs Theatre company, becoming one of the wealthiest men in Mojang. Eventually he married the young Lady Lomadia following several years of courting and came into the fortunes of her father, Gregor Lomadia, leader of probably the richest and most powerful of the Great Houses within the True Court’s domain. However, four, maybe five years ago there was a divorce between the two, resulting in Xephos gaining a large sum of Gregor Lomadia’s fortune.
Gregor was insulted and basically disowned Xephos despite his daughter’s calmness. No one quite understood how Xephos had wormed his way into this position again with the Lomadias, but it certainly wasn’t because Gregor was going soft. Gregor Lomadia was not known to be an easy man to sway. In fact, Xephos was lucky to survive the encounter. Now Gregor seemed to be playing catch-up on ruthlessness, using Xephos to call up and settle several high-profile debts.
Now he stood here, well-armoured and confident, holding the reins of his horse firmly as he evaluated us, his eyes lingering on me in a deconstructive manner, attempting to grasp what I was. He was somehow confused by my continued existence. He wore all the furs and rings that a Lord or a King might wear, embellishing himself even more than Mathias (who wore a heavy suit of highly impractical golden armaments).
Actually, on the note of Mathias, he seemed to have struck a chord with Lomadia’s mouthpiece. I knew not what they spoke of, unable to pay attention.
At the fore of the crowd were the two heads. Zerg was cold as ever, the reins seeming to literally freeze slightly under his grip. He paid my presence absolutely no notice, glaring at Void, who met his blade-like glare and locked with it.
Then there was Dominus, smirking ambitiously at Void and myself, wearing his silver coating and with it a black fur cloak.
I looked to the East, a storm was coming. The snow on the ground was already thick, but this would be the one to start the Winter. I could feel it. Dominus could flee now or be trapped for the whole Winter.
“Hello Void.” Dominus spoke calmly. “You don’t look too well. Not been sleeping?” Void glared back with bagged, bloodshot eyes. “I’m not surprised.” He looked to Zerg, who rode slightly forwards.
“Void,” Zerg began in his calmest voice, making a concerted effort to tame his madness. “You took all I cared for. My lord Krisst died at your hand; you took my people’s freedom from them; and you stole from me the last few hundred years. As far as I’m concerned, you and all men who support you are criminals and deserve to be given to the rack. However, I am still merciful. Those of you who surrender now, I will grant you freedom, and a place among us. Your people will be untouched and free to go home. That I guarantee. If you stay with the traitor I shall unleash upon thee my undead hordes, who shall slaughter every last man, woman and child. Now, who of you shall see wisdom?”
Not a man stepped forward. One seemed to consider it, but Tauto’s hand moing to his dagger stayed him.
“I’m sorry Administrators, Lords of the Kreatians and the Superlative Craft.” I called out pleadingly. “I surrender. My people have suffered too greatly to withstand this conflict. Half our army is scattered to the winds and our people starve, with Void doing naught to stop this.” The entire crowd stared at me silently. “And then there’s your undead horde. My men would scatter and sooner slit their own throats than face the undying spirits of the best of the warriors of ancient times. I will gladly face justice at Jeb’s court, so long as you save my people.”
Zerg grinned. “And so the Lapdog lies down upon his back.” Dominus seemed ready to challenge him, but decided against it.
Chrone seemed unsure as to whether or not to come over and disembowel me, his face shifting between the stretched features of surprise and the scrunched wrinkles of anger. I bowed my head in shame, not daring to even look at Void, guilt clawing at my soul.
“If you could send a messenger over from among your ranks, I’m sure my people would give in peacefully.”
Zerg savoured this a moment, lightly shutting his eyes and letting a faint smile appear. Then he gestured to just who I wanted him to. One of his undead soldiers always escorted him, and today he called upon this alleged corpse to serve as messenger, just as I wanted. This was perfect.
“Go Lap Dog, let this man tell your people that they shall be safe.”
And so I and the messenger trudged back through the snow as Dominus and Void squared off against each other, continuing to spar verbally. But their words no longer mattered; all that mattered was that my people heard what this man had to say.
Aaron and Secret hopped down the massive steps, shunting aside our men. I jumped down from my mount and handed it to a stressed looking attendant.
“Kay, what is this?” Secret demanded.
“Zerg’s terms of surrender are about to be read.”
“What!” It wasn’t so much of a question as an exclamation. “After all this you’re surrendering?”
“I’m doing what’s right.”
Aaron remained silent, eying me up. Any other man would have objected, but not him. He nodded along, betraying nothing. Secret looked to him helplessly.
“You can’t let him do this Aaron!” He pleaded.
“He’s your King, Secret. He will do as he pleases.”
Secret choked up and his arms fell limp. He took a few steps back, unable to comprehend this treachery.
Then, up came the messenger, who had lagged behind, his horse used to the sunny Kreatian plains of dried, dead grass and half-fertile dirt, staggering drunkenly in the thick white sea.
Then he stood before me. He was young, and his face was not familiar to me in any form other than portraits. This man was a former moderator, or at least a man made to look like one. He had fallen in Zerg’s revolt; some say Void himself killed him, crushing his skull. Yet somehow his name was lost to all but the belligerents of that mighty war. Now it was said he had been brought back, to fight this war once more. I pitied him, I really did, to fight the same wars for the same men and the same cause, never getting any closer. Maybe my actions today would spare him this.
“Before you speak, let me address them.” He nodded respectfully, understanding that it was customary.
I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and turned. When I opened them, the entire Gaian army stood before me, waiting for the what their king was about to say. I knew nothing of what they thought at the moment, whether they thought me rational and practical, mad and dangerous or opportunistic and traitorous. All the time I feared that they would turn on me, but I spoke, and it was the clearest I had ever spoken.
“Gaians, I have led you all upon a merry dance, but it is time to face facts. I am a braggart. All I told you was implausible and unsubstantiated. We won’t win this battle. How could we? Our enemy has an undead army of thousands. An enemy that is already dead. How can we kill such a foe?” I let this question sink in, listening to spite whisper across the winds. “Unless of course, in the eventuality that Zerg lies to us. In which case, he would be as great a braggart as me. But honestly, what chance is there of that. Although, I do pose another question to you… Do the dead bleed?” There was now the rumblings of intrigue instead of hatred among them.
“Surely, if they’re like the undead creatures that stumble in the night, they bleed? And if something bleeds, then surely it can die?” I paused again for effect. “So today, this young man will help to answer that question for us.”
It was too quick for him to respond. Amicus slipped through the gap in his armour and tore through the skin atop his ribs, and then through his left lung. I then pulled him from his horse and threw him into the snow. He tried to rise, but Secret’s arrow pierced his neck before he did so, freezing him a moment before sending him into the sleep, death smothering the life in his eyes. The body flopped, and it stayed.
I looked up, unable to stop myself from smiling. Secret looked at me understandingly, nodding in apology. Aaron seemed both disgusted and relieved at the same time.
“Well Gaians, it seems that the dead do bleed. And they die too.” Said I, to some laughter from those who heard me in the crowd, nudging him laxly with my foot. “So Zerg seems to be a braggart. And let me tell you Gaians, if the dead bleed, then so do the braggarts who raise them. Do you hear me? Braggarts! Do! Bleed!” I raised my red-stained sword aloft, to cheers from the crowd. They were ready.
I looked at the group of leaders. I couldn’t make any of them out, but I could tell that they were looking at me, horrified, angered and or triumphant. The pack broke as the men of the Superlative and Kreatious Crafts rode off in a huff, and our block of leaders broke off.
Gogyst rode past me on the way to the lines of his men, crying “Well met Gaian, the hive is buzzing, now to crush it!” I had no idea how Gogyst dispatched hives of bees, wasps and hornets, but it certainly didn’t sound dull.
There were a few tense minutes as the Kreatians lined up, Zerg marching at their fore and working them into a frenzy. Behind them were the warriors of the Kingdom of the Rising Sun and behind them the collective horde.
Then, there was a battle cry sharp as a blade, and shrill as the shriek of a bird of prey, and they ran at us. Some of our men in the centre, mounted upon horseback, ran forth to face the horde, vanishing into the grey wave. Meanwhile, the marksmen took aim with their rifles, ordered by their officers to pick a man each as the barbarians came to us.
The black mass came closer and closer to us. The first round of rifles went off, and the men and horses at the fore tumbled. I saw their ranks more clearly now, an unruly mass, with no order to the ranks. Horses trampled men, rushing forward without care. A line of pike-wielding Gaians locked their shields at the base of the steps before me.
Aaron was at my side, and Secret not too far away, readying to slay any who attempted to scale the battlements and cheat the steps. The Priests of Arcation said their low, growling battle-rites, readying to give themselves to the fold once our ranks broke. The men of the Fade Craft (the “Fades” as the men called them) were out of sight to the left of us, no doubt readying themselves in a similar manner. I prayed silently to Herobrine for the first time in what I felt was far too long an interval.
The second volley went off, and with it the archers fired from behind us, striking the mass of bodies to little noticeable avail. Here and there one could see an explosion felling one or two men as Secret released precise shot after precise shot. A third went off, and then they were upon us. The pikes tore through flesh and iron, and some of the barbarians halted in their charge, surprise and disappointment frozen on their faces. Another volley was fired and more than ever before fell, the archers firing over us and hitting men in the larger crowd. But the more they killed the less difference it seemed to make. Already the barbarians were pouring up the steps, coming up to face the riflemen in the closest of quarters, charging past the spearmen as if they were nothing. I barked an order as the first of them completed their climb up the steps and our men ran down, swords and axes and spears gleaming, ready to taste blood.
And taste they did, they were engorged with blood, both theirs and our own. The Kreatians were relentless, falling upon us without hesitation, exclaiming their loyalty to the true lords of the Vanilla Craft as they took life and had it taken from them. I would have almost viewed their tenacity as admirable had they been on our side.
The cannons started as planned, but a misfire on our side of the battlefield left an opening, and through it poured the men of the Trooping Gnome, those playing at being from the higher plain of the Aether. We could not tell how many slipped under our lines, for the storm began to pour in and thick snow began to cloud our view of the fields.
As they marched upon us, Secret, his doubt gone and his blood-lust replacing it, called out, “An Administrator! I got one... Who wants to live forever?”
He took three arrows into his hand and a charge of scattered men rushed forwards, cutting down all who opposed them as they marched upon the corpse of this fallen lord. I saw not the battle as the storm and fighting men clouded my view of anything beyond the battlements and the stairs. According to Secret it was the battle of the ages, in which several moderators died, and he brought back his prize, the armour and staff of an Administrator, the wearer having since re-formed.
Whilst he was still out there, killing men over one already dead, Aaron and I held the staircase. The line of pikemen had all but collapsed and we were locked in a hideous, thrashing melee. Enough of them had poured through to disrupt the archers and riflemen, who had ceased their volleys and had now resorted to taking pot-shots into the horde from the battlements and at any Kreatian they set eyes on. What was worse was that Gnome’s men were now advancing.
While few in number, (their entire army was no more than four thousand men back before they entered a civil war,) the Kingdom of the Aether had a relentless group of fighters at their helm, and none were more dangerous than Gnome himself. Under Legend he was a fanatic, as King he was even worse. He was dedicated to proving himself the King Aetherian folklore spoke of, who would lead an invincible force and storm the gates of the Aether and return them to their homeland.
Now he stood not more than 5 yards from me, as yet unopposed. Aaron was nowhere to be seen, nor any other man I knew. Once I broke free I would have to fight him.
Then, one young, brave Gaian underling rushed him, lunging at him with his spear. Gnome stepped to the side, tripping him and entrenching a gaping crevice upon his back, cutting through the hides which held together the iron plates of his armour, and eating through the flesh. He made no effort to finish him. Another charged at him, a young noble eager to prove himself a warrior, swinging from the side with a finely polished blade. Gnome met it with his own sword and the two traded blows a short while. Then the Aetherian King grew tired of his sport, and dispatched the little man by slamming his helmeted head into the exposed face of the noble, killing him instantly. As the young man dissipated into dust, I broke free from my last engagement, and readied to charge him.
I ran forward as he regained his senses, whipping my arm and firing a powerful blow at him. However, his shield was raised to meet it. I nonetheless continued my charge, and he reciprocated. At the last moment, I rolled to the side, as he roared past me. He powered on a few steps before lurching to a stop. But it was too late; I caught him on the back of the leg, severing a vein. He let out a horrible, rigid spasm that jolted through his body, struggling to lash down a scream.
A second stab would have killed him, and I tried to deliver this blow, but he managed to find clarity from pain and batted my blade aside with his mighty shield. He spun back round with the counter-blow, stabbing at my ribs. Thankfully, I was caught off balance and staggered along after his shield, only receiving a glancing blow which scratched the metal skin of my breastplate. I swung over his shield with a clumsiness that would make a drunkard laugh. Yet somehow I caught the top of his helmet and threw it from his head. We both jointly stumbled past each other as he all but collapsed from the blow.
He returned to me, a gash up his forehead sending a crimson streak down his dirt-caked temple. We then engaged again. He was brutal, swinging mercilessly and . I however was faster and more agile, flitting around him and landing glancing blows upon his armour. Then, he swung at my head too heavily. He knocked Amicus from my hand with the blow, sending it clattering to the ground, backhandedly clubbing me across the face with a heavy, shielded arm. I was dazed, and he swung over his head with a mighty slash which I only narrowly avoided. Yet he swung too hard, and the blow brought him to the ground with such force that it found some corpse and embedded itself in its skull.
I took my opportunity and belted him in the side of his injured leg with my boot. There was a gratifying crunch and he fell to the stone with a clang that was absorbed by the battle around us. There was a whip of my hand, a flash, and a shortly following bang, and the Aetherian King was dead. I paused a moment out of respect for his resilience before crying out the traditional victorious obscenities and prising off his signet ring and grabbing the ceremonial dagger which the Aetherians held dear.
Then Tejmin, smeared with blood approached me once I had calmed, rifle clenched tightly in hand. “My liege, the Fades are being overrun by a column of Golems. They need help.”
I looked around, and called to the leader of a small group of auxiliaries who I knew. “Patchy! Take your men round to the Fades, they need you much more than we do here.”
And with that they were off. The battle was going well here. The Kreatian ranks were thinning and the Aetherians, while ferocious, would soon tire. Aaron was nowhere to be seen, but to my relief I saw the fire spouts of the Chief Priest getting nearer.
That was when Zerg made his personal entry to the battlefield, and while I still have no clue of the precise details of it, I know that it was one that legends will be made about for years to come. The boom was deafening, even from as far away as we were. Rubble was strewn across the field, coating every man even further. I saw through the storm, which was now upon the gates to the east and about to reach us very soon, and I saw men flying with the rubble, Void’s men. Then, I saw a half-hidden, titanic spear of ice fly across the battlefield and slam into the metal gate, ringing out like a gong and leaving a dent in it so easily one could swear it was made of clay.
I hailed a group of riflemen who were pushing their way towards me from the battlements, searching for a place to treat their wounded, as the still somehow ordered ranks of the archers sent another flurry of arrows over our heads and into the seething throng. They came to me, a group of Key’s men.
“Thomas? Who were you with?” I shouted to the nearest one, Thomas Bone of Mojang, who had now joined the Gaian military full-time.
“Key sir, we don’t know where he is. I think he’s still out there with Secret and a few hundred others.” I frowned. “Don’t worry sir, they’re more than able to hold themselves and last I saw the Legionnaires and Mythics had managed to gain some ground towards them. We came back because we were rushed by a couple of Golems. Wiped out half of us, and injured quite a few more. We had to come back.”
I nodded. “How many able-bodied men do you still have?”
“About a dozen, sir, and a few who can just about fight, but we can’t leave the wounded undefended.”
“You won’t have to… Sorry, what’s your rank, haven’t had time to keep track of your progress and I can’t make out your markings under all that grime.”
“Sergeant, sir, now Notch give you speed.” He patted me on the back, speaking in a manner much more brusquely than I was used to from among the ranks. I liked him.
I shunted my way through the battle, felling the men of Kreatious’ Nether-born furs. Then I saw Gogyst, cracking skulls with glee alongside his Priests.
“Gogyst!” I called out.
“Kay! How fare you? Is this not as good as Zine Craft? Does it meet your high standards?” He grinned from beneath his hood, our confrontation forgotten in his love of battle.
“I was at Zine Craft Gogyst, and it’s a damn over-praised battle. This is much more my type of war. But listen, I need you to guard some wounded. I’m taking a group of men over to see what in Jeb’s name is going on with Zerg.”
In the background there was another thunderous boom as one of the cannons misfired and ripped itself and those around it apart.
“Yes, that lot over there?” He gestured correctly to the crowd and I nodded. “I’ll see that they’re tended to. Take Vacar with you, his talent is wasted on Aetherians and other such savages.” We laughed and he called to his priesthood, “Come on lads, we’re going to preserve life as we take it! Vacar, go with Kay, see what Zerg’s doing.”
Vacar silently consented, not quite forgetting our last encounter in the arena, and we left; we took Thomas and his riflemen and rushed into the storm, sticking closely together as we came to the sight of the explosion.
It was a large flat plain of stone before the gate and the storm seemed to be swirling thickest here. Men were slaughtering each other atop the growing white mounds as the wind smothered campfires and strangled torches. I sent my men out to search for Epsilon or some other Moderator and stood with Vacar, looking for a point at which to intervene. That was when Vacar called for me to duck.
A giant metal fist slammed into my side and I heard my ribs crunch. I flew, carried the by force of the blow and closer to the middle of the plain of battle. I gasped for breath, body taken aback at the pain of the blow. My hand jerkily crept to my side and pulled back a vial filled with a pink liquid. I pulled the top with my teeth, finding my arm unable to move, and downed the bottle. I juddered as my bones realigned and rebuilt themselves, but then my head finally stopped spinning and my vision undoubled itself.
Vacar stood atop the corpse of a headless Golem as the other two stared own at him. He was helpless, limping in one leg, barely able to move. One of the two mighty hulks raised their square fist. But before it could fall it’s head was shattered by a boulder, spraying shrapnel like broken teeth. The other Golem sought to see the assailant, but found its arm missing, wrenched from its side by invisible arms. It staggered, slouching to compensate for its new centre of gravity. This was to no avail, as a great spear of ice then pierced its torso, and its eyes blinked before it toppled.
Bokane ran to aid the limping Vacar, but found the wand flying from his hand. He stopped, skidding in the snow before running back and fumbling for it. Just as he found it, Zerg attacked. In the air before Bokane thousands of icy shards formed before him. He raised his wand in defence, a shimmering violet barrier forming before him just as they descended upon him. They shattered against the barrier for a full minute before the Kreatian relented. Then Bokane stood back up completely unharmed, raised his wand at the seemingly impressed Kreatian Lord, and they locked eyes. Bokane then swung his arm in an arc motion, but before he did anything meaningful he was struck by an invisible force which felled him, sending him into the deepest sleep he’d had in a long time.
Zerg was an impressive sight, dressed all in the furs of wolves and other ferocious beasts of the Kreatian plains, thaumium chains wrapped around his neck and over his shoulders. His pale blue skin was almost invisible in the great blizzard around him. Clasped in him was a hastily forged golden staff, wrapped around a thick, charred wand. He then began to trudge through the snow.
I lay still in the snow, training my perk upon him as he drew closer. Then, just as I had a good shot, the ice around me rose up and bound my hands together in their frozen vice. I tried to struggle, but a great icy blade rose up beside me, stopping mere centimetres from my own eye.
“The next one, if my aim is good, will emasculate you lap dog. If my aim is poor and you struggle too greater, it will sever your spine.” Zerg was now kneeling before me, grinning through his faint sandy beard, his skin almost transparent, holding some other being with. I gawked at him speechlessly. “I’m glad we have an understanding.”
He stood up and continued to march forward, when there was a swirling of the snow around him, and several moderators appeared around him. At their fore was Epsilon.
“Halt now Mountainslayer. You have one opportunity to end this. Don’t turn it down.” He tried his best, but Epsilon couldn’t mask the faint tremors of fear from his throat.
Zerg merely grinned, and the storm swirled upon them thicker than ever before. I saw little flashes of activity as if from behind a vaguely translucent curtain, flickering in the wind. There Zerg appeared behind a man, only for him to find his neck broken, there Epsilon flailed wildly in the storm, hoping beyond hope to hit something.
The storm, after continuing for too long, cleared completely. The sky became empty of all but the sun, and one could see the air battle at last, our ships victorious as their tiny but feisty little fleet fell down in flames. And there was Epsilon, still standing atop a small hill of snow which had formed, heaving heavily. The other moderators all lay dead, along with many other nameless figures from both sides, but Zerg was nowhere to be seen, and there was blood on the Moderator's sword. He looked around confusedly. Had he banished the beast? Was this victory? Hope entered his eyes, and the men let out a cheer.
That was when the snow behind him crumbled away, and the one who called it rose out of it as if prised up. In his hand was a small blade, and he plunged it into the back of Epsilon, slicing along the base of his spine. The moderator, that slayer and lord of men, collapsed in the dirt and died a heaving, pale, shivering cripple, no better than a beggar in armour. As the blood ran out into the dirt, Zerg turned around to the gates.
“How many more must die Void? Can you not just face me as you once did? Or do you now feel too important for such things? Must you now send out boys and half-trained students to fight the lord of the frost? I must admit, I wouldn’t entirely blame you, were you anyone else. A man who has slain the mountains and the Winter itself? The bringer of the endless Spring? How could you hope to match me, to face me in combat again? But this somehow didn’t scare you before. Now, come and face me coward. Or must I come behind those gates and kill every man, woman and child in what remains the Vanilla Craft?”
That was when the gates opened slowly, swing back to reveal our Administrator, staff in hand. His beard was shaggy and his hair wilted. His bloodshot eyes were like broken glass in their appearance. But there was also still dignity to him, a power. This man was going to fight, and he would win no matter what the cost.
“At last Void.” Zerg laughed, relishing the moment. “Now, we both know how this must proceed. The two sorcerors must clash once more, at last on an even plain. Both of us possess true magic, true power; not this farcical imitation the True Court bestow upon the feeble-minded to enforce their laws. You know it must be so.”
Void said nothing, just nodding. Both men threw their staffs and their thaumic chains aside and then stood with their feet apart. No man sought to intervene, all knowing the sacredness of this ritual. This was the battle to decide all, which the entire war hinged upon.
If Zerg fell the Kreatians would flee and quickly resort to fighting each other again, as they had before his release. If Void died the Vanillans were doomed and their allies would flee. Zerg would march across our lands and murder everyone he found, wiping out entire cultures as he did so. I would be taken to Mojang and publically executed at best. At worst I would be emasculated and maimed and forced to serve Jeb as his Harbinger; his slave. I would be granted immortality, kept alive as a reminder of Jeb’s power, and as an example to those who aspired to godhood. The last man who had served in this role was Enoch, leader of the Thaums in the Golden Revolution. At last Notch had judged his debt paid, and granted him death after over a thousand years of mixed servitude and torture.
The silence lasted two long, when all of a sudden both men raised their hands, and a dry roaring could be heard in the ears of every man for thousands of leagues. Yet nothing seemed to be happening to the naked eye. That was when the storm began to gather once more.
The sky became dark as clouds thick as rock formed from nothing, more like smoke than anything else. Then storm began to swirl around the two rigid combatants and the winds began to pick up and nearly blind everyone who faced directly into their stinging path. I was just beneath the winds, enough to look into the storm as it formed an opaque, seething wall around the two men. Snow began to swing in increasing sheets, blinding all men. That was when the lightning came, crackling along the edge of the storm in a desperate effort to match up to the confrontation within.
With my eyes watering as wind whipped my face and snow proceeded to coat it, I saw in the clouds the flashing outlines of two gargantuan warriors, larger than mountains, battling to the death, both with swords, the Southern one holding a sword made of the blizzard, the Northern one holding a sword make of lightning. As they slashed at each other the blades struck each other with immeasurable force, each clash of their blades causing a mighty thunder-crash which must have nearly collapsed the Nether itself.
The Southern figure held aloft its sword and from the clouds appeared a helpless airship, carried by wicked and treacherous winds to the battle. It slashed forward, throwing the ship towards its opponent as it did so. The Northern however raised its fist and a shield made of the black clouds appeared at its wrist, the airship shattering against it. Shards of wood that would have torn another man to shreds merely bounced off the skin of the Northern.
The Northern then swung underarm at the Southern, slashing his visage and sending a smoky cloud of incorporeal flesh flying upwards into the storm where it dissipated back into nothing. The Southern fell back on the ground, legs buckling from pain, clasping its wound.
I saw a gap in the storm. Zerg was lying on the ground in the same position as the Southern, with Void walking slowly but deliberately towards him as the Northern followed suit, a perfect reflection of his corporeal brother. I looked closely at the reeling figure of the Kreatian lord, and I could have sworn that for a second I saw normal, bleeding human skin beneath a shell of ice that was no longer impregnable. That was when I realised, all men are vulnerable. We must simply hide our mortality as best as possible until death pulls back the curtain and reveals us.
Then Thomas came down beside me in my introspection. I looked at him, still paralyzed by clarity. His beard was matted with blood and his nose was bent to the side and flattened. At his hip Amicus was hurriedly looped through his belt. He looked completely exhausted, but he still stood over me as the storm continued to swirl, sawing at my icy bonds. I wanted to thank him but no words would come for some bizarre reason.
I returned my eyes to the storm, but the two Administrators were gone. And now the Northern stood over the Southern, who flailed wildly with their blade. But the Northern swung and he shattered the icy blade, dispelling it. Then he held his sword over his head and lunged down, the Southern crying out with the shriek of a hurricane. But they could do nothing, the Southern was skewered and the two vanished.
The world was suddenly calmed, the roaring gone now, all realising its abrupt, jarring absence, despite many of these people not even noticing its presence to being with. The storm stopped swirling, and the clouds began to dissipate, the clouds becoming smoke without purpose, thinning and floating upwards, as if dissolving into nothing. As Thomas cut me free and handed me back Amicus, my eyes couldn’t leave the thinning circle where the lords had duelled.
Void stood mournfully over a pile of broken ice smother in ash. Then sadness turned to anger, and then he released this fell to his knees from exhaustion. But suddenly, he sensed it just before me, the sound of horses hooves and of men’s cries become uncomfortably louder. I looked into the mist, calling to Thomas and any others in the immediate area. That was when the eagle-feathered arrow struck Void in the chest and the Administrator collapsed.
And then from the thinning smoke the Rising Sun and all its power came into view.
The battle that followed was long and brutal, and some misguided individuals afterwards dared to describe it as glorious. I cannot quite describe what it was, all blurring together in adrenaline and desperation. Void was not treated as a living being, but as a corpse already, dragged back and forth between the armies like a child’s doll. None were more vicious than Jiibrael, who seemed invulnerable, having struck Void himself.
However, eventually a stray arrow found the gap between the plates of Jiibrael’s armour, and he felt mortality’s beckoning once more. He fled after that, rushed back to a medical tent for his wounds to be treated immediately and with great attention before he began to treat himself with some great reward of luxury. His men lost nerve after he was wounded, with rumours spreading quickly that someone had shot him in the throat and that he was as good as dead already, leading to a hasty but admittedly dignified retreat on their part.
And so we were left with Void, who was half-dead from blood-loos, and brought even closer to that last door by poison. But alas, for now he still breathed, faintly and delicately, with unseeing, wax-like eyes. Nonetheless, we had our leader returned.
They rushed him off back within the gates before too many could see what a sorry state he was in, and not long after the remaining Kreatians were either killed or driven back. Celebrations were held, the undertakers came out and the bodies were collected. We all made a great show of pretending it was some kind of great victory; that we had somehow stopped Zerg and Dominus and those yet to come.
My people were particularly revered in the battle for our various victories, such as the deaths of Gnome and the Administrator Secret had skewered and succeeded in retrieving the corpse of. Honestly, Secret seemed to have been hung up on getting a noteworthy kill to his name since his dispute with Linx several months prior, with his fierce denial of him having any real thought of the incident only cementing my belief. I thought it was interesting how people could become so hung up on little remarks like that.
However, the greatest accolades of course went to Viking, who had led the air-fleet. They had destroyed the enemy fleet, which had included a Divine gunboat on loan from some eager Official stationed nearby. However, when they realised that they couldn’t help us by reliably bombing the enemy due to the storm, they had used the cover of the storm to bomb their camp, seemingly destroying thousands of supplies as well as kill many of the reservist forces. All of this achieved, and with minimal casualties.
Nonetheless, as we revelled and we drank, we began to forget fear, plans and the enemy that still lay outside our gates. And perhaps if we hadn’t been so adamant in forgetting, we wouldn’t have remembered so much else, of previously faded disputes and gripes, and of justice that we felt needed to be done. Perhaps things would have turned out better that way.
Like fantasy? Like Minecraft? Check out a blend of the two here! Fall and a Rise: A Vanillacraft Tale!
Part 8: The seeds begin to sprout
The Administrator lay upon his bed, breaths sounding as if they were whistling through an old and empty house rather than a person. His entire body was entirely limp and motionless, his right arm falling off of the side of the bed like a cut of meat hanging off the edge of the butcher’s table. The chest of the once mighty administrator was bare, his robes ripped open. Even without the various green-tinted bruises and the puckering, swollen remains of the arrow wound marring his chest, it would have perturbed Ryan.
All of them had come to think, despite Void’s teachings and those of the True Court, that Void was something of a god in his own right. He’d always given this aura off of him, of wisdom and security… no, not security, permanence. He always knew what to say back in the old days; back when Dominus was still loyal and before the Onslaught. Hell, it was better even during the Onslaught as far as Ryan was concerned. They thought his wisdom made him invulnerable, immortal even. But now - with all illusions shattered - they saw what he truly was, a frail old man who was indeed very mortal. The fat was faded from his chest, leaving a puckering stomach and ribcage that might as well have been covered in paper. But, despite all this, the worst part was Void’s eyes.
His eyes were not glazed, watery and stationary as those of many men would be, but instead sharp, dry and hyperactive. They darted around the room, the whites now off-colour, almost consumed by the diverging veins. He was obviously still alive and aware yes, but this was somehow worse than stupor or even death in the eyes of the onlooker - perhaps even in those of the victim himself. Void, despite all this was still alive and perfectly aware of what was happening, and the eyes were a concrete reminder of this.
Ryan, despite knowing it was callous and cruel, simply wished he could just snuff it so that they could bury the body and try to move on. As long as he still breathed they had to put off the burial.
That *******, Jiibrael, the archangel, the broken relic, had tipped his arrow with poison. And while his people had been driven back eventually, Ryan wasn’t sure they even wanted to capture Void’s body. They didn’t need to; they just needed to delay them long enough. Void was brought to death’s door by internal bleeding, the sheer exertion of his duel, and of course, the poison. At this point there was no hope of reforming. The poison stopped that from happening, and this poison was made to last for a very long time. Void was more mortal than any other man in the Overworld at this point. And now he was reaching his final moments.
On the bright side, Dominus was too terrified to do anything for now at least. Their men had attacked again the following day, but they were quickly routed. The cannons had broken their front lines and those who made it through faced slaughter at the hands of the Vanillan rebels.
Ryan took a moment to laugh when he realised they’d started calling themselves “rebels” too, despite their initial protests.
The air-fleet had served its purpose well too. They would help to break the enemy’s ranks as they charged, and harass them as they retreated. Now Dominus had decided to pull his forces back, and they were digging in for Winter by the river. No doubt his scouts had found the passes leaving Acrisius blocked off by the snowstorms.
“The Realm needn’t be worried about until Jeb arrived.” Epsilon and Halberdson had assured him. “Until Jeb arrives, Dominus won’t dare to attack us. For fear of being trapped in the mountains and of Jeb’s wrath, Dominus will not dare return. In short, he’s been reduced to a non-entity until the Divines make their move.”
Ryan believed them, he certainly did. Any man who intended to march his men from their new encampment to the walls of the Craft in snow that deep had a deathwish, and Dominus was too hubris-filled for that. However, there was no guarantee of when the Divines would come, although it likely wouldn’t be for at least two months.
On top of this, they had found it, one of the Great Wells. It had not been active since the time of Qustom, and hopefully they wouldn’t have to use it. Wells were dangerous and unstable, and the mere mention of one changed this from a rebellion to a war with international implications. It would force the Southern Thaumlands, the Pigmen and the Court of Whispers to all take notice. Those mysterious nations beyond the Southern Veil might raise their heads from ignorance, and the Madrealms might actually be stirred to divert their attention to something beyond the Tempest. As such, Ryan was incredibly reluctant to do anything with it. But it was Void’s last command to find it and use it as a bargaining chip when Jeb arrived.
Fluffy, the doctor, broke from dabbing the sweat from Void’s leathery skin and leant over the Administrator, holding a glowing brass horn to Void’s chest and placing his ear on the other end. He then lifted himself and to the disturbance of Ryan raised the rag to his face and touched it with his tongue. The medical profession was a bizarre group.
Fluffy then turned to Ryan with a forcedly expressionless face. “It’s spread to his heart from what I can tell. It’s started beating insanely fast. There’s nothing I can do.”
Ryan clicked his tongue, drawn far away by this revelation, the distance delaying the impact but not softening it.
“Very well, leave us.”
The doctor looked like he wanted to say something more, as if he’d planned some sort of motivational, tough love speech, but then decided it was not the appropriate time for it. He promptly closed his black cow-hide bag, the metal clasp letting out a distracting and almost offensive click. He looked up, completely frozen by this sound.
Ryan had stopped, pulling a stool up the the side of the bed. Now he too was frozen, looking at the doctor as if he’d forgotten the very basics of manners. Fluffy promptly returned to action and hurried out the door, cursing himself as it banged shut.
Void’s head lolled dully towards Ryan, and the faint wind of his voice carried the vague outline of the words “Have you found it?”
Ryan sniffed qiuckly and rubbed his twitching right eye in a manner that graciously hid it from view. However, as he rubbed he only succeeded in making it water involuntarily.
“We’ve found it. The Well is safe. We’ve sent a letter to Jeb announcing that it is in our hands.” There was a note of rekindled energy in his voice.
Void’s mouth curled itself up at the corners, with wrinkles forming across his face like crumpled paper. His eyelids slowly crept down, occasionally fluttering lightly back up but largely offering no resistance. His breathing softened further. He lay there still a few moments, but then his eyes opened once more, and with great effort pushed himself up, barking out great rattling coughs.
Ryan reached out to help him up, but Void merely waved him off. When he felt he was in a comfortable sitting position, Void reached out to Ryan with his arm, which looked like a dead branch now. Ryan gingerly reached out to take it, and they shook hands for that last time. And as the arm fell limp for one last time, Ryan heard upon the faint breeze the words “well done”.
He did the necessary checks. He listened to his checks, the great thunderous heart he had heard thud in his ears as a boy was now silent. The eyes now moved no more, the glazed stupor of death covering them completely.
Ryan fell upon the body of Void and lay there for a long while, heaving and sobbing. Then, a long time after, no one quite knew how long he’d been there and what he had seen, the man in the corner approached Ryan.
“I have sent the necessary messages Administrator, let us pray that Jeb is sane.” Halberdson dryly recited.
***
The tent was empty and seemingly neglected. The pegs were loosely hammered in, and in one corner one peg had even come loose, with the cloth trying desperately to flee. The cloth however, was a wonderful shade of magenta, with silver trimmed across it and the golden mountain of Kreatious glaring out of the centre of it. Even in the swirling blizzard and blinding snow the emblem seemed to burn with a bizarre light, making it stand out even in conditions which would render the eyes unable to seem anything else clearly.
The mountain on the emblem was something of a legend; Zerg’s claim to fame; the reason his men feared and loved him in equal measure. It was the reason they called him Mountain-Slayer.
But this was on the mind of neither Jiibrael (who carried himself with a newfound confidence since the death of Void) nor Dominus, nor Ellen as they trudged towards the tent. Now they had forgotten all his mystique, his so-called power. Now they sought only to carelessly and limitlessly rebuke and belittle.
The Emperor of the Realm was the first to enter, sword in hand.
The tent was surprisingly well-kept inside. The large bed was made, but there was the distinct impression that it hadn’t been touched in a number of days. To the right there was a small table around which three slaves sat shivering, their large brown noses wobbling as they jerked their heads towards Dominus. On the table lay a sword which had been left unattended for far too long. Ice was starting to fuse it to its scabbard. One of the more attentive slaves, smarter than many of the rest of his kind, saw the sword of Dominus, and lunged for the blade.
He gripped the hilt and tugged. The half-white frost broke away. He readied to swing it to defend his master, despite his lack of experience. He twitched, pain entering his face. There was a knife in his neck, and it seemed to take him a moment to realise quite what was happening. Then he realised what it was in his throat and began to play along and cough blood, before Ellen’s body slammed into him, pulling the razor from his throat before throwing his form through the fabric and out into the cold.
“That was my favourite slave, I do hope you intend to find a replacement.” Zerg drolly spouted as the other two slaves backed up, stumbling over their stools and then scrambling across the floor.
Dominus ceased smiling at his wife and looked at the other half of the room. There was the upheaved cloth in the corner, with snow pouring in. However, somewhat bizarrely the snow seemed slowly drawn towards a certain corner of the tent where Zerg stood. Or at least, what remained of Zerg; one could not be certain he was still entirely there either physically or mentally.
Zerg’s face was illuminated softly by a calming blue light which came from within a cage which had a thick blanket smothering it. What was illuminated was very much a sad sight.
Gone was the ice blue, iron-like skin. In truth beneath it were arms thin as twigs, with the withered skin hanging like fleshy icicles beneath the now absent muscle. The skin itself was like paper and in more than one place seemed torn almost, dead skin falling off of him in impossible quantities. The face staring at Dominus seemed loose and instinctively sour. It seemed to be about to fall apart, with his right eye dragged down seemingly lower than his left, as if sliding down into a net of bagging flesh. His hair was almost non-existent, with a few desperate tufts clinging on, drooping off the Kreatian’s head as if trying to flee like rats from a ship.
“What?” Zerg spat, lip curling up on the left. “Come to finish me off? Threaten me with taking what little I have left? Well guess what! I’m not afraid of you! I’ve killed better men than you on a whim. I’ve killed Damned Mountains. I’ve lost everything I held dear. You have nothing more you can take.”
Dominus snarled and pulled out a letter, throwing it at Zerg, who didn’t even bother to try and catch it.
“You failed us completely. Jeb is telling us to hole up in the snows and not to engage. Apparently they have a Well. A bloody well!” Jiibrael explained, plainly irked by this on a deeply personal level.
There was murder in Dominus eyes, but Zerg didn’t seem to notice it. His eyes were still fixed on the glowing fabric. There was silence.
“Well?” Dominus asked, incredulous.
“What?” Zerg responded, still not looking away from the fabric. “What does this have to do with me?”
“You failed to kill him, as well as tell us they had a Well!” Dominus growled, patience beyond breaking point.
This seemed to send Zerg into deep thought. “I once killed mountains Dominus, you know that.”
“And you failed to kill Void.”
“Intelligent mountains, that could talk and determine their weather. Cruel mountains that terrorised my people. I saved them through the death of a race.”
“Yet you failed to save us.”
“How they begged for my mercy. I remember the last one, I took its heart out myself. I kept it, and learned its secrets. The ways of the frost and ice. And from that mountain sprang life. The Golden Mountain born.”
“Past glories. You’re irrelevant Zerg, a joke.” Jiibrael interjected.
Dominus was beyond anger now, and his hatred had turned cold.
“Oh shut up you impetuous child. Your glory is stolen.” Zerg rolled his eyes and flared his nostrils, still resolving to only stare at the cloth.
“Really now?” Jiibrael scowled, barbing it further with a smirk. “I guess I can steal this too with ease.”
Jiibrael shoved Zerg aside and pulled at the cloth. Immediately a spike of ice poked through and pierced his hand. The King leapt back, screaming in agony. Ellen drew her blade and hurt it at Zerg. However, as it spun through the air the winds turn the other way, and it slowed to a halt before flying back at Ellen.
The Empress dodged to the right, falling on top of the table, and shattering its legs. The knife went spinning off and slashed through the fabric, going Notch knows where.
Dominus, seeing his wife and friend in peril, rushed Zerg, but was lifted by a similar gust of wind before slamming into the ground on his tailbone, the pain that followed acted as a paralytic, freezing his spine and arms into rigid positions as he recollected himself.
Jiibrael attempted to rise, but Zerg swung his fragile foot, and greaves of ice formed on his leg and foot, slamming into his jaw. The Archangel’s head lolled and he lay still, breathing faint.
“Get out!” Zerg shouted. “Get out! You shall have no more help from me!”
Dominus glared at the man in disgust, but now reconsidered his planned tirade. Zerg no longer appeared to him as a weak twig, but as a jagged shard of broken glass; he might have been fragile, but he was still dangerous. Dominus would handle this later.
And so he and his wife warily dragged Jiibrael from the tent, and returned to their people, where he was delicately tended. As he sat beside his wounded friend, Dominus couldn’t help but wonder what was to be done about this glass man, and how he was to be disposed of correctly.
He determined eventually, after much, debating with his advisors, getting bored of debating with his advisors, getting drunk with his advisors, dismissing his advisors, and then cracking jokes about his advisors to his wife, that he would leave the Kreatian be for now. He was not yet satisfied with the harm inflicted upon the Vanillans, and wished to inflict his fair share of the hurt personally. He would stay, and he would help them.
***
“Okay Abby, come on... Be careful.... Mind the step.” Bokane mumbled to the… rather distracted young woman, trying desperately not to sound like a dog owner as he walked her up the winding mud path to the courthouses.
On either side of them was a rather bored looking, but somehow threatening jailor. They had that passive-aggressive danger to them. It was the case with them that as long as you stayed out of their way, they would give you the time of day politely and perhaps share a drink with you. However, were you to inconvenience them in the slightest they would be remembered in their family and social circles as one of the great evils in the world, and that eventually one of their descendents would encounter one of yours, and proceed to berate them on the subject.
It had been a week since word reached them that Jeb had called a ceasefire for the next two months while he made preparations for a Divine march on the Craft. A guaranteed period of peace, with Dominus being legitimately threatened if he tried anything. Ryan wasn’t expecting negotiations to come of it, none of them were. It just provided them with a time for rest and recuperation.
They’d injured Dominus’ forces badly, and the harsh winter was guaranteed to thin their ranks further, through frostbite, hypothermia and starvation. Meanwhile, they were able to take refuge within the Craft itself, and establish for themselves various camps and cities alongside their people. Places of refuge which they could use should they lose the outer city, and places from which peoples could be rebuilt.
The various groups of masons and the Titans were out in the fields constantly, digging trenches, building walls, flattening land and erecting more permanent barracks’ and armouries. Hell, they were even building large fortifications and expanding the city in parts. The buildings were large, smooth-walled and sturdy. To Bokane, watching them build from the city walls was like watching locusts swarming over crops in reverse. It was something to behold.
And now Bokane shuffled up to the courtyard, with Abby just glaring forward with piercing eyes, back slightly slouched. There was a restlessness to her, with her fists twitching open and closed. Abby’s hair was becoming more and more tangled and plainly hadn’t been washed in several days, despite the fact that she had possessed full access to the necessary facilities. Her lips might as well have been stitched shut, and the quivered angrily, words seeming to be trying to form but being strangled by her grief before they could come to fruition.
They entered the courtroom with difficulty; the doors were in that awkward state where for no good reason whatsoever they seemed to lean down from their hinges and scrape haltingly across the floor, only to revert to their usual positions when someone came to do something about it. Bokane then slowly led Abby to her seat alongside her brother and the forlorn looking attorney of defence.
Halfway through sitting down Abby’s arm suddenly stiffened and she became immovable. She glared at her attorney and spat. “What are my odds?”
The lawyer, a young, obvious dropout who might once have been proud and aloof, but was now permanently browbeaten and embarassed into a position where he was always seemingly shrinking away from you, even when his posture was perfect. His left eye was prone to twitching and watering, leading him to be always turned to the left, obscuring the watering eye but still allowing him to look at the person he wanted to speak.
He put on a brave face, smiling in an overcompensating manner and nodded, murmuring some miscellaneous assurances in an overly quiet voice. Bokane couldn’t make it out himself, but even if Abby could, it was unlikely she would have been anymore disconcerted.
She looked as if she were about to bolt away, like a frightened fox, at least until her brother chimed in, “Hear that, little vixen? We have a good case. A good solid case to defend you.”
His smile, while obviously fake to Bokane - having spoken to him in morbid tones as to the likelihood of Abby receiving a death sentence - seemed even more repulsive to his sister.
She was about to shoot off when suddenly her brother grabbed her arm and whispered to her, “Stay strong damn you. The Baarban family is above fleeing justice. We shall do what is right and justice will prevail. What would father say? His cherished daughter, the one he built up as his true heir dead in the mud with a crossbow bolt in her back?” His voice was harsh, and hints of bitterness were mixed with genuine brotherly concern, but this was all she needed.
She nodded, glanced spitefully at the judge and sat down, straightening her posture and wiping the hair out of her eyes with her shackles. There was a cold poise to her now, one that Bokane hadn’t seen before from her, at least not brought to the forefront of her face. There wasn’t a sense that this was not a change, but that this was the removal of a mask. It unnerved him that someone he knew as so warm and friendly was now so subtly and yet so simply revealed as a pretender. However, at the same time, it added mystery to her person, making her somehow even more desirable in Bokane’s heart.
Bokane looked across the courtroom. In the judge’s chair sat Cossack, all of his detestable girth somehow stuffed into the speaker’s chair. On either side of Cossack were two other s The two of them shared a look which had haunted Bokane for some eleven, maybe twelve years, since the very first day they had met. It had been small, but it made a lasting impact. It was an alienating look of superiority that could make an unborn child feel unwanted in the womb. The first time they met, Cossack had not said a word to him, merely refused his outstretched hand with this same silent mockery.
Bokane knew from this look that Cossack realised what this meant to him, and that the banker fully intended to torment him; draw it out as long as possible; ensure the total destruction of the defence.
“Sir, you’d best get t’your seat counsellmun.” Suggested the passively murderous jailor.
Bokane then put on an ironic, dimpling smile and sat in the chair beside the two Mojangites, Bird and Bone. The former seemed reluctant to be there, craving the dignified and blissful mundanity of his home. The latter however seemed thoroughly invested in the trial.
Where his commanding officer saw their presence among the Vanillans as something of an illegal and unsanctioned exile, Thomas had seen it as an opportunity. He was immersing himself in Gaian culture, customs and of course its military and political life. One could think he was a spy if not for his impossible circumstance. He was utterly taken by the turbulent and urgent nothings of Kay’s court.
They created the constant image that they were up to something and were always taking another intangible step towards immortality and paradise, but in truth nothing they ever said amounted to anything. The only thing Kay was good at, as far as Bokane was concerned, was throwing spears at a wild bull, then acting surprised when he was gored by the animal and subsequently rousing a crusade back home to destroy said bull’s entire family.
So, as Bone explained the history of the House of Solvoleur (the first Gaian dynasty, from which Peter descended) to his greatly distracted companion, Bokane shuffled into place, sitting rigidly with his hands in his lap and his legs crossed. He rapped his fingers in the most intricate rhythms he could think of, in an effort to stop himself from looking at Cossack or Abby, in order to keep his blood from evaporating and his heart beating at a normal rate.
Aaron was nowhere to be seen, out performing drills with Secret and Small. Instead there was simply his prosecutor, a confident native Gaian of lax posture and amicable expression. He’d been trained in Mojang following the Onslaught, and had since built himself up as the benchmark for a good solicitor in Gaia’s courts. They had spared no expense.
Then, from the corner the captive priest walked forth and mumbled his half-hearted words of blessing. Then he shuffled back to the corner, the chains around his ankles rattling as they snagged on a loose nail in the floor.
There were many such imperfections in this building, and in the other hastily established structures around the Gaian encampment. The tiles were hastily fastened; windmills make with budget mechanisms which had to be replaced frequently; the wood was poorly cured and the stones often cracked and brittle. But Kay didn’t care for this, he simply had a pretty layer of paint put over the buildings so that Ryan thought him efficient.
Cossack rose from his chair to the podium, where he began the traditional Gaian verse.
“When the earth is scorched and the sky’s tapestry is burnt away.” Spoke he, with a dry authority.
“We will remain. Gaia will provide for us.” Responded the crowd, Bokane mouthing the words as if saying them out loud would scorch his tongue.
“When our kings lie dead, our cities sacked and our land is salted and fallow.”
“We will remember our foes, and we will repay them. May the earth swallow them first, for Gaia’s wrath is untold.”
“When Divinity ascends this earth and the Blind Watch is ended.”
“We will rise to prominence. The Divines will ascend and Gaia will take their place upon this earth.”
“After all others have fallen.”
“We will remain.”
“Let us reflect.”
And the crowd bowed their heads. Bokane had never understood the Gaian church. A mass of contradictions as far as he was concerned.
The Gaians were undeniably worshippers of the Divines, they had been for several-hundred years. There was the Eternal Grove, who still worshipped Gaia as a full deity, but they were technically outlaws. The only reason they appeared at Peter’s funeral was because they thought they had a chance of killing Kay and installing Slim as king.
But then there was Notch and Gaia’s Blessed. They were slightly different and the majority of the population followed them. They had merged the two faiths very successfully. In the mythology of the Blessed mythology the Divines, after killing Ishinge in the Endless War, were cursed by the Tainted god to bear physical forms and walk upon this Earth, unable to return to the Aether. They also believed that one day, Gaia’s lost son Sansoleil would return to the world and slay his cousins, the Divines, and free them of their physical forms. Since the ascension of Notch the Gaian faith had seen an increase in popularity outside of the Kingdom.
Cossack of course, was not a convert, at least not a true one. Faith to him was a tool to be used. He merely wished to ingratiate himself with the crowd, and had made a number of similar cloying grabs at popularity, such as the building of an orphanage.
Bokane took a deep breath as Cossack returned to his sitting position, wordlessly declaring himself king of the room in the absence of a higher authority, and he told himself that it would all be fine. He told himself that they had a strong case and that Abby would be fine. He looked back up with defiance and strength in his eyes, his ego sewn back together.
Naturally this was a stupid and pointless effort and quite honestly Bokane should have known better. The seams of his ego were thoroughly torn out and left on the floor.
Cossack was merciless in the trial. Their best witnesses all either had their words twisted into a well-made noose for the defendant, or thoroughly contradicted each other. Abby, while maintaining her poise, came across as abrasive, callous and thoroughly unrepentant. Her brother came across as an oaf by, in a fit of desperation, denying that the act of assaulting someone with a hammer could be possibly construed as assault.
The foreign dropout proved frail, insecure and all around useless. While the initial statement of defence seemed promising, he fell apart from there. When questioning witnesses he was confident but only served to hurt his case, forgetting what questions to ask to get the information he needed to back his grandiose defences, baffling the jury and those watching when he made them. After realising that he was the only one reaching these conclusions, he began to stagger. From this point on the prosecutor was able to browbeat him into submission.
By the end of it he seemed to shrink away from the air itself. He didn’t even stay for the verdict. After his humiliation he travelled to the nearest brothel where he proceeded to get drunk out of his mind, anger several fellow drunks, and find himself naked in a bush, body badly bruised, covered in sheep dung and with large, crude drawings of male genitalia drawn all over his face and torso. While the day’s events effectively maimed and killed his already emasculated legal career, he at the very least wrote a series of very successful comedic plays based around his misfortunes.
But alas, at the end of the trial Bokane stood glaring at the floor. At this point he was ready to tell Bone that if he regaled them with another tale of the exploits of some Solvoleur *******, he would gladly dig up the corpse of one, chain it to Bone and have a Priest marry the two.
Cossack and the judges were rising to head into an undoubtedly overly lavish room to laugh about the trial and drink for half an hour, and then they would come out with the same conclusion they had held at the start. After that Abby would be taken back to prison for a hasty executed and they would move on to trying her brother (who Bokane had no love for and was definite was guilty).
But the Baarban brother was not going to allow this to play out it seemed. A look of utter disgust came over his face as Cossack and his peers exited the room. Baarban rose too from his seat stiffly. His hand was inside his fine leather doublet, and his foot tapped restlessly. His eyes seemed to be darting from guard to guard.
Panic came over Bokane, even more so when one of the guards began to nod towards the impatient man and began walking towards the judges’ door. He looked around panicking. Former Companions everywhere. At least a dozen and all of them were armed. Baarban then began to slowly draw his hand out. Bokane looked at Abby, heart pounding, unsure what to do. But she was smiling for the first time in a very long time, and it repulsed him, but also tightened her hold on him.
Then the doors swung open, and a hornblower blew his horn, and Kay proudly marched in, back from the building sites, shoes dripping mud and the rest of him smeared with dust and dirt. He then smiled at the judges and called to them.
“Wait a moment lads, let me join you. I must speak with you alone.” He smiled, not seeming to realise the environment he was in, or simply not caring. He had an affable radiance to him in that moment that Bokane never saw matched.
And with that the Monarch strutted up to them
They weren’t in there for very long, and the dour looks on their faces made Bokane very certain that none of the judges had wanted this conclusion. They found her guilty of course, but instead of execution she was to be given a comfortable exile alongside her brother. They would be returned to their father, Gandor Baarben in Tyrissa, beyond the Southern Veil, as soon as the war ended. They would never be able to return to Gaia’s domain, but they would live, and Abby was safe. That was all that mattered.
A laxity came across her face as she heard the news, and then she began to laugh, and she hugged her brother, who wept silently. Bokane wasn’t even sure if she noticed her brother’s tears as they stained her dress, or that he noticed that her unwashed form stained his fine clothes. And the two stood there a very long time, as the crowd began to file out slowly.
Bokane was there at the end, after all but he, Kay, the Baarbans, a few guards, a straggler or two and the judges remained.
The two at last disengaged from each other and Abby, smiling wider than she’d ever smiled, the sun itself bursting from within her cheeks, turned to Kay. “How can we thank you m’lord for your mercy.”
Bokane suddenly felt a certain turning in his feelings. She never smiled at him like that. His own grin faded slightly, but was somewhat renewed when he saw Cossack scowling like a grumpy toddler at the two siblings and by connection himself.
Kay, still surrounded by that cloud of radiant affability, smiled softly back, leaning on his royal sceptre like a walking stick.
“Don’t thank me. Bokane made a very convincing appeal; it really tore at my heartstrings.” He lifted his leathered hand gently and gestured open-palmed to Bokane.
Abby immediately ran to him and embraced him, planting a passionate if forceful kiss upon his cheek. She then pulled away from him, tears in her eyes and beaming.
Bokane looked past her, and saw a grinning Walt standing and raising a private toast to him with a skin of wine.
For now, all slights between Bokane and Kay were forgotten, the feud quashed. But as with all feuds, if forgotten instead of resolved they will some day be remembered, and when they are they will be replenished by years of forgotten bitterness. Kay knew this well, he just prayed that it could be forgotten long enough for resolution to come.
***
Extreme was a man who, while not quite old yet, had certainly been around longer than most of those he associated with. He was a native Gaian, with the signature olive skin and tar black hair. However, it had fallen away in the centre of his head, and around the temples in his firm beard were decorations of grey and even white. The baggy clothing that composed his usual attire worked in tandem with his feeble posture and small stature to conceal his muscular build and powerful arms.
As a child he’d been enraptured by stories of the Solvoleur dynasty, and of the Great Gaian Empire. In performances at the fairs of his youth, heart had fluttered as Isa Solvoleur raided Ishinge’s palace and stole Sansoleil from his grandfather. And how is heart had been tugged at as the two fell in love. And how he wept as the lovers departed, Sansoleil falling into a deep slumber, and Isa sealing him away, only to be struck down by Hamilkar before she could retrieve the Lost Sun.
These tales had convinced him to join the ranks of Gaia’s army, to preserve the descendents of the Solvoleurs, and for years he had served dutifully. When Peter and Dominus marched on the Legion, he was there in the frontlines, killing zealously and fighting to preserve the banner of Gaia as if it were an infant.
Sadly, the first forty years of his career proved uneventful, and while he had risen high enough through killing bandits and vagabonds to gather for himself a proper regiment.
In the liberation of Valhalla he had held Warden’s Arm, the key to their capital. For two weeks he and just fifty men had held the line there, pelted by arrow volleys and cannons before eventually being captured by Botannites. When Dominus’ men finally arrived there, they found the banners of four Valhallan rebel Houses scattered across the ground, 500 men lost in the attempts to take it. Of his men only a handful remained alive, and he was almost disemboweled by Botanny himself. They were held until the end of the war and returned to Gaia’s Domain as conquering heroes.
For this he was accepted into the Order of Gaia as Warden of the capital and Frostblade. By the time Kay rose to power he was one of the major candidates for the leadership of the Order of Gaia, following the death of Ixon Sharke following the Nether Highway.
Sadly, he took issue with the appointment of Kay as King on the grounds of his foreign birth, and as such was passed up for leadership of the Order. Bitter at the sudden incursion of foreigners upon his government he had, completely off the cuff, allowed the Eternal Grove to enter the funeral of Peter with weapons and attempt to murder his King. While Kay had made no attempts to apprehend him, and the coup had failed miserably, Extreme left the Kingdom in shame, taking a small group of his most loyal men with him.
They had travelled to Arcadia briefly, sold their services as sell-swords, until word reached them of events in Mojang. Then, inspired with rekindled patriotism they marched across the world to the Old Craft, ready to fight against the forces of Dominus.
Now Extreme lay in the snow, beside his eagle-eyed officer, Jaren. They were at the top of a large snow drift, looking down into a small crowd of workers, who were desperately trying to establish a small stronghold for their masters. An old castle, half-eaten by snow and thick pine trees but still in salvageable condition. It wouldn’t be luxurious, but it would allow them to shelter their kings and Administrators from the weather, and ensure that they were in fighting condition once Jeb at last returned.
Extreme pulled down his coarse linen scarf from his mouth, “What do you see?”
“Mostly workers.” Jaren responded in his heavy Southern accent, rather disinterested. “No one of significance… Hang on a second, think that might well be Lady Ellen herself… why does every man who am contractually obligated to despise have prettier and more loyal wife than the one I’m stuck with? The gods really are incompetent. Don’t see how people surrender their freedom to them.”
“I don’t care about your religious philosophy or your married life Jaren, what are their numbers and how well equipped are they? More importantly, do they have any damn horses?”
Their horses died crossing the mountains and they were down to their last pack mule. Furthermore they needed supplies to stock the pack mule with, otherwise they might as well just kill and eat the bloody thing.
Jaren sighed, “Give me a minute, need a more thorough search. There’s trees in my way but I think I see smoke coming from out over them. Wait here.”
And before Extreme could offer another word, the dark-skinned and nimbly built foreigner slipped off. Extreme reached for Jaren’s fur robes in vain but the warm fabric slipped through his fingers and he fell forward in the snow.
“Notch curse you Jaren.”
And Extreme lay there in the snow, completely rigid for the next umpteen minutes, silently vilifying his comrade. Four years they’d known each other and Jaren never failed to be a total ****. Eventually, as the snow had started to settle on Extreme’s form in a patchwork quilt, the Southerner came back, a giddy look on his face.
“Divines help me,” Extreme sighed as he came into earshot, “What did you do?”
“I set their tents and a bunch of trees on fire. That ought to keep them occupied. There are about 20 fully saddled horses stabled right where I thought they would be. Poorly defended for now.”
“For now?”
“Half of the horses are military. There’s a patrol out.”
“Which House?”
“I counted a Florin Banner on the officer’s horse, but the rest belonged to Lord Kordan.” A dourness came over his voice when he said the second half of the sentence, his eagerness cut down in its stride.
Extreme halted at this. From his experience, Florinians were fancy buggers who valued style over substance. Most of their officers were dainty little things who thought that being able to twirl a sword inanely and skip across the damn battlefield meant you were some sort of master swordsman. The Korda were another story altogether.
“Take five men and get those horses. We’re leaving.”
And with that the two of them silently swept down the side of the drift, small clouds of white forming around their heels as they did so. Urgency carried them forward, but the same sense of urgency slowed them, softening their steps and movements, and forcing them to stop behind every piece of cover.
Then they arrived at the camp, and wasted no time in setting about their business.
Jaren ran off to grab his usual crowd of fellow minorities and that one guy no one really knows and as such is always happy to be affirmed in the notion that perhaps he does exist.
“Pack up the supplies.” Extreme called to his people. “We’re leaving, heading for Dominus’ camp. Me and my partner found a few of their people. At last we’ll have a place to sell our goods.”
The vast majority of them picked up on this and kept their hands to their weapons, but also attempted to conceal them and the contents of their supplies; which by and large were weapon-based.
But of course, there was always that one bloke who didn’t quite follow and wandered through the snow to ask many stupid questions of his commander. In this case it was a stout bloke called Pandarus. Very well-read and the group’s cook and alchemist. Any ailment, he could treat. How a man like him had never found himself a good employer however, made itself very plain after about a week of continued contact. The man had no understanding of context or social cues, partly due to a sheltered upbringing, but also due to a naturally introverted and self-focused nature. He spoke rarely, but when he did it felt out of line and redundant. But he was still a well-meaning soul, and he was best left to doing rather than talking.
Nonetheless, he resolved to challenge himself that day and ventured into said problematic area. He followed Extreme to his tent, calling to him and waving fruitlessly. Finally, he ducked in after and began talking to his commander as he set about packing what had once been the saddlebags of his horse.
“Mr… uh, Extreme,” Stumbled he slightly too loudly, like a child, having the general idea of what he wanted to say, but suddenly realising he needed to fill in the blanks. “I thought you said we were going to join the King in the Old-”
Extreme’s speed was alarming, considering his limp. He whipped around and a stifling glove covered Pandarus’ mouth. The alchemist’s eyes widened but instead of struggling, he stayed as still as possible. Perhaps he was a little more self-aware than he was given credit. Most men Extreme knew would have tried to stab his for this, and he didn’t want to lose anyone that night.
“Keep your mouth shut boy, you little oaf.” He rebuked, in a harsh whisper. “There are Korda in these woods. And I don’t intend to die tonight. Not for your sake or for the sake of expressing our diehard loyalty to the foreign king of our homeland. We’re going to play this smart and then we can start flouting the authority of Dominus and Jeb. Is that understood?”
Pandarus stared back at his commander, nodding furiously, terror giving him solidarity.
Then a loud horn was heard. A sharp, tinny, thoroughly intolerable noise blowing as overly-elaborate a tune as possible.
“Is it Jaren?”
“No,” Growled Extreme, “Florinian horn.”
“You certain?”
“Absolutely. No one else could announce themselves with an instrument that pretentiously awful.”
And with that he grabbed his lantern shield. An obscure weapon that Extreme had taken a liking for. A small buckler shield with a gauntlet built into it. From the steel fist protruded two five inch blades, with a long spear-like blade stick out from beneath. And then from the centre of the buckler itself was a large spike. Whilst overly elaborate, Extreme found it helpful in fending off his foes. And if it proved ineffective, he kept a small broadsword at his side and if worst came to the worst he had a small crossbow at his side.
Concealing the crossbow, and sword, and his thick leather hide beneath a thick bear-skin cloak, he marched out to meet them.
“Hail to the men of this encampment, we look for your leader!” Called out a tiny herald, who held that damned horn in his hand. “We wish only to learn what you purpose in these woods are, then you may be on your way.”
There were five of the Florinians, including the herald. Their leader was obvious, some noble who was evidently some form of philosopher, as he wore a light leather shell with a flimsy-looking rapier, ideal for the dancing which he called fighting. At the side of his mount was a sack-cloth bag that seemed stained with blood. It was probably the head of some pig he had accidentally skewered after a day of missing every target possible; it was a supposed sign of strength.
The others were dressed in heavier armour, which was generally iron in origin, but ridiculously decorated and embroidered.
“I am their master. These men are sell-swords and workers in my employ. We’re looking for Dominus’ encampment, and intend to sell to him our produce. However, we got lost in that cursed snowstorm last night, and couldn’t find you. If you want to talk to us, your master over there can do it for you.” Extreme impressed himself with how blunt and clear he could be whilst also not being overly confrontational.
The leader smiled. “I am their leader, Pebbles, King of Florin.”
Extreme was not expecting this, this could be problematic. “Ah, I was unaware m’lord, forgive me for my curtness.”
“It is fine.” He smiled coldly. “I’m sure your men will provide some valuable sustenance for ours. However, forgive me in conceding early that we will not be paying for it.”
All of the Gaian party present in the little street between the tents fell completely silent.
“What do you mean.” Extreme narrowed his pupils and cocked his head to the side.
“I believe it will cover the cost of the horses you tried to steal.”
The heartbeat of the camp was audibly increasing. Much stronger and the ground would have begun to shake from the force of it.
Pebbles smiled coldly, and cut the bag at his side loose. It hit the hard snow with a squelch, and out of it rolled what Extreme recognised as the head of Jaren.
Pandarus, seeing the head of his comrade so dismembered, shrieked and began to run. He didn’t make it far, three crossbow bolts finding themselves in his back and two in his head before he made it four paces.
“You are under arrest.” The Florinian boasted, hopping down from his horse, and drawing from his side the rapier and a bullwhip with a metal blade at the end. “Any comments?”
Extreme opened his mouth, and dryly began.
“When the earth is scorched and the sky’s tapestry is burnt away.”
“We will remain. Gaia will provide for us.” Responded the his men.
“When our kings lie dead, our cities sacked and our land is salted and fallow.”
“We will remember our foes, and we will repay them. May the earth swallow them first, for Gaia’s wrath is untold.”
“I thought I smelt a Gaian turd. Been around far too long.” Pebbles spat.
“When Divinity ascends this earth and the Blind Watch is ended.” Extreme continued, unfazed.
“We will rise to prominence. The Divines will ascend and Gaia will take their place upon this earth.”
“After all others have fallen.”
“We will remain.”
“Kill them, leave the leader alive. He’ll make for great sport.” Pebbles sneared, twirling his rapier.
All this time the Korda were flitting between the tents, their special levered crossbows ready to pour bolts into those he led.
“Onwards Gaians!”
And with that the battle began. The Korda were just as horrifying as people said. They burst out from behind the tents with their crossbows, and in just a few second their target would have a bloody coating of cruel metal bolts.
The Gaians however, fought nobly. Many, crossbows in their forms, brought their swords down upon the crossbows, sending splintered wood flying before bringing their swords back around and felling the necks of the Korda. But alas, the Korda fired too fast. All of them found themselves weighed down by an ever-growing volley of crossbow bolts. By the time a Gaian cornered and cut down one of their mysterious assailants, two of them had given out and collapsed into the snow.
In the centre however, the battle was even fiercer.
In the opening moments of the battle Extreme had rushed the Florinians, and now was locked in combat with the five, finding them much stronger than he anticipated. Meanwhile, the remainder of his men faced off against the Florinian King, who would dance around them, whipping them and cutting them until they bled out into the dirt, watering the land with his victory. The Herald was still mounted.
One of the Florinians rushed him, charging forward on his horse, hurling a spear at Extreme. He twisted, the spear lightly scratching the leather armour but not finding flesh. Then the Gaian bowed his head and ran forward, slicing the front leg off of the Florinian’s mount, sending him flying forward into the snow.
Pebble ran his sword through the throat of a young man, blood spilling from his mouth and throat. Another found themselves falling forward, the metal point of a whip embedded in their heel.
The other two Florinians felt smarter than their friend, and hopped down from their horses before rushing at Extreme, who mocked them from afar.
The first arced his rapier through the air, trying to cleave Extreme’s arm from his shoulder. he met the blow with the buckler, before striking him a blow to the jaw. Extreme’s foe staggered back, nose bent to the side.
The second tried to tackle the veteran, but from his target sliding to the side and planting the long blade into him back, severing his spine and causing him to twitch helplessly. Extreme instinctively threw him through the fabric of the tent and into some dead man’s chambers, where he twitched and cried. The other had now recovered himself, and was ready to fight in earnest.
He struck first once more, Extreme drawing the broadsword to stop him. the metal sang out as the edge of the Florinian’s blade met the flat of Extreme’s. He forced the blade back, staggering the man. Extreme then pursued him, egged on by adrenaline, throwing blow after blow into the Florinian’s guard. He readied to swing the spiked fist at his opponent’s stomach, when suddenly a spear found its way into his flank. He roared out like a baited bear.
The rider had risen from his stupor and retrieved his spear, and was now twisting it around in the flank of the exile. But his triumph didn’t last long.
Extreme kicked the man with the rapier in the chest and threw him back into the snow. The buckler then snapped the spear clean in half, rendering it near useless. Extreme then battered him across the face with the buckler, a crunching noise resounding from his neck. He fell limp to the ground.
The other rose to fight again, but this time Extreme plunged the talons of his into his neck before he could swing, and he stumbled back for a few moments before collapsing back against a torch.
He turned to see Pebbles finish the last of his men, still grinning cooly, drawing his rapier across the helpless man’s throat. The blood drained from his face and out through his throat, and then he fell to his knees before tumbling to the side. Pebbles then closed his eyes in a tranquil manner, held up his sword and sniffed it, savouring the scent.
Sadly, in this gesture of complete, utter and honestly adorable insanity, Extreme had drawn his crossbow, and put a bolt into the throat of the herald. He had then tugged the herald out of his saddle, and sent him sprawling into the snow alongside all of the other dead.
“Goodbye! Next time make sure you’ve won before you engage in the theatrics.” Extreme called, whipping the reigns of his horse and riding onwards and out of the camp.
“Stop him!” Pebbles called, the Korda running through the forests after him.
One of them stopped before him, demanding instructions. Unwilling to issue further orders, Pebbles resolved to heabutt him into unconsciousness and steal his crossbow. He then promptly hopped onto his horse and began pursuing Extreme, quickly catching up to his game.
Extreme, first thinking he was in the clear as he burst from the small wood and onto the plains, turned his head, only to see the Florinian King, and then to be struck in the back with three crossbow bolts in quick succession.
Extreme lurched forward, groaning audibly. The Florinian attempted to fire further, but found that his bolts were spent, and whipped his horse onwards. Extreme followed suit and the chase resumed.
Extreme was pursued far beyond the point where it could be justified. Three hours of the chase, going further and further towards the Vanillan lines. However, as artsy and impractical as the Florinians were, they were also stubborn perfectionists, and Pebbles embodied this totally. He only turned back when at last, his horse lost its footing on a patch of ice, and he fell into the snow.
A further hour later, Extreme’s horse gave out, collapsing into the snow. Eyes heavy, back burning and strength sapped, Extreme dragged himself from under the horse, and hobbled his way onwards, the walls coming into view.
After this point Extreme lost track of all time. The blood pouring from his back murdered time for him. He was only focused and getting closer to those walls. He was unable to register anything in front of him. Only his increasingly numb feet were still functioning, and even they were beginning to falter.
Then, around him figures began to swirl. Muttering strange whispers. The names of those he wronged swirled around him. “Kay… Cossack… Aaron… Gaia… Cossack. Cossack would want to see this one.” Then his sense died, and with it his world.
An indistinguishable amount of time later, Extreme awoke. His robes were gone and he wore all white. Even matches would have been blinding to him, but sadly the light from the sun shone in his window, and drove his eyes closed line rabbits into a burrow.
He lay still a while, unsure what to do. Then the door creaked open, and he feigned sleep. He clenched his eyes shut a little too tightly to be convincing.
“Oh for Notch’s sake,” Came the familiar voice of Cossack. “Wake up Extreme. It’s time to redeem yourself.”
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Well! It's been a little while! Back to school was busy, but I was able to get this out. No word on when the next part will be, hopefully sooner but I need to stop lying. I hope you like this one guys. Personally pretty pleased with it.
Part 9: A Celebration of Tragedy
There were grumbled agreements.
“Oh do shut up.” The Fade interrupted, narrow fingers weaved together. “Continue Gaian. What about Gandor Barban?”
The Thaumaturge was the happiest I’d seen him in quite some time. His eyelids were halfway closed, and the eyes beneath them were a veritable tropical ocean they were so tranquil.
“She also embezzled our funds!”
“What?” Bokane spat out. “You can’t be serious?”
“Why?”
Walt continued to stare out of the window, hand pressed against the glass tensely.
This was the point where Rokeson had enough. He stood up, throwing aside his padded chair and glaring at Kay.
Tejmin couldn’t do it, could he? Would it be his immortality or his execution?
Tejmin’s mouth was agape as he held the Brother at his mercy. He could scarcely connect the events that had happened. Now he was immortal, he was about to finish off one of the most venerable warlord of the most distinguished lines of all time. Such actions required the words of a poet to truly honour. And that’s when a terrible notion popped into his head. Just as he was about to rip the dagger up and end his foe he gave the first line of the epic he sowed that night. Just one short sentence.
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Book 4: The Judgement of Gaia
Part 10: A Redemption of sorts
The bar was dimly lit as usual. Cossack had recommended they get some lightstone put in or perhaps a redstone lamp system, but he had always refused; he felt that candles were much more atmospheric. The various leather benches in the centre were still spotless but would soon show marks of wear and tear from the eternally restless nature of their occupant.
Cossack liked Kay’s energy and sense of obligation, but it often proved counter-productive in the long run. He was like a pup, he would take one object and show a liking for it. He would then chew the object into oblivion before moving on to something else, having spent so much energy on the object that he could never muster any will to look upon it again, but would still never let go of his ownership of it. This was a reservation he’d had when Kay had been left the throne, that this would happen to the running of Gaia’s domain, and that he’d eventually take up some new crusade to keep himself occupied.
However, it was even worse when he was interrupted in the middle of a task, for he would hack away at the next with his usual vigour and then wear himself blunt upon it, only to turn his head and see a loose end. And if he could see it he would drop all possible to tie it up, it would gnaw upon his mind and pull like a spoilt child on his attention. He had to tie it, and he had to do it to the same end he had set out towards initially, with no willingness to vary it.
It was due to this that Cossack found himself in this predicament, trying to fight total war against their enemies and an unseen war against one of their allies simultaneously. He didn’t want to do it - well, that’s not entirely true, he definitely loathed the Brotherhood entirely and wouldn’t have been at all disappointed to see them slaughtered under even slightly altered circumstances - but he felt it was the only way to get his friend back on track.
To try and pull him away from this task would be like trying to dig up a mountain with only your hands. You wouldn’t succeed and it would likely leave you quite incapable of doing anything else for a long time, allowing Kay to further spiral. His hope was to lead Kay to the end of this tunnel, and guide him back around once he emerged. Until then he had to ensure the King didn’t dash his brains out upon the rocks as he scurried in the dark. He couldn’t stop him from receiving blows, but he could soften them a bit and perhaps avoid a few.
Nonetheless, he was certain that Kay’s total mental recovery depended upon the destruction of the Brotherhood. As such he was going to ensure Kay’s will would be carried out with as little mess as possible.
And then it came down to the actions of one oaf, high on his own ego; Tejmin. Cursed be that man, whom they had trusted to act with restraint, and to put the benefit of the Kingdom ahead of personal glory. While Extreme had failed to kill Tauto Chrone, blood had been spilt on the part of the Brotherhood, and their leader had been attacked at a vulnerable point. It could also not be reasonably traced back to Gaia. In fact, it would have been beneficial to the war effort, as they could claim Dominus had sent the men to break the truce, and if Extreme’s identity had been revealed, it could be claimed as part of an effort to sow discontent between the Gaians and Brotherhood.
But no, Tejmin had stabbed their Chaplain, and, to make matters unsalvageable, had claimed Kay sent him - which was untrue on multiple levels. And now; Kay was on the bad side of the Brotherhood; Cossack was on the bad side of Kay; the Circle was on the bad side of Cossack, and none of them wanted Aaron or the others to find out.
And so Cossack descended the stairs to Kay’s lounge, which he was using as something of an office while renovations were done upon his chambers. Inferior wood had been used on the roof of the King’s bedroom and had collapsed during a storm. The timbers then proceeded in catching fire on a shattered lamp and destroying much of his majesty’s chambers, setting back construction of the palace by several days.
They’d emerged from the carriage several hours after the end of the banquet, Cossack, Kay, Aaron, Pi, Secret, Small, Walt and the Patriarch of the Blessed (whom Cossack had noted was much more commonly seen around the palace during that period). They had emerged into the soothing night air, proudly swaggering and laughing. The Patriach, Isidore IV, was the only one of them not at varying degrees of drunkenness. However, he still enjoyed the laughter of his peers as Aaron, Secret and Kay recounted some of their more bizarre exploits.
“Do you remember that fat bird I met on the Eve of Long Harvest? She was terribly rude. Never looked me in the eye and was roaring the whole time.” Secret slurred, easily one of the drunker members of the party.
“Well, if it's the one I’m thinking of Secret, that’s because she was a literal cow, in labour, and in the middle of a field.” Aaron jabbed. “From what we can gather you tripped over it and spent the next twenty minutes trying to strike up a conversation. Then Small and I picked you up and managed to drag you to Kay’s.”
“No.” Secret grinned. “Couldn’t have been that drunk.”
“Definitely were.”
“Never thought I’d been that drunk in my life. Can barely remember the sensation.” He leant forward, massaging his temples. “Guess this is the first time I’ve properly had a drink in a long time. Small, was I always like that?”
Small nodded, very cheery indeed. “All the time. Wasn’t until Vanilla that you suddenly became all straitlaced for a while. Got very sanctimonious in the first few years.” Small adopted a purposefully nasally voice in mockery of Secret’s accent. “‘You drink away your mind, might as well brain yourself.’ It was unbelievable, and uncharacteristically theatrical.” He saw fit to loosely wave his extended hand in a nonchalant manner that struck Walt on the armed.
“Notch, I was a right sanctimonious *****.” Secret said, smiling sadly.
“Rightly so.” Interjected the Patriarch. “Restraint is the core of holiness, and holiness brings us ever closer to Sansoleil’s return.”
Secret ignored him. “I think it started a few months before we arrived. Vechs hadn’t figured out we’d physically escaped yet. Vareide was very much still hunting for us directly - in an effort to salvage prestige. Terrible couple of weeks. About this time of year actually. You remember it, don’t you lads?”
Kay nodded, remembering fondly their days of flight and fugitivity. Aaron and Small remembered those they had been forced to kill in order to escape the Games of Vareide. Cossack remembered that chilling glimpse into the future he’d had that day twelve years prior that day. His first fleeting glimpse of the fury and apathy towards murder underlining Kay’s persona of roguish affability.
And yet, Kay still seemed to look back on that day as something from a children’s adventure book. The heroes escaping from the evil overlord’s clutches via wit and trickery, the proverbial fox stealing the farmer’s hens from under his own nose. Perhaps it was a coping mechanism. He wouldn’t accept what had happened, that those men, who had trusted him dearly, had been left to die by his command. Perhaps he pretended that they never died at all.
It was at times like this that Cossack questioned his faith and loyalty to this man; this killer and crook, who hid himself beneath a veneer of civil bravado. When in a more cynical mood, Cossack dismissed the idea on the notion of what worse could come if the rest of them weren’t there to keep Kay in line.
When in a more warm disposition, as he had been more openly adjusted towards as late, Cossack considered what potential there was in Kay. Kay Mandy was a man of outstanding ability, intelligence, passion and charm - one of those fated from mere temperament to impact their surroundings - and Cossack wanted to help him achieve his full potential, and ensure that these qualities were remembered. There was also the fact that he and Kay genuinely liked each other’s company and believe it or not usually wasn’t on a psychotic revenge campaign, but that’s simply not profound enough to pad out this chapter.
“I remember it vividly.” Secret continued, after having let silence hung for a few minutes. “I remember, there was something Astro said.” Kay winced at the memory of the astronomer, and the others similarly looked crestfallen, either through sentiment or a sense of obligation. “He looked about and said, ‘the salad days lie rotten! From hereon in to dull our wits is to dash out our brains!’ I’m sure he was quoting something else, you’ll probably know it Kay.”
Kay, who had been looking out across the fiercely shaken blades of the fields was shaken from his stupor.
“I remember it. One of Xephos’ first, a novel actually before a play. As the sky-man gazed upon his ground-born friend and the haggard one, having slain the first of the Pale One’s servants, a look of grave severity came upon his face. ‘Dear friends’ spoke he, ‘The salad days lie rotten, from hereon in, to dull our wits is to dash out our brains!’ And with that the trio descended into the tunnels, to pursue the pale usurper and his stolen bride."
“Notch Kay, I didn’t want a history lecture.” Secret laughed.
“Sorry, force of habit. Read the book as a kid, back before Israphel was written in as the antagonist. Then, when I returned from the front and went to Mojang, I saw it was on. First time I’d been able to engage in something properly cultural in three years. There was something around that performance. A fleeting magic that cannot be wholly recaptured. Can probably remember every damn line, every facial expression, the contours of the background and the way in which the light fell upon their faces.” His hands were raised before his face, rubbing the bridge of his nose, almost praying to some incorporeal Muse to give him the words to articulate his feelings properly.
He then laughed, let his hands fall laxly. “Jeb! Sorry Secret; looks like I’ve just done stole your character development!”
There was a round of chuckling.
Then nothing much of importance happened as the group rolled closer to Kay’s palace (jokingly given the moniker “The Court of Righteous Protest”) which at that moment was a ways apart from the various Gaian settlements. There was the makings of a proper town or even a city across their region of the countryside, but the villages had yet to bridge the moors of the area in order to coalesce into a single sizeable entity yet. There were only two properly developed areas in the Gaian lands. The first was, of course, the palace, which was turning more and more into a community unto itself by the day, with buildings such as the prison, the court-house and the air-dock being built in the vicinity.
The other was a fortress a mile or two to the West, where the Gaian army, much of it being on leave at this time, trained and gathered. Kay and Cossack attended whatever meetings they could, but spent most of their time visiting other leaders or receiving them in his parlour, where they would discuss potential business deals for after the war, keep up morale and weed out dissenters.
To the untrained eye it seemed merely eternal leisure, but the novelty of playing diplomat was quickly wearing thin on Kay and he’d taken to trying to find out what camps people were really in and who would run first. Cossack had been away earlier that evening, and was quite perturbed to discover that Kay had decided to bait one of those Rokeson boars. While he was right in thinking them a political non-entity, particularly Nathaniel, it was still not wise to blow one of their hands off in public. It simply didn’t look good on propaganda to maim your alleged supporters, even if they were about to try and shoot you.
Returning to the topic of the palace itself - it was an impressive building. There were the startings of walls surrounding the hill on which it was built. The palace building was a large mansion with two great wings reaching out around an expansive series of gardens and fountains. For reasons of security there was also a large keep looming from behind the monolithic palace, from the top of which one could see the ant-like silhouettes of sentries moving slowly.
Off to the east however, on a little peninsula of a cliff was a great beacon of light amidst an intricate garden of hedges and marble. These were the shrines of the Craft; bizarre oddities which could allow those who would offer tribute to travel between their brothers and sisters that were spread throughout the land. An old art lost after the Golden Revolution, with some saying it was a Vithian technology, lost in the Plague of Ignorance.
In the valley before it was a growing village, with a market already being established, and a few lucky individuals setting up heavily regulated farms around the edge of it. Kay had allowed a few of the farmers to start cultivating hay from the tall grass coating the foot of his hill. You could, as a result, from the raised path to the grounds, see hunched men wandering the fields with sickles and scythes, felling the meagre stalks and starting to bunch them.
Then Cossack saw an unnatural glow from the mansion. Then he saw wisps of struggling smoke ascending, and fear hit him.
“It’s on bloody fire!” He screamed. “The palace is on fire!”
Kay shot up from his seat and immediately pulled himself across Cossack, glaring out the window with both shoulders hanging out over the road. He cried out to the driver to get up there faster. However, as they drew closer to the gate, and a few panicked soldiers came out to meet the royal caravan, Kay called to Secret and Aaron to come with him hurriedly and threw the door open. He then rushed forward to speak with the most senior person available.
It was in moments like these that Kay was able to shine through. He took the situation seriously, but was able to speak clearly and concisely about what needed to be done, getting all necessary information. He ran into his courtyard with his General and ranger in tow, and Cossack was certain he was ordering idle and stunned men about, making plans for a more efficient fire fighting system, and finding out precisely what happened, all whilst maintaining little more by way of stress than a furrowed brow and hollow tone.
Cossack would have joined them, but the Patriarch, an older man than himself, well into his sixties, was unable to keep up the pace. And as such he stayed behind to offer the man support. Truth be told, Cossack didn’t mind the man. Politically they were on the same playing field. He just found the whole Sansoleil legend a little too melodramatic to take as serious religion. Cossack didn’t altogether dislike being allowed to take his time with this man.
But then, as Isidore voiced his views on the status of the Testificate in society, a sharp cry rang across the moors.
“Mr Cossack!” It called, in a feminine yelp.
It was Rosa, Cossack’s servant-girl, lantern in hand. A bright young thing, dark-skinned and in her early teens, whom Cossack had taken a shine to. She scrambled up the side of the track, clawing at the earth with her ragged fingernails. The banker rushed forward, grabbed her hand and eased her up that last stretch. She then tripped slightly as she came up, fell to her knees and began panting.
“What is it girl?” He asked, leaning in and patting her on the shoulder. “Are you hurt.”
She turned to him, horror reflected in her eyes and forcing them to water. “It was horrible sir! These moors are the purgatory he wanders! He seeks to do further mischief unto us before the Watcher drags him to the hells for his damnation!”
“What are you talking about Rosa?” Disconcertion was crawling up Cossack's backbone.
He’d seen Rosa break her finger without flinching and now she was in tears.
“Mr Linx. The Captain.” She called, the tears subsiding and her bones quaking, with pangs of rage spiking through her. “He wanders these moors, gaunt as a skelerton and grey as the storm into which his corpse vanished! He still wears a suit, falsifying his gentry, and on his back he still holds our weapons like great shackles upon him.” Then the moment of clarity subsided, she determined she couldn’t take the quaking and returned to warmer tears.
Cossack wrapped his arms around her back and held her tight.
“Small!” He called out to the artist, who watched cooly from a distance. “Help me get her inside!”
Small, a little drunk and as usual an aloof being, regarded Cossack with a slight indignation. Met And with that they lifted the small girl and guided the old man up to the maimed palace.
Cossack had told Kay of the sighting of Linx. It hadn’t gone down well and pretty soon Kay had Secret and Aaron out scouring the countryside for the traitor, or more importantly his likely companions. It was lucky they left when they did, for a messenger then entered the hall with news from Extreme, telling of his failure and of Tejmin’s betrayal and officially murdering Kay’s good temperament. But he didn’t snap at them, or roar or attack anyone, he just sat in the corner of his and cursed endlessly. Cossack saw fit to leave him, and call together the remnants of the conspiracy. Brit was still chasing the Silhouette’s trail; Gracey was drunk and as such even more insipid than usual; Key was at first helpful but then it dawned on him that his friend and partner was dead and gone, and began to break down in resolution; Walt was the only one who maintained full composure.
The businessman and the banker sat down and awaited the demands of the Brotherhood in the hall of Kay’s Court - the bar. They had issued orders to Extreme to come to the Palace as soon as possible, disguising himself as well as he could and taking shelter in a secluded cell at the foot of the hill - where Cossack had lodged the Warden and his exiles originally - and that they would be spoken to the next morning if it were safe. Then, an hours after dawn broke, Aaron and Secret returned, and immediately fell asleep in their lodgings. And nothing further happened that night.
Two days later, Cossack found himself in this position. The Brotherhood had spread about the story that a group of Realm soldiers fell upon Chrone and Tejmin while they duelled, and that Tauto was making a full recovery. He appeared on Kay’s doorstep the next day, bandaged, bruised, and obscenely pale. He had not been angry, he hadn’t even stayed that long. He merely presented Kay with a letter, exchanged a few pleasantries, and left the room empty. One could even be mistaken in thinking he refused to accept that anything had happened, and that he believed his own lie.
The letter was to remind us of the Brotherhood’s wrath, and to stand as a testament as to why Tauto Chrone was a man to be feared. He testified with all conviction in this letter, that if blood payment was not made, he would see Kay’s entire court impaled along the walls of the Outer City. However, if Kay complied with his demand, a word of this wouldn’t be breathed to any other living being, and all would be utterly forgiven. As five Brothers had fallen that day, three Gaian officers too would die. They could be of any repute, of any import and Kay could be as open or discrete as he pleased about their deaths. However, there was one clause that would not be revoked under any circumstances. Abigail Baarban and her Brother would die.
Kay had read it, and he sat there in silence for a long time, chewing mournfully on a black whip of liquorice. And then he looked at Cossack, gravely staring up at the banker, both unaware Cossack was there, and more aware than any other person could’ve been.
“We have to do it Cossack.” He sighed with a thin stoicism.
Cossack nodded respectfully.
“There is one term you need to follow though Cossack.” Kay continued, struggling to look Cossack in the eye. “You kill Abby.”
“What?”
“Cossack, I know you’re softening up. Human life actually seems to mean something to you now, and it seems to mean less and less to me.” He heaved with self-targeted contempt. “I need you to have the conscience now. Shoot her for me, and let the image of her body stick with you. In future operations, don’t let it escape you. Let the memory of that corpse, of that failure be the motivation not to let it happen again.” He started to scowl with swollen eyes, curling his fingers into his whitened palms. “Remember, that life was in your hands and you lost it, and that will forever be your fault.” He seemed unable to fully communicate what he felt, hands now extended out before him and opened, fingers reaching out in a dazed manner. “But don’t show it Cossack. Sitting about and moping won’t help anyone. When you have time and are alone, let it out if necessary, but never let the others see it. Never know who will someday use it against you.”
Cossack looked on him with sunken and aching eyes. “Is this what you did?”
He sat in nothingness for a moment, “Once, eventually they started to pile up, and I started to forgive myself. And that’s where I made the mistake.” He stood up and began stumbling towards the bar, before stopping himself and turning to Cossack as if nought had occurred in the last few minutes. “Oh, send Gracey and Walt down too while you’re at it, and get Rosa to take this to the Patriarch, I’ve been meaning to speak to him about some matters of faith. Besides, I’ve got a birthday to plan.”
He gave Cossack a letter which felt as if it had quite a sizeable letter in it and perhaps a piece of jewellery, after pouring some wax on the seal and stamping it zealously with the signet ring of House Solvoleur. He smiled slightly, laid a pat on Cossack’s shoulder, and made to turn for the bar. His features immediately dropped after he thought his face was sufficiently turned away.
And as Cossack ascended the stairs, he heard the shattering of glass, and the curses returned; the muffled curses of a man who wasn’t beaten, and refused to be out done. But this time something worried him, he could have sworn he heard a bitter laugh, and even though there was no echo from it, it seemed to carry across the moors without restraint, its spirit lingering on in the heart of many a man for a long time to come.
Earlier that night, Brit was striding in his usual upright manner through one of the older cities in the Old Craft. It was a city of old Testificate make, back before they were struck with Notch’s Plague upon them, when they were the Vithians - before they became the Witnessed, the Testificate. One could tell it was their by the smooth marble surfaces of the streets and official buildings, point-perfect edges and the reliefs upon the walls. These were the aspects worst affected by time.
Brass reliefs that had been battered by time and iron, and stripped of their paint by wind and rain. What had once resembled the aloof and proud elite of Vithian legend and nobility; their thinkers, artists, humanitarians, merchants and the First Ones that they had worshipped… These hadn’t been a war-like people.
Yet now they wandered dully through those very streets, heads bowed in submission, shuffling as if forgetting how to lift their legs, and their idols now stood warped and twisted from glorious tributes to decaying eldritch caricatures. Their metal bones were warped downwards. In places some particularly thorough marauders had sought to melt the faces of the brass beings, failing to finish the job and leaving them contorted beyond comprehension. Their painted flesh was chipped and peeled, colours faded and patterns decomposed. More disturbingly, some had seen fit to paint in the eyes of the deities in coal black, completing the images of demons. What had once been revered now struck fear into the hearts of those who passed.
But Brit took little notice of these aberrations. He felt little pity for the Vithian race. They had been haughty enough to try to unite with a few overly ambitious kingdoms and Thaumic try and break an adamantine throne. Now their children suffered in their place, ambling through those streets, tortured by their subtle awareness of a culture long forgotten, that they couldn’t hope to recapture or even re-comprehend. He was disappointed to discover that Kay freed those under Gaia’s banner.
The town belonged to Halberdson now, at least until the end of the war, when he fully intended to return to his own land holdings in the Haze Craft. His men were largely outside of the city however, having been called to the Outer City in order to guard the outer defenses. Halberdson himself, however, remained in the city, watching over it through the circular image of the relief of some old pagan deity, Feleus or Gertross or some other lost name with no face left to match it to.
He rose up a flight of off-white steps from a channel down the middle of the town’s main square, where the reliefs and the drunk lay in equal measure. At the other end of the square was Halberdson’s house, a proud old building of the same faithfull stone that had surrounded him in the chasm. It was at one time a municipal building, and now faced the same mundane fate.
Brit had no interest in Halberdson, and turned right upon reaching the steps leading up to the metal front door, instead following a few side streets until he found a dank and ancient-looking restaurant which clung on to business due to it being the only restaurant serving quality food for quite some distance. However, even this wouldn’t conserve it for much longer. There was a single gaunt-faced man sitting outside who looked at him, curtly asked him what would “fill yer gob” and sent him to the seat that was reserved for him.
This was where he was to meet his new contact. A lead on the Silhouette naturally, a man who claimed to have been with Ghostly in his last few months. No one special, no Moderator or Administrator. Just a servant. And this man was making some interesting claims about a mysterious unnamed figure who had some stunning parallels with the Silhouette.
His story was already out in a sense. He claimed that he had been the disgrace Administrator’s butler, and that he had hidden for some time on an estate in Lava Craft, near the mountainous border with Mojang. He had remained there comfortably and under an assumed name for several years or more. This servant had been utterly unaware of his identity, and claimed that he never suspected a thing until the final days.
Every few months a figure, who he knew was the patron of the estate and himself, he identified as “a strange fellow who I assumed to be a noble by the way he carried himself”, would appear to their little mansion in the mountains, and he and Ghostly would lock themselves in an office for several hours.
However, several months before Ghostly turned up dead in Mojang these two bizarre men had gotten into quite a heated debate. He had heard the shouting even through the lead door of the office. The two grew careless in their, and the unidentified figure made a strong allusion to him being “king of the Zine Craft” as he burst out of the room. It was then that the door slammed shut with no conceivable source despite Ghostly being on the other side of the room. Realising that all other noteworthy figures in Ghostly’s government had been captured, killed or were still fighting, the servant concluded that this figure must be the rogue administrator himself.
He declined to come to work for the next several days, feigning sickness. On the third day a Divine inquisitor appeared and burnt the mansion to the ground, executing all servants. Upon receiving word of this, the servant fled the Craft for the Myth Craft, where he was conscripted into the private army of their administrator, now finding himself within the confines of the Vanilla Craft. At some point during this he had sold this to a popular newsheet and managed to make himself a large sum of money.
Now Brit requested the full story of what happened. There were too many holes in its logical progression, and the ties to the Silhouette and Ghostly’s assassination were too great to ignore.
And now he entered the restaurant, finding the man, balding and oily skinned, waiting at their table. Their table was within a large and dusty booth, between two pale paper walls. Traditionally the other booths would be lit by candles overhead, but those times were over, and the innkeep too lazy to go to the trouble, and too cynical to believe that there would ever be enough people in there to justify it.
They exchanged the traditional pleasantries, and then the two sat down at either end of the small square table in uncharacteristically lavish chairs for the barren room.
They sat in silence a moment, regarding each other, when Brit wrapped his knuckles on the table and asked, “I have come for your true account of events.”
At this the servant laughed and extended a palm condescendingly. Brit scowled and handed him the agreed sum of duly marvellous gold coins.
“Now I shall commence.” He smiled with brow bent forward and head cocked to the side.
And so he told Brit what happened. He had been the butler at the property, but had knowingly sheltered Ghostly. What he also knew was that he worked for the Silhouette, having done some underhanded dealings for the Rokesons in the early 1820s, who had spoken of him and his network with admiration, pride and fear all at once.
Occasionally a man the servant believed to be either the Silhouette himself or a representative would appear - always the same man - the two would speak. The servant made sure to listen in on all dealings behind their backs - except when Glibby appeared and stood guard, as he was “much contented the positioning of [his] head on his shoulders, as opposed to decorating that foul creature’s cave”. They seemed to be quite familiar and laughed a lot of past escapades. While he couldn’t make out the full nature of their relationship, they had fought alongside each other on various occasions and seemed to have studied under Sangiin at the same time.
But then, about four months before the death of Ghostly, they had a heated debate. From the sound of it there had been little more than a rent dispute. However, other issues were definitely discussed, and the servant was of the strongest conviction that the Flux and Jeb were mentioned frequently. Ghostly all but threw the Silhouette down the stairs of the manor. Ghostly vanished from the grounds the next day, and the servant saw fit to take the week off on account of the stress this put him under. The next day a Divine Inquisitor appeared in the grounds with a full regiment, rounded up the servants, and executed all of them before burning the house to the ground.
The remainder of the story was the same, bar voluntarily enlisting as opposed to being conscripted, and Brit found himself quite unsatisfied.
“Who was he?”
The servant grinned. “Who?”
“The Silhouette,” Brit clasped his teeth together, already predicting that this man was going to play a merry little charade. “What did he look like? Did you get a name or allusion to his place of birth or relatives?”
He looked at Brit, smiling laxly, believing he held full power over the situation.
“That’ll cost extra.” He grinned with twisted teeth.
Brit began to rise, moving his hand towards his prized tool, when something changed. There was a restrained gasping from the main hall, and there was a crack as a table turned over on its side. You could hear the scrape of boots and the pounding of a man’s boots on the floor as they flew up, trying vainly to run whilst the torso was laid horizontal.
Neither or them even considered getting up to check. They couldn’t even breath safely. That was when a faint glow appeared through the translucent paper wall, a soft and reassuring orange perverted into a malicious bullseye. A faint black hand could be seen holding it by a stick as it was moved to the candelabra in the middle of that table.
“Sorry about the racket, that will end soon.” The hand muttered absent-mindedly, that familiar distinctness returning to Brit’s mind.
It was as a symphony that one remembered for its tone and perhaps the instruments behind it, but couldn’t remember its rhythm, meter or melody, and yet still found yourself remembering entirely as it was played.
There was a thud which drew Brit’s eyes to the other wall, a final gasp and then silence.
He looked back just as the last of the four candles was set wriggling, illuminating the Silhouette’s form entirely as he took position behind it. The bent figure then scraped a chair across the wooden floor tortuously, causing Brit to wince horrible, and placed himself down into the cushioning silk.
“Well Mr Brit, it is a pleasure to see you again.” He began with a cold gentility, clasping his hands together before him and leaning forwards.
“I can say the same.” Brit returned.
There was silence.
“You appear to have been trying to contact me.” The Silhouette attempted to drive it out in a glorious charge.
“Indeed.”
Silence took to the room again. Brit looked at the servant across from him. He shook to the point where the outline of him seemed to blur slightly. He didn’t sweat, but he was crying. It was silent and restrained, but it was prevalent. Hope had been smothered within his mind, and no being could save him.
“Well, if your colleague would step outside a moment, we could resolve this and be home quickly - well, me more than yourself. You evidently haven’t formulated a proper plan of discussion.” He scraped his chair backwards again. “From what I’ve heard you must do that for all encounters otherwise you might as well be deaf and dumb. I’m starting to believe these rumour-mongers to be true.”
Brit scowled through the paper, watching the Silhouette as both he and the servant began to slowly rise. The servant’s eyes continued to stream, but his face was totally resigned and acceptant. Brit decided it was time to test some waters.
Brit stood up, drawing a pistol and aiming it unmistakably at the Silhouette’s heart.
The bent figure stopped just as he began to straighten up and looked at Brit through invisible but obviously impassive eyes.
“I wouldn’t advise that.” He said simply.
“Why? I could kill you and plunge a vast criminal empire into civil war. Not an altogether unproductive afternoon.” The detective spouted cooly.
There was a wheezing, heave of a laugh which broke down into coughing. “You expect it to be that simple?”
“Pretty much. I have a King backing my investigation. I can essentially do whatsoever I please. Why should I fear killing you? Is Glibby out there? Or some other familiar thug? Perhaps someone new?”
“Oh no, there’s absolutely no one out there. No one you couldn’t handle. I know you won’t kill me because you know that if you strike me down it won’t do a damn bit of good. Nothing will change and you won’t have figured out how I work. Couldn’t let that weigh on you for long could we?” There was an incorporeal smile that one could tell was riddled with sadism. “I would advise you to stop investigating, but honestly you aren’t doing me much harm - so far you’ve just rooted out two traitors for me. And you’d completely ignore me too.” He turned his head slowly to the servant. “Now, will you kindly step outside?”
And as that haggard Silhouette waved his hand commandingly, and the servant walked slowly out into the main floor of the restaurant, Brit stood still. Then the choking began, and one could tell the figure was grinning, perfectly invisible as he was.
Then, after the lowest minute of Brit’s life, he stopped writhing, the Silhouette condescendingly turned his head to Brit, and extinguished the candles. He was gone, and Brit continued, fuming in total silence.
Several nights before either of these encounters, Astro stood out on the moors, in unpleasant company. As the winds caused the gentle bobbing of the sea of knee-high grass around them, the wizard took account of his company.
The principle member of their part was right in front of him, dressed in what could be described as his “usual” attire, scruffy felt and moleskin clothing, a trench coat, shirt, waistcoat and breeches. An itchy wool ascot was worn around his throat where there should’ve been a noose. His limp purple eye was unsettling as ever, not seeming to gaze at anything, but seeming instead to be watching all at once, giving a loose omniscience to it. In his hand he looked almost tenderly at a picture in his watch, tracing his finger over it. Had Astro not known the monster calling himself Hamish better, he might assume there was a loved one in there.
There were two others who should’ve been there as well. Muffin had skipped off into the grass after a half-whispered discussion which the wind had carried away from Astro. Linx had also been there at some point, leaving after a similar discussion, this one littered with laughter. Astro hadn’t seen either of them definitely, having had a silk sack fixed over his eyes, but he’d become far too acquainted with their voices over the past few weeks to mistake them for anyone else.
Beat had wanted to come, but had drunkenly slurred his way towards the horses, and before they left there was some sort of struggle, and Linx seemed to fell him. Beat, child that he was, spoke of telling Falcon of their excursion. Hamish had laughed at him, saying that he had “no care for the Falcon’s wishes in this matter”.
They rode for some hours, until eventually they came to this moor, with an unfamiliar hilltop palace in the distance. They’d disembarked from their horses, and handed them to the handling of some attendant of Hamish’s, who seemed to have had his jaw shattered one too many times.
Now, shackled still, Astro awaited some indication from Hamish as to what they were doing here, but it was growing increasingly obvious to the wizard as to where they were.
“This is Kay’s new palace, isn’t it?” The wizard asked with great trepidation that seemed to speed time mercilessly towards an unwanted conclusion.
“Yes, the Court of Righteous Protest. The Divines are calling it “The Even Falser Court”, The Whispers I hear are calling it “The Third Court”, and are contemplating a political alliance. Ryan won’t think of it though, and Kay’s little moniker for the place is just a mockery of the rumours. At least that’s what he says.” Hamish spoke in an uncharacteristically monotone manner.
“What, no psychotic rant about your being a dark reflection of Kay?”
Hamish turned to him, eyebrows cocked, and burnt half of his mouth grinning sickeningly. He snorted and shook his head, looking back at the place.
“I want you to reconsider my offer Astro.”
“I said no too many times to count Officer.” Astro snarled as he walked toward Hamish.
“Key words being too many.” Hamish smiled again.
Suddenly, a scream rang out across the moor.
“That’ll be Linx.” The half-faced man mumbled.
Then, dread filled Astro. The roof of the Gaian palace was rapidly catching fire.
“That’ll be Muffin.” Hamish turned to Astro.
He seemed to open his mouth to speak but Astro was already reaching out with his mind and hand to snap the man’s spine. Finding his magic ineffective on the Endling, he swung his chains outward. They lashed forwards, striking Hamish on the brow and releasing his blood from his veins. He fell back, clutching his crown as red stained his face.
Astro readied to swing again, but found the butt of Linx’s rifle driving the wind from him. He fell to the side, groaning. He attempted to rise but found a mud-stained boot pressed against his face.
“Not so strong when you can’t magic your way through a fight, are you Astro?” Hamish laughed, extending his free hand to Linx.
Once he stood, he reached beneath his shirt and pulled out a talisman with a glowing gem in the centre.
“Special order,” Hamish scoffed. “Dominus gave us them specifically for your capture. We can touch you as much as we damn well please.”
Linx moved his foot from the head of the wizard, leaving mud and flint across his face. Through the mistake, Astro’s head sprung up in blind fury.
“Go hang yourself!” Astro shouted out. “I’ll damn well garotte you with that trinket if you flaunt it any further!”
Linx’s foot pushed his mouth back into the muck before he could rise.
Hamish swung his boot back, but found Linx pressing a hand against his chest.
“We still need the Guild’s cooperation.” Explained the traitor. “If their leader is too damaged at the end of it all they’ll forfeit the deal pretty quickly. And who will Falcon blame for that?”
Hamish opened his free hand in concession. Instead he gestured to Linx to pull Astro up, mud smeared over both sides of his scowling face.
“Who did you get?” Hamish grinned.
“Got lucky. Cossack’s assistant, Rosa was out on a nighttime errand of some sort. I knew her back when Peter was still King. She’ll spread the horrified word to our mutual friend.”
Hamish broke down laughing and Astro resisted the urge to try and claw out the man’s eyes.
“That’s perfect.” Hamish wiped away a small tear.
Muffin burst from the grass.
“Did you see it?” He contorted his face into a smile a few miles too wide.
Hamish placed a hand on his shoulder in a brotherly manner, swaggering around him as he did so.
“You did great Muffin-man,” He half-shouted. “Couldn’t have committed a better bit of arson myself.”
The hunched sketch of a man looked at him like a puppy, twitching painfully every few seconds.
“Well Astro, you’ve seen what I’ll do just on a whim.” Hamish began confidently. “I’d advise you agree to my offer. Defy me further and I’ll do this a little more regularly.”
Astro glared at him. “What’ll that accomplish.”
“I’m going to drive Kay over the edge, finish the job, unless you agree to do this.”
“What’s the difference?” The wizard spat.
“In one eventuality Kay gets really, really angry. In the other I reduce him to a vegetable.” He smiled tranquilly. “A few more ghost sightings, a couple more arsons. Perhaps I’ll ask Falcon to send Unknown after the dead one’s friend, the thaumaturge. Convince her we could use that to our advantage. That’d really do it.”
“I’ve already told you, I’ve fulfilled my part of the bargain. I’ll get them to hand it over to Falcon as long as she agrees to-”
“You know this isn’t about Falcon, Astro. No one here cares about her beyond getting paid and causing anarchy. Why do you think I didn’t bring Unknown or Beat? This is a strictly personal deal. I want to **** off Kay, you want me not to end him whilst doing it. We have a mutual interest.”
He lifted to blood-stained hand from his forehead, and held it out before him. It was the tainted one, slightly larger than the other, with pointed fingers as opposed to rounded heads. Past the silken glove, one could see the cracked flakes of coal black skin.
Astro’s eyes shot utter contempt into him, but at the same time they were split. Did he trust him and commit this one terrible deed, betraying the trust of his friend in the process? Or did he reprove this deceiver, and allow a thorn in that same friend’s side to dig itself into his heart? Or did he chose option three and try and shatter his skull again before making a run for it? Remembering how successful option 3 had been before, he quickly discarded it in the mud, leaving him with just two horrible possibilities.
And with gaping mouth and knitted brow, Astro extended his hand, covered in muck, to the blood-red hand of his enemy. As their hands met, that of a real man and that of a thinly disguised facsimile of one, and the blood and dirt mixed across the two men’s hands, Astro shivered.
Through the thick and soft glove he felt something indescribable in its eldritch and poisonous aura. It was that feeling of being defiled, as if you must immediately cleanse yourself spiritually, physically, and mentally of all association with the font from which such corruption spouted.
And the wind seemed to slow itself a moment. And the stars seemed to brighten themselves a moment, as if widening their eyes in horror. And the pact sealed itself on the men, bound in earth and blood, the two creatures were linked. And the lambs were led one step closer to the knife. And the next morn reports from the front came back. Although it had passed, the storm was not yet done, and it was returning for one last charge, to lay claim to what remained.
Like fantasy? Like Minecraft? Check out a blend of the two here! Fall and a Rise: A Vanillacraft Tale!
Well, really sorry about this wait. Massive cock-ups on my part. Exam period, good lord. And of course school in general. However, the latest part is at last here and I'm already working on the next part. I have a clear idea of where I'm going, and am trying to push this portion of the story towards completion at last. This is it, we're nearing the end-times people.
As Kay assumes direct control of the Circle with a brand new scheme, the cracks in the paintwork begin to appear. Bokane has an epiphany about how to resolve his situation with the others, while the Brotherhood's recompense is enacted.
Part 11: Due Recompense
The room was fairly large with unconvincing floral print crawling unevenly along the walls in a vain campaign to contain the inherent shabbiness of the room. In a curving L-shape the room held two beds, in the shorter arm, opposite the door, with clearly frayed but well-polishing sheets gleaming self-consciously on the beds. They were pressed against the walls in a manner best-designed to save space, on either side of a window made too large for its purpose out of wood barely strong enough to hold the weight of the wall. Nonetheless, this disgrace of a frame had been painted in what seemed to be quite expensive cream paint in a manner so hasty as to negate any benefit it might have given to the lop-sided portal.
To return to the beds for a moment, there was a shocking contrast between the two. The one on the left was a total mess, the quilt lumping in various points within its “authentic silk” (as the landlord artfully put it) cocoon. The quilt was heavily bent halfway over as if it were a leaden sail. At the foot of the bed one could see a filthy, blunt-headed steel hammer, perching calmly against the comparatively feeble leg. The one to the right was meticulously kept, a chest laid at the end, wherein one could find the inhabitant’s clothes.
Held on the wall by a nail placed far too close to the corner was a painting that might actually have shown some wealth among the dwellers of the room, the steel-grey eyes of Gandor Baarban. His features were sunken and protuberant. He had a wide and squashed-looking head that, when taken out of context, always gave the impression of a man of a much larger girth than you would really find.
Thankfully, as this portrait portrayed his torso as well, one could see that the thick neck and hanging chin were unable to sustain themselves, giving way to an almost comically limber form. A red doublet covered with medals and tight black trousers displayed the insecurely angry body of the so-called god of the seas. He was one of those men who, if he felt he wasn’t being taken seriously, seemed to lash out and harm something in order to prove his power. Unlike his counterpart in the New Continent, he had never learned to be comfortable with his power, and didn’t seem to realise he’d ever attained it.
On the wall extending from the crux of the “L”, along the longer arm, there was a large bathing room, which, while having a highly ornate door, was where the owner had abandoned his facade and left his tenants to fend for themselves. The room was little more than a collection of chamber pots and a water pump, with draughty and shutterless windows. The walls within it were bare and wooden, and it was obscenely cold, forcing the tenants to drag in a large brazier and place it in the centre. One could still see the large crack in one of the brittle clay tiles where they have dropped the hulking metal frame at one point.
But now, at the mouth of the, as sunlight poured amidst from the haycocks and half-built windmills, three people were perched around a table. There was Abigail, the youngest of the four, radiant in all meanings. She was laughing, and talking away as she did so, and grinning endlessly. Her fiance’s hold on her feelings and actions was loosened, with a new vibrancy claiming these in his stead and transforming her into something unrecognizably familiar.
There was her brother, Cillian “Killer” Baarban. The meak little sod for whom father had no hope. He sat there, and he smiled, triumph from the trial not yet gone, clinging on to the impossibility of his circumstances as a sign of victory. He smiled a kind, small, contented smile that said all. He didn’t speak, he didn’t laugh, he just stayed perfectly and smiled along as his sister spoke of endless plans for when they returned. Of how she wished to see the lakes of Tyrissa again, as the doves sailed across them and the moon turned the lakes to cream. Of how she would embrace father, and tell him of all their tales. Of how their siblings would react to see them home. Of how the Thaumaturge would fit right in, of how Abigail’s sisters would love to meet him.
Then there was the Thaumaturge, Bokane, speaking in bitter defiance of a King and Council with whom he had no more patience. He never spoke too harshly of his ruler, conceding that he enabled their circumstances as well, but in the end couldn’t help but come back to the wondrous escape, his glorious revolution. Of how he would finally escape the oaf who had dragged him across the earth without any regard for his views on the matter, any attempt to seek his advice, or even to acknowledge his presence. And they tolerated this with grins, spirits too high to ask him to stop.
And then the Thaumaturge realised that he had other engagements, some task given to him by his traitorous comrades to consume his time. And he left, feeling as if he had removed a great burden from his consciousness. As if somehow, by mouthing off about his problems, they had become something less, and that he had unfairly judged them. What had moments before been a strong conviction was now an embarrassing outburst, a flight of fancy, a fit of passion.
After a guilty walk down the hall, he poked his head through the door once more, affirming that he really did love them all. He affirmed for a further ten minutes how they were in truth his brothers, his family, and that despite the fighting they had done unto him more good than evil. He determined that his issues stemmed from his real brothers, whom he did in fact hate with a good deal of passion, and that their mockery had made him into the “bitter little arsehole” he professed to be. He resolved to make amends, and affirm to his brothers that while he would be leaving, he was also going to earn his right to retire, and pledge himself to all duties a thaumaturge could perform.
With that he vanished, and the Baarbans sat in silence for a good while, just smiling at each other, ruminating on their colleague.
There was a roar, a shattering sound and the door came down. There was roaring and screaming, and the room flooded with men in the armour of the Realm burst in, maces in hand. At their head charged the battered bull, one-eyed but still unstoppable, the great splitter of the wind clenched within his grip, swinging with force enough to cut open the earth itself.
The battle was short, bloody and memorable. Abby had dived for her hammer and within a few seconds three men found their skulls to be quite opened. She retreated onto her bed, ready to hold out against any man who came for her. Then a crack had sounded from behind the mass, and she was struck somewhere in the stomach. Next, she convulsed, she bled and she crumpled onto her unmade bed.
Killian however, he proved himself better than any man could have predicted that day. Not his sister, not his friends, not even his all-knowing father could have foreseen the sheer stubbornness he showed that day. He drew a saber and fell in right after his sister. He stood over the corpse of his sister, sword in hand, slashing furiously at any creature that came close, crying bloody murder at anyone who came too close.
And finally, after the bodies piled up significantly, the bull decided enough had been done. With a single downward swoop the blade of Killian was cleaved in two, and the bar at the end of the bed with it, throwing him on to his front on the ground. A second swipe took the eldest Baarban son from this world without dignity, honour or proper respect. But he had stood furiously, staring down the Bull, his shattered sword in hand, and accepted death reluctantly but without complaint. He could have begged, or tried to make some grand speech, but he chose the path of true stoicism, and in the eyes of the banker that was the virtuous path.
As they bled out on the ground, the banker timidly inched forward among his pack of murderers and criminals, eyes empty as they surveyed the scene. From his hand dropped a large object of wood and metal, with a barrel still burning to the touch, which thudded on the floor tremendously. He just walked passed the brother, throwing a flower onto his body as he advanced. For him the true horror lay on the bed. His victim, lay without motion in her bed. Her eyes, mercifully, had closed. The mattress beneath her was already saturated with red, and the plumes of crimson continued to billow outwards. The banker sniffed, blinked twice, and then reached gently for the folded quilt, and dragged it out over his former comrade.
He murmured something to the Bull about being done there, and his people filed out. He stood there alone for a good few minutes, observing his work. Cossack pressed his palm against his forehead as if wishing to crush it, cursed an awful lot, and then marched out, planting the banner of the realm in the floor as he did so. Then there was the clatter of hooves, and they were gone.
“So I’m just feeling, I shouldn’t have been so hard on him, you know?” Bokane rambled to Small, who honestly wanted to hang himself.
It was like this every few weeks normally, and in more recent times the intervals were becoming fewer and farther between. Bokane would feel underappreciated, or meet a challenge, and he select a target for his ire, often Kay, Aaron, Cossack or, up until recently Astro (generally on the grounds of him being a “pompous **** who doesn’t know anything about real magic”). Then, he would blow up in their faces, the thaumaturge would be incredibly tense for a few hours, maybe days, during which he’d ***** about his opponents incessantly.
Small could live with such an interminable verbal conquest of the shadows behind other, arguably better men (at least in the cases of Aaron and Astro, or on a rare occasion, Secret), if it weren’t such a temporary and utterly self-indulgent waste of time. He would always hit someimpassable bedrock with his criticisms, and backpedal to exactly where he was before, as if bound by some mighty leash. Although, if he was furious with Cossack, the best he would do is dismiss the man as the least of his problems. Small had only held this office of confidence for a few brief months, since the early departure of Mini, and already it had frayed his previously loose nerves into mangled parodies of their former selves. Bokane had been speaking for just five minutes, and Small was already mourning all the paintings he could have been working on.
They were in some inn, not too far from the Gaian palace, just a quick jaunt down the hill from the Court’s gates. Bokane was accustomed to walking down on foot, strolling through the hillocks and going around the outside of the village, before entering the tavern through a lesser-known side door. It was much better for him when he was in ill spirits to subvert the eyes of the soldiers in the tavern.
In particular he was eager to avoid the eyes of the equally dour Bird Brain, whom he had branded “a massive sourpuss”, with not a hint of ire. For, while Bokane made his ire no secret, the Mojangite exile saw something of a kindred spirit in him and found himself strangely drawn to the Thaumaturge. He would approach him and try to converse about his situation, and would be faced with a stone wall from the Thaum for more reasons than personal incompatibility. On a lucky day Bone would be on hand to salvage him and prevent a dispute. While a full-blown argument hadn’t yet broken out yet, they had traded insults briefly and Small half-believed the pair quite enjoyed it.
“Do you understand what I’m saying?” Bokane posed to Small, who was enraptured by these observations in the same way you might observe a crack in paintwork you hadn’t seen before, or the slight bit of dirt around the rim of a doorknob.
“Yes, quite.” Small responded correctly.
“I know, I was such a fool. I mean, I’m still leaving, no doubt about that. But I need to damn well earn it. In fact, I’ll rotate my location every six months. Through Winter I shall remain here, through Summer I shall be with her.”
“Do you really believe you can woo her?” Small asked, with an expression showing nothing but the purest agony. “She’s just lost her fiance on many levels. And Rosa would have us believe she hasn’t as totally recovered from this as we thought.”
“Time will heal those wounds.” Bokane waved his hand nonchalantly. “I know how to wait. Got a two-year plan all worked out.”
Small stifled a laughing fit with a mercifully timed sneeze.
“A two year plan?” He struggled to smother incredulity and hilarity before they awoke.
“Precisely.” Bokane said, with total confidence and glowing complexion. “Anyway, tell you all about it later. I’d best be off. Got to go apologise to Kay and the others, set about regaining their respect.”
He flashed a grin and uncharacteristically made his way out of the front door, bumping into Key and Walt on the way through. He jovially greeted them before pressing on through and striding back across the moors towards the ever-growing palace.
With an amused but honestly rather weary look the two rounded on Small, Walt nodded, and the assassin pulled two stools out for them.
“So, I take it he’s gotten this silly notion about going to Tyrissa with Abby out of his head?” Key smiled hopelessly, stopping before his stool.
“If only. He’s just making it more complicated.” Small sighed, the bartender approached, Rory was his name, and Small cut him off before he could speak. “Hello Rory, what’ll we have lads?”
“Mulled wine.” Key answered instinctively.
“Lodyan Rye.” Walt responded, with a knowing look to Rory.
“I’ll get that for you now sir. It’s just in the back.” The bartender nodded as he walked through a door to his stores.
“Take your time.” Key then muttered in a lower tone. “Cossack’s calling a meeting of the Circle.”
“Notch on high, we’re not actually calling ourselves that are we?” Small groaned as the other bartenders began to give them a wide berth.
“Sadly the name’s stuck,” Walt added. “I don’t like it any more than you do, but I doubt any of us will like what we’re about to see… I know he was your friend Key, but he’s dropped us in a whole load of-”
“I’m sure he had his reasons. They were stupid reasons, but I won’t have his memory totally defiled.” Key raised a hand and Walt stopped, bobbed his head in dejected understanding before turning his face away.
“Any idea what it’s about?”
“You take a guess.” Walt grumbled.
“The Brotherhood wants recompense?”
“We don’t know what it is yet, they made an offer to Kay and Cossack and I doubt we’ll like it.”
“Calm down Walt,” Key interjected in a fed-up manner. “Kay’ll leave us be. We’re too prominent to harm. Plus, I don’t think he has the heart. He’s doing this for us after all. He swore to keep us safe under the Treaty, and I trust that he’s a man of his word.”
“He promised to protect you under the Treaty Key. He only agreed to buy my bread under that.” The businessman nervously persisted.
“Enough of this, we’ll see what Kay has to say.” Small grunted, before turning his head and calling out, “Rory, what’s taking so long?”
The bartender then dutifully came out with all of the alcohol promised.
Key raised a glass. “We will remain.”
The two smiled and all three started to drink. Then, wiping their mouths of the residue, they turned to the door and swaggered out with a reluctant bravado.
The hood was removed from Astro’s face and he glared around with total contempt, cocking his head back as if in an attempt to breath above the toxic aura of those he expected to see around him. But then, his brow knitted, and he regarded the face before him closer.
“Starletts?” He inquired, half excited by this, half concerned. “That you?”
The man was a husk of his former self, bent slightly forward, hair wilting. His face hadn’t been shaved in several weeks, and evidently his last attempt at shaving had been uneven and careless, for the beard grew in bizarre spines and tufts of varying lengths. Unrecognisable from the proud King of the Ghosts, whose smile had projected a cool confidence as well as a deep-rooted interest in everything you were about to say. Now his face tried to project that at times, but it was like an image occasionally shown jarringly through a broken mirror. You almost weren’t supposed to see it.
“It is.” Starletts hoarsely responded, throwing the hood to the floor.
“Well,” Astro started, unsure as to how much the man knew and what mental state he was in. “I must say it’s wonderful to see you again, how have you been recently-”
“Oh cut the rubbish Astro.” Starletts took the sentence and broke it over his knee. “I want to know about the Overlord.”
Astro furrowed his brow, but at the same time he saw an opportunity. He could win an ally here, someone he could use to fight back. He couldn’t deal with the Falcon until after the deal, but perhaps Starletts could be used to deal with Hamish or one of his little circle? Boy, getting Linx would be cathartic. Perhaps the Falcon’s footman, Unknown? Any way to weaken them before the time came. Ray very much couldn’t be counted on until she was back in their hands, and Mo wouldn’t risk severing the deal. Although, at the same time he had no clue how Starletts would react to the story of the Overlord. Flipping once more, Joe questioned what good Starletts had ever done for him, remembered that he was one of Ray’s closest mates and decided that anything that gave the Lord Mayor a headache was good for him.
It was thanks to Ray that he was still trapped there, not trusting Astro’s desire for her return enough, fearing that Astro and the Guild would reunite and flee.
“What do you know so far?” Astro sighed.
“I know that I - he is a character that Ray designed in the eventuality that they had to fight Void. Essentially a doomsday scenario.” He began, tears silently glistening and sticking in the corner of his eyes. “I know that he rebelled against Void with the aid of the Falcon and Ray, masquerading as Williams. I know that he fancied himself a glorious revolutionary, destined to be Qustom’s true successor. Spouted the same “people’s cause” tripe Dominus is always coming out with these days. Then he was defeated at the city of Aegis, and held in the cells of Mojang for several weeks, feigning insanity, before breaking loose during the attempted coup by dear young Kay. He must have escaped around the same time I did.”
He paused and regarded Astro, who gave him nothing but fearful hostility as he sat on the floor, wrists clamped together by hulking chains.
“What do you want to know? Seems you have it all worked out.” He scanned Starletts, now fearing some unseen torture device.
“Who was he? What was he like? What did he do?”
Astro’s guard fell slightly, realising that this was just a man seeking his own identity, trying to recover several lost months and the events within them. He nodded.
“All I know comes from second hand sources and a brief visit to his cell in Mojang. He was proud and angry, feeling a genuine sense of being wronged which he refused to question too long. One could say that an entitlement issue stemmed from this. He was remorseless in his outlook, feeling that all was done for the greater good. He was also arguably pragmatic. He hated being confused with his original self. I actually believe he’s genuinely mad in this respect, none of that rambling “time” nonsense.
“As for his crimes; he burned the tree of Gaia; sacked the Realm; murdered several moderators before the entire Craft, Ludio among them, and crippled Celtic; destroyed the Council of Lords; rallied the Noobian tribes at his back and fully intended to use a gauntlet and magical suit of armour to become a god.”
He delivered these words as dryly as possible, purposefully omitting the last question.
“Who was he?” Starletts asked, unsatisfied totally. “I know you’re aware, so is everyone inside and outside this damned hovel! I have guessed who it is! It’s not that subtle!”
“Then who was it?” Astro asked, with a slight sneer.
“I want you to damned well tell me.”
“And you said you’d guessed, who is the Overlord Star?”
“This is pointless.” Starletts shook his head.
“I only want to see how close you are. If you’re right I’ll tell you. Who is the Overlord?”
“I am the bloody Overlord!” He roared, and then fell panting.
“Yes, yes you are.” Astro confirmed with grave sincerity.
Starletts looked at Astro, fury in his eyes quickly cooling to sadness, and then he broke down into tortuous laughter.
“You know Astro,” He guffawed, “I wouldn’t give a damn. I really wouldn’t. If I had been off on some genocidal crusade, and I had no memory of it or control over it, I wouldn’t care. It’s not my problem. It was another man who did that. What bothers me is that I remember it all. Not fully, barely in a coherent manner, but that which remained bounced about up there in far too detailed a manner. It’s killed my wish to kill weirdly enough. And what is worst is that I’m going to have to kill again.”
Astro cocked an eyebrow, “Who?”
Starletts scowled deeper and sat down against the wall beside Astro, scraping down the wall with a threatening delicacy. It was as if he were a clay pot about to shatter in your face. He snarled in a low manner. He pulled a flask from his pocket that had stains creeping down from the mouth in plans to take the entire surface, and lifted it clumsily to his mouth, seemingly wrenching his head backwards as he drank. He then lowered his head again, and wiped a small, nagging dribble from the corner of his mouth, breathing as if his lungs were of lead.
After a pause that lasted far too long, Astro attempted to question him again, “Who would you kill?”
“Well, therein lies my question. Who decided it was wise to use the Overlord instead of myself? Who decided to betray me first? I could forgive Ray if the Falcon was going to try and pull this off without him, I’d be a necessary sacrifice then. I wouldn’t like it but I wouldn’t blame him that much. Also, more immediately, what ****er decided it was wise to have me embargoed from all information? On top of all this there’s you and Ray’s little conspiracy against the Falcon. I might well have to kill a lot of people.” Starletts blazed grandiosely, some pride returning to him, but whether it was that of the Ghost’s leader or that of the Overlord was unclear.
They sat in silence again. Astro turned his head to the Calaian slowly, opening his mouth slowly to speak. However, the Ghost didn’t see this and began to speak before the wizard, causing him to turn away again in an irritable manner.
“I’m sorry Astro, I’m in awful spirits recently.”
“I can tell.”
“Listen, I know I can trust you, and you can trust me. You’ve been a good friend to Ray and myself over these long years.” He placed his hand on Astro’s shoulder and offered him the flask, which Astro greedily grabbed and swallowed.
He panted a few moments, air forced from his lungs in his long guzzling. “Thank you. I appreciate that. Haven’t had a good drink in days.”
“Glad I can provide it. But Astro, what do you know, can you answer any of my questions?” Starletts sounded genuinely sincere.
The fury had become transparent, revealing the confused and desperate nature beneath.
Astro nodded, “I can answer your last question. But you must promise to do something for me.” Starletts readied to raise an impetuous complaint but the wizard cut across him. “I want you to kill Linx, then I’ll explain who the one who ordered you to be kept out of the loop is. I’m not going to lie to you in order to get you to murder more than one person Starletts. As it is, you’ve been manipulated enough, surely the promise of true information is better than misinformation.”
Starletts swayed indecisively. “Well, I suppose it’s a slight step up, but I don’t know why you can’t just tell me now.”
“Listen, I wish I could be more forthright with this information.” Astro explained, assuming a superior ground and talking down to Starletts. “But I need these people dead, the timing is opportune as Linx just revealed himself to the Gaians, and we could pin it on them. The other kill would be significant but we’d need to get rid of one of the underlings first. It’s as much a matter of your own safety. I wouldn’t want you going after them without sufficiently weakening them. Surely you understand?”
“Yes.” Starletts nodded, pretending to follow in a manner which convinced him that it made sense. “Yes I think I do. How would you propose to do this?”
“Tell Falcon and Ray that I told you who you are, they’ll capitulate on the information front and let you out again. Then, gain Linx’s friendship, take him out to a bar, or out hunting, or on a long stroll, and then get him killed. Preferably find a Gaian you can reveal him to and don’t get your hands dirtied. If necessary, help them along and put a knife in his back or smother him in his sleep. As long as he dies in a manner you wherein you aren’t culpable, I don’t care what means are used.” Astro struggled to suppress the passion he felt for this subject.
“Why not someone like Muffin?” Starletts asked confusedly, with embers of defiance glittering amidst the soot.
“Well, how much do you want to survive?” Astro dryly responded.
“Point taken.”
“Then will you do me this favour, old friend?”
Astro made to extend to him a single hand, but then realised both were clamped together. He as such, paused mid-movement, and awkwardly bent his hand towards Starletts, and the pair’s eyes met. Then the Ghost’s mouth began to quiver, then so did the wizard’s. Then one bent forward, and the other back, and the duo began to laugh heartily. And with that their pact was sealed.
I sat in the bar with a whip of liquorice held aimlessly in my teeth, rolling my tongue around it. The bitterness gave me focus, made me alert. I needed that. This was to be the start of true redemption. I would end the Brotherhood and then the war in a single purge on a single night. It all made sense. I just needed the aid of three men, three solitary individuals and nothing in the Plane of Sanity could stop me.
Cossack stood beside me, brow furrowed as we poured over the documents that would make us gods. He stroked his chin in a way that was absent-minded but also somehow purposeful, simultaneously showing detachment and total involvement. In his hand he held a glass of whisky, which was deadly still.
Then, there was the dull thud on the door, and Cossack called up for them to come in. Down spilled into the room with urgency never before seen. They were like a pack of wild horses as they soared down the stairs, not knowing what they would face. Walt, Key and Small, all with very dour looks on their faces. I graciously greeted them, embracing them strongly.
And then, behind them, in a more languid style, Gracey slid down the stairs on the bannister, staggering slightly as he landed, evidently still recovering from whatever he’d been up to the previous night. He shot a snide grin when he saw the distressed looks of the group meeting him. It was at times such as these where even I would struggle to justify his behaviour. He’d been through alot, and he had a good touch for assassination and violence, but no one could honestly say he was at all tolerable. Only Brit could somehow withstand him. Nonetheless, he too received my customary greeting, even though touching him sent my spine a quiver.
“Well gentlemen,” I began, my manner shiftly to be much more serious. “Tejmin stabbed Tauto Chrone, claimed I instructed him to do so, then got himself killed. He was a bloody idiot and has gotten us into a load of trouble, but after this meeting he is a saint cut down in his stride by the devilish Realm of Seven Kingdoms. He was our friend, and deserves a proper send-off. Is that understood?” I paused, half-glaring along the crowd.
Walt nodded but then scratched his neck vigorously, trying to whittle himself out of existence and by connection that meeting. Key nodded with that appreciative wisdom he seemed to possess from time to time, smiling slightly. Gracey was still glaring at the floor, somehow believing it responsible for his splitting headache, muttering a profanity-laden confirmation. Small was the only one totally impassive in his agreement.
“We are met with a difficult situation. The Brotherhood have killed Abby, and three other officers, and are threatening to go public if we try to retaliate. The question is whether or not we continue the plot. Because we have a good plan, a strong plan. This plan could damn well end the war and the Brotherhood in a single swoop. And of course, continuing it would be a great early birthday gift.” I smiled at this one and there was some uncomfortable laughter from Cossack and Walt.
Speaking of Cossack, he stepped forward and said in his supercilious manner, “I move that we continue with the plan.”
Gracey smiled and stepped forward, “I concur.”
Small seemed to be about to reciprocate, but Walt cut across him. “I would like to know what we’re agreeing to first. The Brotherhood ought to face justice, but we need to know that the plan we’re choosing isn’t as vulnerable to failure as the last one.”
This irritated me on many levels, and I shot Walt a momentarily withering look, that unnerved him greatly. “The plot won’t be as vulnerable to failure because there is much more on the line. That, and I will be overseeing this one personally. I value myself as much more subtle than Cossack, as does he. I should have done this to begin with, and perhaps I would’ve caught on to Tejmin’s weaknesses earlier, perhaps I wouldn’t have. However, the big issue was that the plan we used was inherently too blunt, something that was my responsibility as much as yours. As such,” I swallowed. “You have my deepest apologies for this situation.”
Walt nodded in an unsatisfied manner and stepped back, allowing Small and Key to vote in favour. Walt said nothing of his vote. Instead, he just allowed the illusion of unanimity to continue, and the others seemed to believe it. I however, didn’t. “We’re going to have to do something about him soon.” Thought I. “He’s going to become problematic.”
With the motion passed I determined to elaborate slightly. “The full details of the plan are not yet finalised. Before they can be, we need assurances. This operation is going to be fully legitimised, and, as I said, has a chance to end the war or at least make it much easier. Three men are needed by and large. One of them isn’t even totally necessary, but would be bloody useful to have.”
There were murmurs of consent, and a general desire for me to continue. Small nodded slowly before inquiring as to their identities.
“The first man is Ryan. As I said, totally legitimising this. Then, there is Patriarch Isidore. We’re going to convince him that I’m Peter’s ******* child, as the old king always believed. And no, it’s not quite what you’re thinking. Just trust me there, I’ll elaborate once it’s confirmed. As for the third.” I looked to Small and Gracey respectively. “Cossack, I leave this one to you. Your manner will be much more suited.”
Cossack spectacularly failed to disappoint.
With total, taciturn bluntness and no hesitation, he rose and explained the situation, “Small, Gracey, your job is to go to Aaron, get permission to take some of his men, and then to travel across the Fields to Dominus’ camp. Whilst there, you are to kidnap Lord Xephos and steal as many of his scripts and actors as you can. If you can figure out how, steal his entire theatre company, but if not, the bare minimum is Xephos himself.”
There was a solid ten seconds of silence before everyone broke down into laughter. Small was the first to recover, wiping his eyes.
“Just wondering, how serious was that instruction?” He earnestly asked, with a look of lustful ambition entering his eyes.
“Totally.” Cossack and I responded jointly, before laughing silently and looking at each other in a bemused manner.
“Well Gracey,” Small began, ruffling his hair and bending his brow slightly over his eyes. “We’ve got the kidnapping of the decade to plan.”
He gripped the wrist of the swaying skeleton and dragged him up the stairs, his accomplice four paces behind him all the way, swinging his legs wildly to keep up.
I smiled after the artist, before turning to the others.
“Key, I want you to organise a group of people for rapid action. A group of off-the-records thugs with no accountability. Anyone speaks ill of Jeb, Notch or the True Court, they beat the **** out of them. We’re creating the image of a nation that would never be disloyal to the Divines, and only wants the best for the True Court. All will be clear very soon.” I grinned in a wide river. “Walt, I don’t really have anything for you to do yet. Could you hang around the atrium and make sure that Isidore is well-received? Thanks.”
Naturally I had just assumed Walt had nodded and then returned to excitedly rummaging through the schematics and checklists. However, he hadn’t. Instead he stared at my back with the uncertainty of a man who had just found a narrow mountain path where there had just moments before been a wide, open road. Then, after a long pause, he leaned back from the metaphorical edge and walked up the stairs in an unsettled manner. I felt free to speak at last.
“This is the best plan I’ve ever had.” I giddily chortled.
“I can say it’s definitely the most ambitious. Bear in mind the risks. And don’t trust Waltham. ******* named a town after himself. That’s testament enough to his vanity, but now it seems he’s having second thoughts. And believe me, when a vain man gets scared loyalty dies.”
“So, you saw it too.” I sighed, falling slightly from heaven. “He owes me a lot, I thought that would count for something. You know, making him rich and powerful?”
“Problem is that he’s now afraid of losing that wealth and power. And in his eyes you’ve just failed to come through on an investment. A frightened businessman is one of the most unpredictably, spectacularly stupid creatures you will ever find.”
“Any other self-invented idioms?” I dryly poked.
“Tonnes.” He rolled forward proudly as he said this. “Anyway, Halberdson wants to speak to you at four. We’d best get ready to leave if we’re going to cram in a visit to Ryan before then.”
“You’re right Cossack, I’ll go and get my regalia after I finish this whip of liquorice. Can’t have the other leaders believe their figurehead genuinely likes to dress like a normal human being. That would be insane.”
Cossack laughed, waved me off and plodded up the stairs.
Then another set of footsteps came pounding down the stairs. I raised my head nervously, moving my hand to Amicus’ hilt. Then I saw Bokane poke his sandy head out from behind the doorframe, smiling widely. My hand remained close to the hilt. Then, I realised, he probably didn’t know. My face fell.
“Bokane…” I greeted, trying to support a false smile.
“Kay, I am so sorry about that tantrum I threw a few nights ago. I was totally in the wrong.” He began, an unstoppable energy carrying him from word to word, like a child describing a playdate with their friend. “I will be staying afterwards. Well, half the year, you see. Half the year in Gaia, carrying out duties here and helping with whatever you want. The other half I’ll spend in Tyrissa with Abby. It’ll be perfect.” He beamed widely, extending his arms excitedly.
Then he saw my face, the sheer misery that stretched taught my features, and his smile became uneasy, doubt eating it from within. It was, to be crude, the biggest kick up the **** I’d ever received. I’d ordered that hit. I could’ve done something to stop it. I had betrayed everything I had held dear. How could I tell him what I’d done… No, I can’t. This plan will avenge her a thousand times over. This is their fault. They did this. There was opportunity here too. No, not the time to think of that. I had to tell him.
“Bokane.” I began. “She’s dead.”
His smile faded totally. He staggered, and looked as if about to fall. I rushed forward to grab him, but he stabilised himself on the wall, turning slowly away from me. He raised the edge of his hand to his eye and brushed away unseen tears. I heard a low sobbing, as he hobbled forward woefully. His joints were stiff, but the rest of him seemed limp. It was as if a corpse were marching forward.
Then, the glass-like silence was destroyed, as he slammed his fist into a vase, sending bits of it flying everywhere. Then, like the clay shards, the fragments of broken silence seemed to bite into him, and he roared an inhuman roar. He swept the remaining items on the shelf before him onto the floor. He spun around and upturned the nearest table, and I winced as a large glass tray exploded.
I tried to approach him as he continued to storm, like a baited bear. He saw a large cabinet of wine bottles and marched towards it, as I jogged to keep up with him, attempting to get his attention.
Then, he whipped from his sleeve his wand, and, forgetting he’d left his satchel elsewhere, attempted to whip it again. Remembering this fact, he let out a string of curses at whichever party was responsible, and I felt them latch on to me, and attempt to hang me then and there. He then roared again and threw the wand through the glass cabinet door and shattered several rather expensive vintages, before his fire burnt out and he collapsed against the wall again.
His eyes were bloodshot from tears, and his features almost smeared by them. His fringe was now dirty and bloodied, held in his right hand. From between the knuckles on this hand oozed blood, freed by the vase, running wherever it pleased. He was in an awful condition. And then, suddenly, his eyes rolled back into his head, and from his nose blood began to flow eagerly. I, having stooped over him just a moment ago, was now running up the stairs, screaming for some sort of doctor, or physician, or wisewoman with a home remedy. Someone to end it.
I broke out into the hallway, babbling for such a healer, and Aaron ran up to me, brows knitted and eyes furious with purpose.
“What’s happening?” Asked he, as he grabbed me from behind and spun me around.
“Bokane’s having a fit.” I cried.
This shocked him into action, and in a moment he, myself and Walt were dragging the bleeding mage onto a sofa, staining ourselves crimson. A healer came rushing down the stairs, already mixing all-purpose herbs in his hands. Then, he actually saw his patient, and began brewing some mystical tea, demanding quiet, and banishing us from the bar.
We stood outside for a solid hour until Cossack fetched me to get into my regalia. I remember Aaron and Walt standing outside the gaping doorway down to the bar. Aaron was kicking the ground inanely from his perch on a table. Walt paced nervously back and forth before the entrance, appointing himself sentry of his friend. Key looked on from a velvety sofa, chin buried in his hands, and brows turned to a single wall of iron.
And, after getting appropriately dressed in the long, flowing green robes, the emerald-coated crown of Peter, and holding the black sceptre of House Solvoleur in my hand, I descended the stairs once more to find the room strangely evacuated. I looked around quizzically for a moment, a pack of six guards at my back, Cossack faithfully stood at my side with a document case dutifully fixed underarm like a rifle. Then, I smiled hopefully, requested that they remain where they were, and then rushed down the stairs.
Stood around Bokane were the three, all respectfully perched at a different point of the compass, leaving room for me to enter on what I knew from local geography was the Southern point. Wasn’t that amusing. I’d tried half my life to escape the bloody South and yet here I was, its figurehead. Great.
Bokane was lying on the sofa, still livid with fury. Blood no longer ran from his nose, and it had been washed from his faced. However, it seemed to have stained his skin, leaving a subtle outline which, while invisible, was somehow inescapable. You couldn’t help but imagine the crimson river still there, despite how shortly it had occupied his visage.
But the worst aspect was the look of utter despair on his face. No pit of despair was deeper than the one which had burrowed into him. His eyes were shattered into islands of yellow and off-white around his deep blue irises. His bottom lip hung low down, bending backwards to reveal empty blackness.
Aaron looked to me concernedly, and we shared a brief look. He nodded and gestured to the others to clear off. They filed back up the stairs, and I walked up to Bokane and sat at the foot of his sofa.
I placed a hand on his knee and sighed, looking morosely at the floor.
“Bokane,” I began in a low tone, “I am about to tell you who killed them.” He stirred, drawing up for war, but I cut across him. “But, I need you to promise not to go on a crazy revenge campaign. We’ve got a perfect chance for revenge. To go after them now would let them get away with it. Now, will you keep mum? And more importantly, will you help us avenge them?”
He stared at me for a solid five seconds with a growing sense of repressed, directionless fury. “Good.” Thought I. “We can use that.” Then, he nodded in a stiff manner that mirrored a rusted hinge.
“That’s good to hear,” continued I in my low voice, “The official story is that the Realm sent a raiding party after Abby as a message to Gandor Baarban. The truth is that this same group attacked Tauto Chrone and a group of Brotherhood Initiates outside Ryan’s banquet, and were slaughtered. However, during this attack, Tejmin, who had challenged Chrone to a duel of some sort, rushed up and stabbed the good Chaplain. This would be fine with me, if for one he had’ve succeeded in killing the *******, but even more so if he hadn’t said I sent him to do it.” I cursed, putting on a show of disgust that was only half-fake.
Bokane nodded.
“The Brotherhood took this as confirmation that I was responsible, sent a list of ridiculous demand that we start… executing officers to make up for the loss of five Brotherhood Initiates. I flatly refused of course, rightfully denying any responsibility and sending condolences. They ignored us, and went for the easy prey, Killian and Abigail.” I wiped a tear from my eye, choking back venom. “And now they consider us on even terms.”
Bokane looked at me with even greater fury, but it was directed away from me, leaving only a dull warmth on my cheeks. I for one felt empty inside. I wasn’t technically lying to him, but it felt ungodly twisted. However, I was plucked from nothingness as the Thaumaturge spoke in a shaky and quivering voice.
“How may I help?”
“I just need you, once you’re feeling a little better, to fix up an old trinket of Peter’s grandfather’s. Preferably before Isidore leaves. You remember him talking about it, don’t you? The Shift?”
Bokane lowered his eyebrows and curled his lip in curiosity. “You’re going balls out, aren’t you?”
I nodded solemnly.
“Good. You can count on my service.”
I smiled. “I’ll consider this an early birthday present.” I rubbed his knee gently. “Rest up, then talk to Walt about an hour from now. He’ll explain what I need.”
I then stood up and left, smiling coldly the whole time, ready to consecrate this marriage of villainy.
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