Story #196 - Remnants

Remnants

“Think of it like a reservoir, your Majesty, one that's been tapped repeatedly and consistently over time.” Conjurer Sweftly hoped that this metaphor, at least, would reach penetrate into the mind of the king. It wasn't that the monarch of the Seven Hills was stupid, by any means, just that he lacked the expertise in magic that so many humans did. King Tyrn was clever enough to allow the Conjurers full reign over magic use in the kingdom, and that meant the order had at least a responsibility to tell the king what was going on.

As the most junior member of the order, Sweftly had been given the 'honor' of explaining to Tyrn that they were running out of magic.

“Couldn't you simply find another one?” Tyrn asked, folding his hands in his lap. He was a kind and patient monarch, but like many in the Hills, saw little direct benefit from the use of magic. This was in part due to the fact that so little was left, and all Conjurers were restricted to using only tiny portions of the remainder, but Tyrn and the citizenry of the kingdom did not know that. To them, magic was something the Conjurers spoke of but almost never used, and when it was employed produced results that were not as spectacular as imagined.

“I'm afraid not, your Majesty.” Sweftly shifted in his chair. It was a rare monarch that let a supplicant sit in their presence, but Tyrn had not only offered him a chair, but one more comfortable-looking that the king's own. He wished he had better answers to give the man. “We've been trying for years to find an acceptable substitute or way to replicate what's been lost, but all in vain. Part of the problem is that to do anything significant for the cause requires we use a great deal of the magical energy left, and if our plan fails, the remainder is even smaller than before.”

“How long?” Tyrn was not one to waste time or words.

“A year, at best – provided all users comply.” They should; there had been no apostate Conjurers for three centuries, and the less than two dozen in service of the Hills all knew better than to draw more than they were allotted. Still, this meant a slow death for magic, one Sweftly had hoped not to see in his lifetime.

Tyrn nodded. “So why not simply end it now? Use it all as aggressively as you can trying to find a solution and be done with it. If you do, so much the better. If you do not, well...” the King hesitated for a moment, and Sweftly felt a touch of amusement. Even Tyrn didn't want to call them useless.

“Let us just say that I have not seen the benefits of magic for some time now, and even reading the histories of my father and grandfather find little to suggest that it has been a significant part of the running of the Hills for generations now.”

“Very true, your Majesty.” There was no point in denying the obvious. Ancient texts in the Reliquary told tales of battles won and lost thanks to Conjurers, of lands razed and bloomed under the care of magic, but for three centuries the art had been dying a slow death. “I would suggest the same, but many of those in the order would prefer to let magic linger as long as possible. We are unsure what to do, but wished to keep you informed.”

“You are a credit to the order, Sweftly,” Tyrn said, and a bloom of pride swelled within him, “and I appreciate the information.” The King rose from his chair, and Sweftly stood hurriedly. “But other, more mundane matters that require my attention. Tell the order I wish all magic to be used in an effort to find a new source, and that it will be done immediately. You will return to me within the month to tell me that either new magic has been found, or the reservoir has dried up. Do I make myself clear?”

Sweftly stood stunned for a moment, then nodded. Tyrn gave the impression of listening as an old friend, with hands clasped and face open, and such direct decision making had caught him off guard. The order would be furious with such direction, but have no choice but to comply – there was hardly enough magic to mount an offensive against the capital, even should such madness be given voice.

“Of course, your Majesty,” he said, bowing, “it will be done as you ask.”

“Excellent,” Tyrn said, “my guards will show you out.”

***

Sweftly knew the order would be expecting him back within the week, but thanks to the King's quick decision, he had four days of his own, four days the other Conjurers knew nothing about.

He had tried very hard not to think about the route he was taking, not to consider fully what he was doing. Speaking with the others of the order and reading the texts had brought to light the stark and simple fact that magic as he knew it was dying. No amount of clever use or re-invention of the source was going to provide an answer – something new was needed.

Rolling hills gave way to forest, and after two days Sweftly found himself at the edge of Burgess Swamp, considered by many to be the most foul and dangerous land in the Hills.

Bragoda, the Man of Swamp lived here, and those nearby whispered that he was a rogue Conjurer, one who still used his magic for his own good and the detriment of others. Sweftly had learned better through his research; Bragoda used a form of magic almost unknown to the Hills, one that relied on a different source than the quickly-drying remnant. Blood magic.

Drawing in a deep breath, Sweftly moved into the swamp itself. Bragoda would find him, he was sure of that – incursions into the man's territory did not go unnoticed.

- D

Story #195 - Marriage Vows

Marriage Vows

“I am not going to marry him!” She tried to keep her voice from sounding strident.

“You are, Valiora, and you know it. Your father and I have determined that he is a good match, both for you and for the Realm, and you are too good a daughter to disobey.” He mother's voice was calm and quiet, with no hint of anger or demand. Queen Tranille typically got what she wanted, but rarely had to raise her voice to do it. Valiora would not be so easily cowed, this time – this was her life they were talking about. She would not throw it away.

“Mother, please,” she said, moving to the small window in her bedchamber, “be reasonable. You know as well as I do that economics and politics cannot be the only foundations for a marriage. Your own story with father was hardly so prosaic.” She swept her eyes quickly over the courtyard below – she could not see him with the guardsmen training, but perhaps he had been sent on an errand outside the castle.

“Come away from there, child.” Her mother's tone was stern. “You will not be carrying on any longer with the man from below. You will speak only to the man we have arranged for you.”

Valiora felt her stomach twist as she turned to face her mother. She and Tyrane had been so careful to never be seen together, and not once had they practiced magic within the castle walls. There should have been no way that her mother even knew she had a man in her life, let alone one she actually wanted to marry.

“How -” she began.

“Child, I was your age once as well, and I had a young fellow at the end of my string just as you do. He was a handsome thing, tall and lean, but he was not the one meant for me. You speak of my union with your father as if it were easy, as if we both heard the Creator's voice and saw the light of day. The stories tell the truth about his deeds – he rescued me from betrayal and rebellion – but not about our feelings. Neither one of us had an interest in the other, but our parents decreed that such daring action must be rewarded with a marriage, no matter what Olvanus and I thought. For years, we barely spoke to each other.”

She knew her mother was trying to comfort her, trying to help her understand why such a marriage was necessary, but Valiora had no interest in listening. It was all so unfair!

“But you said it yourself – you didn't love him, or even like him at first. What if this man you want me to marry is horrible? What if he hits me? What if he uses me for his own foul ends?” She took a deep breath. “What if he wants to use my magic?”

Queen Tranille's face fell slightly. She knew full well that the man they had chosen for Valoria had no skill with magic, nor did any of his kind. Though his nation was powerful and still peaceful, they had not yet been blessed with the Creator's gift, and those without magic tended to both envy and fear those who possessed it.

“Then you will allow him to,” Tranille said flatly, “for he will be your husband.” Her eyes were dark and sorrowful; she knew this was a poor idea, but believed it necessary all the same. Both of her parents were willing to sell her like so many head of cattle, simply to help the Realm.

She was not foolish; her tutors had taught her what to expect as a princess, what to expect when she came of age. Only one Kingdom in the realm allowed its royal sons and daughters to choose their own mates, and that one, Issol, was the weakest of any of the Free Peoples. Without the power of strategic alliances, their Kingdom had been slowly losing tracts of lands to foreign nations, each of which did not wish to see Issol destroyed, but had enough power to annex whatever they wished. Valiora admired their actions, but had to admit that the choice they offered their young nobles was weakening their land.

Still, she was willing to bet that none of them had been in love as she and Tyrane.

“Please, mother,” she cried, moving from the window to fall at the Queen's feet, “please talk to father about this. I know I am a princess, but let Jenfry or Lucil take up this burden. They are almost of age, and neither one of them has a love like mine.”

She could feel the soft touch of her mother's hand on her hair, just as when she had been very small. “Hush, child. I know you are hurting, but you must see reason. You would sell your sisters into a marriage for your own happiness? That is not the daughter I raised. You are a true woman of the Vine, now, and you must act as such. Harold is due here within the week, and you will do your best to charm him.” There was meaning in those words deeper than their face, and Valiora knew there was no doubt about what her mother meant. She was to use magic to capture this man.

Pushing away from the Queen, she stood and turned her back. “I will do as you command, my Queen,” she said coldly, “now get out.”

The sudden crackle of magic behind her spoke to the Queen's anger, but she wisely did not press the issue. Valiora was by far the better sorceress, and in her current state their was no telling how far the battle might go.

“Very well, child – but hear me well.” Tranille's voice was stern. “Harold will leave her with you as a wife, and you will go with him willingly or in chains. Do not disappoint me.”

The closing of her chamber door echoed with the force of her mother's anger, but to her it had the ring of a dungeon gate. She was trapped.

- D

Story #194 - Capital Offence

Capital Offence

The ship hummed with an excitement that Ral Durston didn't feel.

He'd only taken the new intercraft on two cross-galaxy trips, and though it had performed well above his expectations, the fun in both journeys had been lost as he scanned his data-plates for any sign of Capital ships and zealous captains who had discovered just how he had paid for his new travel arrangements.

The theft had been a massive success by any definition, with Ral and the others each walking away a king's fortune richer. The visi-nets had been abuzz with the news since last week, many experts saying that it was the biggest heist ever seen in a single sector. Such praise inflated Ral's ego, especially since he had been the security tech for the job, and getting them in and or undetected had been his responsibility.

Still, the fact that what they had done had made such an impression meant that the Capitals were looking as hard as they could for anyone connected to the crime. He had no record in the sector or beyond it – he hardly looked the part of a hardened criminal – but that didn't mean he could escape suspicion altogether.

Pulling hard on the altitude lever, Ral hovered the ship two hundred feet above the landing pad and considered his options. Another quick flight was tempting, perhaps to a world with even less Capital presence. Of course, if they came looking for him, the fact that he was hiding out on a planet with very little security access would not work in his favor.

He could zip to Gentrea, and take up residence on the Capital homeworld, but that seemed overly aggressive to prove his supposed innocence. It might take the authorities a while to find him there, but if they did he would have nowhere to run.

Ral let the ship drift downward back to its landing pad. The truth was that he believed he'd eventually be caught, that the system would eventually catch up with him. Though others – crew leaders, bruisers and light-fingers alike – had been captured in previous jobs he'd been a part of, his involvement had never been discovered, and he'd never even been questioned about any of the matters he was involved in.

He was sure this time would be different.

The stakes were too high, the amount of credits too great for the Capitals to simply let the matter go. He couldn't enjoy what he'd earned because he was sure he wouldn't have long to enjoy it, sure he would be warming the inside of a cold Capital prison soon enough.

As soon as the ship was settled, Ral popped the cockpit and jumped out. Tanis VI was a fine world, one with vast tracts of unexplored mountain-scape just south of the equator. With the right tools and equipment, he could make a decent life for himself there, at least for the next few years. Once the heat had passed and the sector had largely forgotten about the heist, he could get back to his real life. Ral hated the wilderness, but found it immensely preferable to prison.

“Ral Durston?” A voice from behind startled him as he engaged the ship's locking system. The tone carried a question, but the confidence in the voice made him sure the asker already knew the answer.

“Maybe,” he replied shortly, but didn't turn around, instead fiddling with several controls on the side of his ship, “or maybe not. Why?”

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and stepped forward to get out of the grasp.

“Convalent Mitor, Capital Defense. You are Ral Durston, and I have questions for you.” There it was. He'd known a Convalent would be coming sooner or later, and he had to admit to being slightly impressed that it was actually sooner. Ral knew that his manipulation of the systems in the vault had been nearly perfect; he should have left no trace.

Turning to face the man, Ral found exactly what he expected. Tall and broad-shouldered, Convalent Mitor was exactly like all of the others that Ral had come in contact with. Their training was very tightly focused, and the Convalents took only those who met certain basic criteria – brute strength being one of them.

“Of course, Convalent,” Ral said quickly, “how can I be of use to the Capitals?”

“You are a known tech of some skill, Durston,” Mitor said. “I'm sure you've heard about the recent theft two sectors over?”

Ral nodded. “Hell of a piece of work, that. Their tech must have been incredibly talented.” If he was going to go to prison, the least he could do was have fun on his way there.

“He was good enough, Durston, good enough to get them in – but no so good that he didn't leave traces behind.” Mitor's eyes narrowed.

Here it comes, Ral thought, straightening, maybe I should trying running? No. He'd just shoot me in the back.

“Unfortunately,” Mitor went on, “we can't make heads or tails of them. Whoever broke in made tiny errors, but no one in Capital Defense has been able to order them into anything useful.” The man loomed over Ral. “You will accompany me, Ral Durston, and you will help me track down those responsible for this left. Under Article 56 of the Capital Convention, you are bound to do so as a citizen.”

Ral laughed; he couldn't help it. It actually wasn't out of the realm of possibility that they would come to him for help, but the audacity of it, the notion that he would be helping to catch himself made the whole thing seem surreal.

“Of course, Mitor,” he said brightly, nodding, “I'd be more than happy to lend my skills to your investigation. Together, we'll find the man you're looking for.” Though it won't be me.

Ral was already brainstorming as they moved away from the spaceport. There were a few techs he could think of that he wouldn't mind putting behind bars. This was going to be fun.

- D

Story #193 - Hounds

Hounds

Three.

There were at least three chasing him from the sound of the hooting calls that echoed off the ancient trees nearby. Trill had been foolish to come into the woods alone, but it wasn't as though he'd done it on purpose. Julie had been furious and unreasonable again, and in his haste to put some distance between them, he'd taken a wrong turn up Old Mill Road. One of the things had savaged the right rear tire as he drove past, and suddenly he found himself running; the metal and plastic of the door would do nothing against the razor-sharp teeth of the beasts.

Duskhounds.

They had another name, but no one in the city knew it any longer. For at least a year they'd been prowling the woods, killing all the local wildlife and any humans who happened to stumble into their path. Rumors were that they'd now turned on each other with no reliable food source left, and there had been no reports about litters of the things being born; the company who had created them claimed they were sterile.

Trill didn't care about that – he'd have preferred if they were mating instead of trying to run him down, the fate of other animals in the area be damned. In less than five minutes he knew he'd be overtaken, and his would be just one more corpse for the duskhounds to scavenge in the forest.

A fourth call joined the three behind him, and he felt his heart beat faster. He had an entire pack on his heels, and that meant there was no chance they were giving up. Once a pack had a scent, the chase did not end until the prey died or one of the hounds themselves dropped dead from exhaustion. Either way, the pack ate.

Images of their snarling faces churned through his head as he ran; of the slick teeth and wide-open maws they'd displayed as they tore his car to pieces. It was clear why those in town had named them duskhounds – they had fur in shades of amber and dark yellow, short and spiky tufts that prickled from their bodies. Had they not been trying to chew the steel of his car and swallow him whole, he would have called them beautiful and ferocious. As it was, they were just terrifying.

The lead hound snapped at his heels as he rounded a corner, and his feet nearly failed him. A single fall and he would be dead, torn to pieces before he had a chance to rise again. Craning his neck, he looked quickly over one shoulder and saw that all four were only a few steps behind him, dark saliva flying from their mouths as they ran.

By the time he turned back to the forest path in front of him, it was too late.

A hole in the ground had opened up in front of him and he fell, arms going out in a desperate attempt to save his face. Years of minor-level martial arts training kicked in, and he pulled in his arms and rolled forward as he hit the ground. Even under threat of a quick death from the hounds behind him, he was sure the hole he had landed in was not natural; the surface underneath him was too cold and slick to be forest floor.

Climbing to his feet, he spun, but the the hounds were nowhere to be seen. Looking up, he could see four dark shapes outlined against the edge of the hole he had tumbled into, low growls rising in their throats. They could easily make the jump down – why didn't they?

It was a flickering light to his left that gave him the answer. Under its wan glow was a metal sign, blue background marked by raised gray lettering.

“Unified GenCorp, LLC”

He had found the lab.

It was no wonder the hounds wouldn't return to the place of their creation. They were born of a need for genetic experimentation and control, not the natural processes that should have controlled their evolution. Early reports from government studies of the company showed a complete disregard for both the safety of their workers and the animals under their care, and it appeared that even duskhounds were not so desperate for a meal that they would return to the scene of their making.

Climbing up out of the pit was not an option. The sides were too steep, and Trill knew he would find a gaping mouth waiting for him at the top. Scanning the wall in front of him, he saw what looked like a protruding metal handle, and a few experimental tugs produced a squealing protest but movement just the same. Hauling hard pulled the door open and revealed a hallway lit by flickering emergency lights like something out of a B-horror movie. As the snarls of the duskhounds faded behind him, he had to admit that perhaps an A-grade was warranted – Unified GenCorp had done some truly awful work.

Three branching hallway intersections later and he was lost. There was no signage on the wall to indicate where he might be going, or how far he was from his destination. The company did have an above-ground entrance, somewhere, but it was becoming apparent that their underground operations were much more robust than their surface presence.

Laughter stopped him at the next hallway crossing.

It came again, a mad hooting that reminded him eerily of the hounds he had left behind, but with an all-too-human tone. A light at the end of the hallway to his right told him that someone was still alive and working down here, and that someone might just know the way out.

By the laughter, they might also gut him as soon as talk to him, or unleash some new creation to feast on his bones, but he had no chance down here alone. Slowly, Trill moved through the hallway to find the source of such hilarity in the midst of chaos.

- D

Story #192 - The Four

The Four

Only one of them was left; but it had taken all he had to kill the first four. Number five might prove his undoing.

The cord-thin man in front of him smiled, dipped his sword slightly in recognition, and then disappeared into the cold night. Only a curling fog was left to mark his passing in the small town square; that, and the bodies.

Rez had never considered himself a murderer, but the label had begun to fit him well of late – too well. Fields and roads, towns and cities had seen the cut of his blade, and men both young and old had fallen before it. The four he had been seeking hid themselves in the shadows, away from the eyes of mortal men and behind the power that cloaked monarchs. Such was the hold they had on those in their employ that it took violence of the killing kind to shake their attention to their masters and break the grip in which they were held.

He had killed sixty-two men – some depraved and unkind, some in their homes with their families – in search of the four. Each one had provided him a piece of the puzzle, let him move a step closer to the targets he sought.

The third had been the most difficult – it had taken forty-three kills before he found the town the man was hiding in, and he was forced to burn the entire thing to the ground to prevent an escape.

He was not proud of what he had become.

Now, as gentle flakes of snow began to settle over the town, Rez wondered for the first time if he had the strength to continue. Killing the four men who served the Dark God had been trying enough, but to discover that a fifth, more powerful man stood behind them all had drained him of all desire to continue, all hope for his soul. He could not kill any more.

“Rez…” the voice floated through his head, soft and gentle as it always had been. “You must go on.”

“I can’t!” He cried out, sinking to his knees on the cold ground. “It hurts too much! You ask too much!”

“Shhh, shhh,” the voice soothed him as he wept, broken and shivering. “I know your pain. I endured it myself, once. But Rez, you must continue. You cannot give up now. Not when we are so close. The fifth one is more than simply a hidden leader for the other four – what they have lost, he has taken on.”

“What?” Even broken and on his knees, Rez felt what was left of him wilt. This could not get any worse. He had spent years tracking the four and then administering the justice they deserved, and now it appeared that he had only been making the man they served more powerful.

“Do I fight the Dark God himself, now?” He wailed into the night. Rez had never been one to weep, but he could feel the tears building behind his eyes. These men and their ilk had killed many innocents and many who meant more to him than he had words to express. Anger had helped him move forward, to do as the quiet voice asked him, but he was only a man. Even he had limits.

“Yes,” came the soft reply. “The fifth is the embodiment of the Dark God on mortal soil, and you are the only one who can defeat him. You are my champion here.”

“Your...” Rez trailed off, confused. He had always wondered about the origins of the voice that had come to him, but immediate circumstances had never allowed him time to ponder it at length. If he was not being chased by men who wanted his blood for killing their masters, then he was searching out another master to kill. Pondering and intellectual pursuits were time-sinks that offered him only the opportunity for a quick death.

“Yes, Rez,” the voice went on, “I am exactly as you think I am. For each darkness, there must be light, and I embody and supply that light.”

“But you're -” the voice spoke over him.

“A legend? A myth? A tale told by fools and kings of better days? Hardly. My power wanes in this world, but that does not mean that I am powerless. The Dark God can affect many – his power is far greater than mine – but I can affect one, can give him all that I possess so that he may act in my name.”

“Me,” Rez said, “and you want me to kill my opposite, the man who has been given the Dark God's gifts?”

“Yes.” The voice was fading, and Rez felt a sudden stab of panic. It couldn't leave him now – he had no idea what to do next! “But he is more than that. He is the avatar of the Dark God, just as you are mine. He is more than the four you have killed, just as you will now be more than simply one.”

A warmth spread through his chest, expanding down along his legs and arms and up his neck into his head. He found himself standing, arms spread wide, as the energy of the Light ripped through him, filling him with a radiance that burned down to his bones. He screamed, agony and pleasure melding into a single, unified force.

***

Rez woke in home he did not recognize, in a bed that was too soft for his taste.

“Welcome,” a woman's voice said from the corner of the room, and he sat up. The speaker was pretty and young, with dark curls that cascaded down around her face and green eyes that shone in the candlelight. “We have been expecting you for some time, and now here you are, just as He told us.”

“He?” There was an inflection in her tone that set the word apart.

“The Light. He is gone now, and we know it is because he has passed his spirit on to you. You are the one he chose, and we serve you now. The fate of our world rests in your hands.”

Rez let himself fall back to the bed. Four should have been enough.

- D

Story #191 - The Emperor's Command

The Emperor's Command

Emperor Lassan VI was annoyed. If anyone had asked him – which they wouldn't, for fear of their own lives – he would have told them that he was angry, or furious, but he wouldn't have used the term “annoyed”.

He was annoyed, and very much so.

Draogath was returning, and it was only a matter of time before the Binder of Souls walked the earth again. When he had asked his priests just how much time the Empire had before that happened, they had all looked at each other and shrugged.

He didn't have any priests any longer, and out of the five of them, two were decorating the front of the palace with their heads. The other three had gone into hiding, and that was fine with him. He didn't need to kill them all to make the point – simply enough of them that everyone else understood his message.

Lassan VI was no Lassan III, who had wanted only vague generalities and let the Empire slip into disrepair. Nor was he his father, Lassan V, who had been so strict that much of the best talent for administration in the west had ended up at the wrong end of the headman's axe. He knew the value in a good servant, a good priest, and in good council, but he could not be perceived as weak. If those around him would not bother to supply him with the answers he needed, he would find those that would.

From what the Service told him, they had found a man that might be of great use near the coast. An easterner, and a magician, but recent reports indicated that he might possess scraps of the old magic. Such magic was the only thing that had a hope of defeating Draogath, and so Lassan had sent a dozen Servicemen to bring him in.

The last communication from any of those men had come over a week ago, and no one in his palace could tell him anything of use. He didn't see the point in killing those close by for the failures of those father away, and so his annoyance had built and fed upon itself to the point that no one wanted to be around him, even if he was not threatening their life. Lassan knew he was acting childishly, but couldn't help it – if something wasn't done, and soon, there would be no one to stand up to Draogath when the beast arrived, and the Lassan line would end with him, an Emperor ruling over a land of only the dead and tormented.

Thank the gods his father was no longer alive.

The old man had always been critical, and the situation Lassan now faced would have been enough to make the previous Emperor mad with rage. He'd be at his son's elbow constantly, offering foolish advice and demanding brutal killings when his ideas didn't pan out. Lassan VI just needed something to go his way, something to help him save the Empire. As much as it galled him, he couldn't do it alone.

There was a soft knock at his audience chamber door, and he raised his voice. “Enter!” The room had not seen much use in recent days, as even the most foolhardy gave up on trying to ask him for a favor or a moment of his time, so whatever news was being brought must be of some importance.

A servant in brown leathers entered, head bowed.

“What?” Lassan's tone was short. “Make it quick, servant.” He couldn't remember the young man's name – not that it mattered. He would be replaced with someone else within the week, in the hope that at least one of the servants on staff would please him more than another. So far, they all irritated him to the same degree.

“A rider, your Magnificence. One of the twelve you sent out. He returns with another man, an easterner.”

Lassan felt his annoyance vanish, and he smiled down at the young servant. “Bring them in, please,” he said brightly, “and tell your master you have performed well. I will keep you on as my doorman.”

The servant's face creased in a quick smile, and then he dashed out of the room. Moments later, two men were led into his presence, one tall and dark, dressed in the gray of the Service, and the other a short, bearded man in multicolored robes whiich shimmered as he moved. The magician.

Both men knelt, though Lassan saw that the Serviceman had to force the small man to his knees. This one would not roll over easily. Lassan smiled; he enjoyed a challenge.

“Rise,” he said after a long moment, and both stood.

“My Lord,” the magician said with a wide sweep of his hands in front of him, “I -” He cut off at a casual backhand swing from the Serviceman.

“Silence!” The man in gray roared. “You will not speak unless spoken to, and you will address the Emperor as 'your Magnificence'. Do you understand?”

There was an anger in the little man's face, but he nodded.

“Please, gentlemen,” Lassan said broadly, “there is no need for violence. Little magician, what is your name?”

“Fratztrabool, your Magnificence, the magician.” The smaller man did not seem afraid, simply willing to do as asked. Smart, then, to know when he was beaten, but not one to beg on command. Good. He would need such steel if was to fight Draogath.

“Good, good,” he peered down from his chair at the magician. He didn't seem like much, but heroes could come in odd packages, or so his father had told him. “I am given to understand that you posses the old magic?”

There was a pause as the magician considered his response. The little man might not have heard it called such where he came from, but he caught the meaning well enough.

“I...” Fratztrabool hesitated, “there are certain things I can do that others cannot.”

“Perfect!” Lassan exclaimed. “You will be our champion, little magician, against the Binder of Souls, against Draogath himself.” He smiled broadly. “From what I have read of such champions, you will likely not return alive, but you will have the gratitude of an Empire and an Emperor.”

“And if I refuse...your Magnificence?”

Lassan let his smile grow even wider. “Then your friend in gray kills you right now. Choose, magician.”

Fratztrabool bowed his head. “I accept.”

-D

Story #190 - Shadowed

Shadowed

Don't.

Don't tell me I'm wrong.

I've heard it enough to last a lifetime, and I'd argue that you've said it enough that you should never utter the words again. I know – you feel it justified – you're sure that it's in my own best interests to know that you think I'm wrong about this, but you have to stop.

We don't have the time.

Stories of the Shadowan, the stalkers of the night, are something I know you've heard, something you must be familiar with. No one in the Six Realms can avoid knowledge of the horrors of old. Your mother spoke of them to you, told you if you did not eat your stew or collect wood for the fire, the Shadowan would come for you in the night, creeping up out of the darkness to suck your soul dry.

You trembled in your childhood state, desperately afraid and foolish enough – or so you thought – to believe.

Your mother was wrong, of course. Shadowan do not come from the deepening dark around your bed, or the stretching black outside your window. They come from within, from the night you hold inside.

I have seen them.

I know.

You do not believe me, and I understand. Here I sit, telling you I have not only seen the demons of story and song, but that I still live, still walk and talk to tell about it. It seems like a nightmare, like a fantasy you would never have chosen. It is true, nonetheless.

It was merely a feeling for many days, for weeks on end as I went about my daily life. A sense of mounting fear, of impending doom. I ignored it as best I could, and continued to work, to live, to act. Sound drew me awake one night, and through the moonlight in the room I watched in frozen terror as a shadow pulled from my chest and began to swirl on the bed in front of me. I leapt up, and the thing followed, its form beginning to coalesce. By the time I had reached the door, it had my form and my face, and was reaching out a blackened hand to touch me. I ran.

Night became a time of terror, and should I not leave a lamp burning or have a candle snuff out, I would be met with the shadowed half of myself. Sleep came in fits and starts, always with the understanding that I might wake to my death.

I assure you, harm only is what the beast intended. For just a moment that first night I felt its cold fingers graze me, and it was as if life was being sucked from my soul. My limbs went weak, and I felt my mind begin to dull, a blackness closing in on the small spark of life I called my own. The Shadowan wanted me, and its hunger was unending.

You face says it all, even if your words do not. You humor me, and do honor to our friendship, but cannot bring yourself to believe. Let the candles burn out, then. Let the lamps go dark. Let us together fight what I know is in the night, and if there is nothing that comes, you can call me a fool for the rest of our days.

***

There – I've snuffed them out. Do you not feel the sinking cold? Can you not see the shadows swirling at the edge of your vision? Let us wait.

Be prepared.

I can sense your humor rising as the minutes slip past, and I would feel the same. This must seem a merry joke, one I have played on you for sport, but I can assure you that is not the case. I speak only the truth.

Move closer, my friend, and you will see my evil manifest.

Do you feel it, the chill from my soul? Place your hand here, on mine. Do you see? Something comes. It will not be long. Stay ready.

Closer, inch closer.

Good.

You look perfect, frozen in fear, locked in terror like that. If you'd listened more carefully, you'd have known I spoke lies. Escaping one's own Shadowan is impossible no matter how many doors you bar or how far you run. My old form was doomed the moment the darkness burst from me, and I have been changed, altered to crave the flesh of humans, re-designed to savor your screams.

I would tell you not to worry, dear friend, that what I will do to you will not hurt, but I am done lying for this evening. You will endure pain as you have never known, and soon you will join me on the hunt. It is not something you desire now, I know, but what you truly are will soon emerge. Grip your chair tight, my friend – your change is coming.

***

You feel it now, don't you? The strength and power that comes with our new forms. The age of men is ending, and our age is coming once again. They drove us out millenia ago, locked us within their souls, but left a small crack in our prison, one it took only time to widen into a door. We are legion, my friend, we are everywhere.

A small town is next on our road – a fitting target for one so new as yourself. Each soul you free will make you stronger, each brother you liberate will bring you honor. We have become what we were meant to be, brother. Remember that as you move throughout the world, bringing fear to our name, bringing men to their knees.

Do not forget who brought you here, who broke your own bonds, who drew you into the world.

Do not forget what you owe, when the final day of reckoning comes.

I told you, my friend, and you should have listened, should have been more careful. I told you I wasn't wrong.

- D