Previous Chapter: Making a Deal
Illusions and the Disillusioned
Beaune was a hot, humid land, and Silas Amaro found himself loathing every step. Moisture slid off his face and stained the collar of his tunic; beneath his arms, dark patterns had formed, sending sweat trickling down his sides. He was used to the temperate climate of Capetia and its ocean breezes. This land, with its thick vegetation and blazing sun, seemed designed to drain a man of all the water in his body. The locals, he noticed, didn’t seem to mind. They labored through the heat of the day, picking peaches in orchards, stacking straw in barns, leaning on porches with ruddy, sun-stained faces. He could tell that Firenze was miserable beneath his ridiculous wide-brimmed hat. The Medjay too, must have been even more uncomfortable beneath their plated armor, but they marched on without complaint. They likely feel nothing he thought. They could go weeks without water, according to myth, though he had never witnessed this feat. When commanded to drink, they drank, same as any other man. When the burden of thought is removed, man can do great things. He smiled at his own witticism, thinking it characteristic of Dazbog, who was riding behind him. The old necromancer had insisted on being taken with them, despite Firenze’s protestations, and although Silas didn’t trust Dazbog, he believed that the most prudent decision was to keep the ruined wizard happy, for the time being, at least. It could not be denied that he had aided their search for Cassilda and the Heart, but the Amaro now knew it had been a grave error bringing the necromancer with them, for he was more powerful than he had realized and far more dangerous. When we are in the castle, I will have the Medjay murder him in his sleep. Battlemages that tossed fireballs and lightning were one thing, but necromancers that could alter perception to the degree where reality was indistinguishable from fantasy created problems that could not be solved with a sharp edge of a sword. At least, not a sword he’ll see coming.
Moselle certainly hadn’t seen it coming. He had let the Medjay loose, ordering them simply to not hold back, and they had borne down upon the village with torches in one hand and their spears in the other. They supply depot was destroyed, along with all of those who did not flee or were not quick enough to escape, the Rheinelanders murdered and left impaled upon pikes for all to see. Not a single man was lost during the conflict, for no one put up much of a fight. The sudden brutality of the raid had shaken Silas out of his sea-stupor and given him a thirst for results. The long quest, it seemed, was nearing its end, and blood must be spilled to answer for the crimes committed, and he and his men were more than up to the task.
What will you do once you have the Heart? The journey back was long, and he would have to explain his absence. Although it was unlikely that the High Priest had disclosed anything to the Duke, Capetia was hundreds of miles away, and news traveled slowly. Contingencies must be planned for, lest he be caught in an unexplainable situation. He would think of something—his talent to create believable fiction was immense—and he had some leeway with the Duke. I will spin the recovery of the Heart into a litany of titles and a more leisurely existence. After all, he had done something similar with the killing of Imul, turning blackmail and a murder into a heroic defense of his sovereign. There was no shame in self-promotion; the truth was malleable and waiting to be used to one’s advantage. Those who understood these facts of life profited, while those who clung to notions of honor fell by the wayside. He had been aware of this since he was a child cleaning tankards and living on the streets.
A movement on his left caught his eye. Something whistled past his face and sunk into a tree. Voices shouted from the tree line and more arrows filled the air. One lodged itself into the breast of a Medjay warrior, who paused and broke off the tail, raising his shield. Silas moved his horse behind the warriors, who had formed a defensive line towards their attackers, their shields locked together as a solid wall. Silas saw several archers taking cover behind trees in the forest, popping out to take shots. We can’t move into the woods without breaking formation and thus losing our strength. Further down the road, soldiers were marching, beating swords against almond-shaped shields. They are trying to flank us. He shouted for the line to move backwards towards a large barn behind them. If they could reach it before the soldiers in front of them charged, then they could pivot and meet them without exposing too much of their right flank to projectile fire. Silas’s horse bucked; it was not a war horse and the smell of blood and the commotion had it spooked. He grasped the reins tightly and steered it backwards as the Medjay moved methodically, arrows clanking off their tall, heavy shields. The soldiers were running now, screaming to rattle the Capetians. Little good that will do thought Silas, who had drawn his zweihander from across his shoulder, letting the long, heavy sword rest against his leg. Sensing that they would not reach the barn, he dismounted and grasped his weapon with both hands. The Medjay’s formation twisted into a right angle as half of them turned to meet rushing soldiers. The attackers veered outward to try and flank the formation, but they were surprised as the Medjay leaped a great distance forward and managed to thrust their spears into the first few attackers. Two dodged past their initial thrust and came at Silas. They were big men, clad in red and gold, and they came at him like big men, throwing their girth in straight lines like bulls bowing horned heads. The zweihander cut through the air faster than a five-pound blade should, propelled by Silas’s considerable strength. The tip cut through the jerkin of the first man, slashing his chest deeply; Silas reversed the swing and caught the second soldier’s neck, slicing his throat. The first man pressed on, stumbling at him, somehow managing to stab Silas in the foot. He brought down a heavy hand onto the man’s head, driving him into the earth. Removing a knife from his belt, he sunk it into the soldier’s back and stepped away. He saw a Medjay lying in the grass, seven arrows emerging from his fallen body. The Rheinelanders were retreating after their first charge; half of their force lay dead before the Medjay, still holding their formation. Silas cleaned the blood from his sword and strapped it across his shoulder. He saw his horse behind the barn, grazing peacefully as though the battle from which it had bolted ceased to exist. The surface of his right boot was crimson with his own blood. Goddamn animal he thought, limping after the horse.
In the barn he discovered Dazbog. The necromancer was watching the Rheinelanders flee through a gap in the siding while sitting on a pile of hay, fingering his beard. The sight of the wizard hiding from battle boiled his blood; what use was his magic if he fled from a mere skirmish?
“I would think that fearsome necromancers would not seek refuge in a barn while battle raged on outside,” said Silas, staring down at Dazbog with contempt.
“I am not a battlemage. What good are the mutants if they cannot defend us against rabble? What good are you, Amaro?” said Dazbog with a smirk. “Surely your oafish strength is good for something.”
Silas cuffed the wizard, knocking him to the ground. Blood flew from a burst lip, splattering across the dry dust. The old man’s hand went to his face, touching the blood and the swelling flesh with trembling fingers.
“I know you can’t help yourself to beat a poor, weary old man when he tries your patience. You are simply reacting to chemical impulses in your brain, atoms moving about in ways that no one understands. You don’t give in to anger any more than you give in to love, jealousy, or pride. You are a choiceless, meaningless thing, a rock in motion across an illusionary plain. This scene, what we are witnessing here, could be no other way. Wizards hide in barns and mutants shed blood while the sun sinks below the rolling hills, a demise unlike any other. Would it not be a relief if it never rose again? The suffering that you, I, Firenze, and every other man feels daily would disappear with us. Think of all the unborn lives waiting to die, to be tortured, to lose loved ones, to lie in a field with their lifeblood leaking out and their limp limbs beside them. Think of them, and then think of the sun.”
Silas’s hand grasped his sword. The necromancer deserved to die—he was an abomination, and a stinking, useless old man—and there was no better time than now. With one quick stroke, Dazbog’s head fell from his shoulders and landed softly in the sandy dust. Where his head had been, bubbling black fluid spewed like oil. Droplets hit the ancient barn wood and burned through it like acid, smoke rising from the reaction. Silas raised his hand in alarm and felt the black oil touch his skin. The flesh of his forearm suddenly blistered and blackened and then sloughed off in thin, crumbling pieces, revealing muscle and sinew beneath, which also fell away until only bone was left. He stood examining the stark white of his radius, watching in disbelief as the tiny bones of his fingers fell apart. A cracking sound echoed through the dark space; the great beams splintered, and siding was stripped away as though a hurricane wind blew through. Through the skeleton of the building, he saw neither field nor forest, but a cold, barren scene—rocks lying in a sand-strewn valley, not a living thing in sight, only a few scattered tree trunks almost petrified by age. On the horizon, a small orange sun flickered, its dying rays providing feeble light. He tried to speak but found that he could not, for this place didn’t tolerate sound. Save for the slow rise and fall of the sun, it was unchanging, a static, eternal graveyard hiding bones that would never be revealed. Silas looked down at the ground, trying to find his bones. He didn’t look up until he heard a voice.
“There seems to have been a coup, Amaro,” said Firenze.
Silas looked around and saw that he was on a hillside overlooking a valley, the Palace of Beaune visible on the other side of the river. The sun was low in the sky; it appeared tired and dispossessed, a weary stranger shining a light in the enveloping darkness.
“The necromancer. Where is he?”
“He has left to speak to the general, as you ordered him,” said Firenze, giving Silas a look of concern.
“What general?” said Silas. They were surrounded by most of the Medjay, who had set up a bivouac consisting of a few tents and small fires. None of the mutants rested, however; they stood perpetually on guard, only their strange eyes visible behind the thin slit in their plumed helmets.
“Merovech, the head of the Count’s army, the man responsible for the coup and the ending of hostilities with Rheineland. Are you all right?” asked Firenze. “You seem stoned.”
“The last thing I remember was beheading Dazbog in the barn…”
“The bastard is alive and well, unfortunately, I assure you,” said Firenze with clear disapproval. “We found you in the barn, but Dazbog was not there, he had ridden ahead and somehow evaded capture by the Rheinelanders. You’d bled a lot from a nasty foot wound which the medic patched up best he could. The blood loss must’ve made you lose consciousness. You did act strange after your revival. You told us to make straight for this hillside and wait until Dazbog returned with a delegation from the castle. You didn’t answer questions when asked, but I figured you were in a mood, that was all.”
“You though I was in a mood?” roared Silas. “You’re a fucking sorcerer and you couldn’t see something was wrong with me? Dazbog has done something, messed with my mind, seized control, decided what I see… he could be doing it to us right now! How do you determine if you are in an illusion?”
“There’s… no real way to be certain. A talented illusionist can create an illusion that is indistinguishable from reality, but to keep it going for any significant amount of time would require an unbelievable amount of power, and there is no Academia-trained wizard that I am aware of that could pull off something to that effect, not without the aid of several mages…”
Silas pulled out his knife and cut his forearm. Blood swelled up at the incision, and he felt the sting of the blade. He let out a sigh and fell to the ground.
“That proves nothing,” said Firenze.
“I can distinguish between real and fabricated pain,” said Silas. “I have felt enough pain and caused enough of it to know the difference.” He looked towards the castle. There had once been a large encampment before the main gate, but it was now occupied by a small force of soldiers. If they had let Dazbog through, would they also allow the Medjay to enter the castle? The fearsome reputation of the mutants was widespread, and he knew nothing about General Merovech and how he would react to a force of shock troops at his gate. Silas decided that he had no other alternative to marching up to the castle and demanding Cassilda. Who knew what sort of havoc the necromancer was weaving behind those walls?
“Tell the troops to pack up. We’re going down to that gate, and if it won’t open, we’ll beat it down.”
“Is that wise—”
“It’s an order,” said Silas, fixing Firenze with a glare. The assassin backed down with a bowed head and went to tell the Medjay to pack up. Silas wondered what had happened to the sorceress during the coup and whether their agreement would hold. Almost at the end, and everything seems to go to hell. This entire ordeal had adhered to the law of entropy. Systems break down and revert to chaos. He was not a learned man, but he had once heard the Vaalbaran Ambassador discussing the laws of thermodynamics, and the second law had stuck with him, because of its inherent truth.
In the fading light they crossed the river and marched to the soldiers’ encampment, Silas at the head of the troops. The castle loomed tall before them, an ancient fortress of solid stone. There was blood in the air—he could smell it, an old spy’s sense—and he had to fight the urge to remove the zweihander from his shoulder. They stopped when a horn blew, just a few feet away from a piked bulwark made of earth, the long spears emerging like poisonous spines. Armed men appeared on the primitive wall, crossbows in hand. A voice called out for them to identify themselves and to state their business, so he spoke.
“I am Silas Amaro, Chief of the Capetian Secret Service, an officer of the eighteenth Duke of Massalia. The mage Hypatia Almagest bade us come for an exchange involving an enemy of our state.”
The voice was silent for a while. Silas wondered if he had been too brief.
“There are no prisoners here,” said the voice finally. “Go back to your ship. There is nothing for you here.”
“I understand that there is no Count in Beaune. Oudinot has been deposed, and General Merovech rules the castle. If the General hopes to hold power, he will need allies. He could make one very easily if he so desires. What I want is the sorceress Cassilda. When I have her, I will leave, and Capetia will recognize the sovereignty of his rule,” said Silas.
“No one gives a flying fuck about Capetia,” responded the voice. “Go, or we’ll fill you full of arrows.”
Silas stared at the narrow path through the bulwark. He was admittedly no great military tactician, but he knew that a frontal assault was unlikely to succeed. What had the wizard done? Had he used his powers to slip through unseen? Firenze was silent, and the Medjay were unthinking implements of war. Looking at the crossbows pointed at him, Silas wondered if the smell of blood in the air was a premonition, a harbinger of impending doom. Magicians spoke of the impossibility of evading fate, and he had always thought that argument to be a coward’s excuse, yet standing there before the gate, his life in the sights of several dozen men, he understood that some choices are made for you.
“Memento mori,” he said, barely above a whisper. The soldiers behind the bulwark would not understand Elmeric, nor would they hear him—the Medjay, however, snapped to attention, their long shields pressing together to form an impenetrable wall. Silas dived behind the formation, and the unit instantly transformed into a triangle, the point aiming for the entrance. He heard the sharp twang of crossbows, saw Firenze huddling behind the line, a look of horror plain on his face, felt his blood tingle and his hands shake in anticipation. The wall of Medjay closed in, marching through the bulwark, and Silas ducked underneath the shields of two soldiers, who were protecting against arrows from above. As soon as they were through, the triangle changed to a dense circle, the middle Medjay building a ceiling with their raised shields. Arrows rained down upon them, but the projectiles bounced harmlessly off Capetian steel, giving Silas hope. They were almost to the wrought iron gate—what they would do when they arrived there, he didn’t know—and the enemy seemed content to fire arrows at a distance instead of engaging in melee combat. Perhaps they’re waiting till we are trapped and cornered he thought with a bitter grin. If so, there would be a mountain of dead men before all the Medjay were slain.
The formation changed again from a circle to a rectangle. The front line charged at the gate, crashing their shields into the wrought iron, whereas the rear deflected arrows and prepared to defend against a mass of soldiers who were armed with pikes and seemed to be contemplating a charge. Silas did nothing but clutch his zweihander, for the Medjay knew better than he what to do; their training prepared them for the machinations of war. The soldiers at the front had already laid their shields aside and were straining to lift the gate, attempting a feat of strength that Silas would have thought foolish had any other troops tried it. The gate rose over a foot; two Medjay squatted between the teeth and pressed upward, raising the portcullis to shoulder height. Rankar only knows how much that gate weighs thought Silas, rushing beneath it with several Medjay. He paused and watched as the defensive line backed quickly towards the open gate, only letting their shields fall at the last second. As soon as they were through the two Medjay who had lifted the portcullis let the wrought iron fall, as they themselves did, their bodies riddled with arrows.
They were in the courtyard, and a scattering of soldiers headed towards them carrying swords and halberds. They were green men; if a coup had just occurred, it must have been a bloodless one, for these troops were fresh-faced, unsure of themselves, and less hesitant than they should have been to attack a contingent of Medjay. The mutants sensed this, and instead of forming a phalanx, rushed forward with preternatural speed. They cut through the soldiers as though they were props, skewering them on their long spears, bashing their skulls with their great shields, and sending any survivors fleeing for the other end of the courtyard. Silas made straight for the hold, three Medjay at his side. They kicked open the wide doors and were immediately set upon by four tall guardsmen, armored and armed with maces. The leader managed to hit the Medjay on Silas’s right, breaking his left arm with a sickening crack, yet the mutant simply grabbed the man by the throat and threw him to the ground, where he was decapitated with a long knife wielded by the Medjay’s remaining arm. The other guardsmen fared poorly; two were killed by spearpoint without rendering any damaging blows, and the last was beheaded by Silas after missing wildly with his weapon. They continued towards the great hall, where they found Merovech clustered with a group of nobles, unguarded. Count Oudinot, looking rather bloated and purple-faced, hung from the rafters in his underwear. The general appeared surprised to see them—his mustachioed face hung askew, as though he lacked the ability to straighten it. Silas, incensed, grabbed a nobleman and tossed him across the room, watching as the rest fled from the general. The Medjay aimed their spearpoints at his breast. It was time to speak.
“Merovech, I’m guessing,” said the Silas, looking the general in the eye. “Let’s get something straight. I don’t care about that carcass hanging from the ceiling, nor do I give a shit about these aristocrats scampering around your ankles. If you want to be a dictator, that’s your own business. I, however, did not come several hundred miles to return to the Duke of Massalia without the sorceress known as Cassilda and the Heart that she possesses. We were invited here by Hypatia Almagest. I don’t know if she’s in your good graces or if she’s outside impaled on a spike, but a deal was made, and payment must be rendered. I’ve killed a lot of people in my life, and I won’t think twice about having one of my mutants here plunge a spear right through your chest. So I’ll ask you only once: where is my sorceress?”
The general’s eyes had a steely-blue color reminiscent of the ocean right after it had swallowed a ship and all its crew. His mustache was thick and bushy and curled upward as though straining to reach the sun.
“I don’t have the slightest idea what you are talking about,” he said, his insigne rattling. “You, man, are about to lose your head.”
The stupid bluster of the threat enraged Silas. He seized hold of the Medjay’s spear and rammed it through Merovech before stamping his boot on his stomach and pulling the weapon free. It was a cathartic act, a release of built-up frustration, and even as Silas realized his mistake, he could not wipe the smile from his face.
It was at this point that things really went to hell.
General Merovech was certainly to blame. Oudinot had dressed him down for the last time, for he was a proud man who resented taking orders from an idiot. Hypatia had overestimated his loyalty to the Count, an egregious error, now that she thought about it. The gaudy pomp, the arrogance, the rash impatience—a military man who had come up under the previous Count would be hard-pressed to stand it. An image of Merovech flinching as Oudinot commanded that the court refer to him as “your Majesty,” came creeping out of the corner of her memory like a giant spider. He must have had the support of the nobility, who chafed under the Count’s harsh rule. That’s where I made my mistake she thought.
Her thoughts turned to the Conventum, which had posted her in Beaune. What was the protocol for dealing with a coup? Hypatia had no idea. Would she be blamed for the deposal of Oudinot? It was possible. They could charge her with dereliction of duty, which would result in her being disbarred, and then she would be no different than Cassilda, an unlicensed sorceress. Wait, Cassilda—that’s my way out of this mess. The Capetians were coming to collect her, and Hypatia could bargain with them, perhaps. All she had to do was get down to the dungeon and convince Astain to release the sorceress into her custody. Durns were terribly loyal to their masters, but now that the Count was dead, whom Astain served was in question. Hypatia could be very charming, of course, though Durns were notoriously difficult to influence with charming magic. Maybe she could even persuade Astain to come with her.
After taking a few deep breaths, she cast an illusion spell that rendered her indiscreet—passersby would only notice her if they were looking directly at her—and ventured into the hallway. It was quiet and unoccupied, though she thought she heard faint shouting somewhere in the distance. Now that Oudinot was hanged, the real question was who else was in line for the makeshift gallows? Probably just yourself she thought with horror. The nobles had likely colluded with Merovech and the army, and the Count had no real friends. There were a couple of recognized sons, yet they lived in Hampton with their mother, who had long ago tired of the Count’s dalliances and abusive manner. It didn’t seem likely that the eldest would be Oudinot’s successor, not with Rheineland waiting outside the gates.
She crept down another hall and found the staircase that led to the dungeon unguarded. During her descent, she thought she saw a shadow before her—something tall, dark, and elongated—but when she reached the foot of the stairs, there was no one in dim prison. Down the corridor, Astain stood at attention, his gaze fixed down the hallway, staring impassively like a statue made of granite. Hypatia mimicked his pose, then walked towards the guardsman, eyes boring into his dark, almond orbs. She thought as he thought—precise, measured, focused—and concentrated on assuming the structure of his peculiar Durnish brain. A few paces from Astain, she stopped and stood silently, trying to reach through the windows and grasp at the flickering fire of his soul. There it was, bright and slender, burning blue yet casting little heat. At ease she whispered. The corners of the old guardsman’s mouth twitched. I must leave with the prisoner. The Count demands it.
The Durn’s hand moved slowly to his chain. He took a key and stepped forward to the closest cell and unlocked it. Cassilda lay on the bed, asleep, hands bound with shackles of adamant. They both stood in the doorway, examining the sorceress, before Hypatia beckoned to Astain. The old guardsman walked into the cell and nudged the sorceress with the shaft of his spear. Her emerald eyes opened immediately, the only remaining trace of her beauty. Ah, there’s hatred there thought Hypatia. Perhaps in different circumstances, we’d be comrades.
“It’s time to leave, my dear Cassilda. There are people here to collect you, and we must find them before we are strung up from the rafters. Do you understand? The military has seized power. They have no love for magicians, and they will kill us on the spot if we are discovered. So think twice before you shout for help.”
A shadow loomed behind Astain, and the guardsman was suddenly sent sprawling forward into the cell. Hypatia wheeled around, and a knife cut through the air, slicing into the shadow, yet before she could move further, Cassilda had leapt up and thrust her shackles around the magician’s neck. She pulled hard, taking Hypatia to the floor; sparks shot from the fingers of the choking mage, muted by the adamant chains. I have you, you scheming bitch thought the sorceress, gritting her teeth. In her fury, Cassilda meant to kill Hypatia to pay her back for spilled blood, but the Durn stirred, shaking his battered head, and her rescuer, the Thief, lay against the wall, clutching his torso. She jumped off Almagest, hit her hard in the forehead with her shackles, and then sprinted out of the cell, slamming it shut. The Thief reached out to her, and she threw his arm around her shoulders and helped him walk down the corridor. The front of his tunic was wet with blood; she could feel the moist warmth of it soaking through her own clothes. She had to get the shackles off so she could heal his wound, but he pitched forward suddenly and fell at the foot of the stairs, groaning, and then Cassilda saw that his entire chest had been torn open by the ragged edge of the enchanted blade.
“Thief! You must hold on! Where are the others?” she shouted.
“They’re floating up in the sky, looking for things to steal,” he said, before closing his eyes.
Next Chapter: The Death Dream of the Thief
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