The Catacomb

A Product of My Last Few Drunken Musings

Three solid knocks, and then the door creaked open. Galin was the first to peer into the dark room, stalling momentarily. “Odis?” he said quietly. “Wandra’?”

         Galin took up the mace at his side and proceeded further in, followed by Thal, Lester, and Beolith. They eyed each other cautiously as they paced throughout the room. Even through the darkness, they could see no one remained at the desk.

         “They leave?” Thal asked.

         “Didn’t see ‘em leave,” said Galin in a hushed whisper, “did you?”

         “Not through the door,” Beolith said.

         “They didn’t leave.” Replied Lester with a tone of finality.

         The four spread over the tiny room, Galin feeling about under the desk, Thal checking the bookshelves, Lester eyeing the window, and Beolith looking around the wall by the door.

         “Oh…no.” Galin nearly cried out, catching himself.

         “What is it?” asked Lester.

         “It’s Odis.”

         The room burst into motion then with the sound of a loud crack. Galin turned just in time to see the wanderer emerge from behind a false wall, but was helpless to defend as the knife descended toward his neck. He went down in a fountain of blood and Beolith and Thal ran for the door. The wanderer leapt after them, darting past Lester and kicking the door shut just as Beolith slid outside its reach and into the hall. Thal attempted to square up with Lester, but was taken by surprise at the wanderer’s swiftness. He was able to deflect the assassin’s first knife thrust, but a second followed from the wanderer’s left hand, catching Thal between his ribs. The knife in the right hand soon followed and dug a line deep into Thal’s throat, dragging ear to ear.

         Lester had his sword in hand as Thal died, but let it fall to the ground as the wanderer turned his attention towards him. “No,” he said, “Don’t be needin’ to do that, ya don’t,” he said, holding his empty arms up even as the wanderer advanced. “Eh, we can wo-” the wanderer’s blade plunged into his stomach and he felt the life leave Lester. He went limp and would have fallen if not for the wanderer’s hand to guide him to the ground.

         “Who hired you?” the wanderer asked once Lester lay on his back, their faces inches away, illuminated only by the lightning flashing outside the window.

         “I ain’t tell you shit, whoreson!” Lester spat. The wanderer twisted his knife inside the bald man, and then he screamed.

         “Blade in the belly’s a painful way to go. You’ll tell.”

         “Fuck…you-arrrhhh” the wanderer twisted his knife again. “Bloody bastard!” Lester shouted. “Woulda told ya the color of the rot betwixt me legs if ya didn’t knife me.”

         “Leave no enemies, only corpses. The Order should have told you that.”

         “Don’t know nothin’ bout no order. Arghhhhhh – fuck, fuck, stop!”

         “The Order of the Serpentine Shade. The black ones that hired you to find me.”

         “Wandra,” Lester began, chest heaving, “I already know how you’re to respond, but I ain’t got the faintest fuckin’ clue ‘bout no black on-aaaaaaahhhh gods be damned!”

         “You’ll die in your own shit tonight, merchant, know that. But it’s your choice when.”

         “You drive yourself a hard bargain, wandra’.”

         “You came to a death dealer. I bargain only with lives and yours is the only one left here.”

         “And death be what awaits you, fool.”

         “Indeed, but not my own.”

         “Oh no wandra’, we won’t be the last to hunt you.”

         “Who are you?”

         “Doncha know yet?”

         “I know you’re not from the Eastlands.”

         “Aye, and not a merchant either! Ha.” Lester laughed, but the laughter soon turned to blood spurting coughs.

         The wanderer thought for a moment. “Not from these lands. Farther north, and your tongue is common. Not of Madabar, though. Not likely anyway. That leaves either the nomad tribes or people of the snow hills.”

         “Looks like you’ve earned your damn price.”

         “What would the nomads want with my head?”

         “Maybe we just think it looks pretty – arggggghhaaa damn! Damn it all!”

         “From what tribe hail you, nomad?”

         Lester grinned. “It matters not anymore. All be the same and the one be all.”

         “I’ve not the patience for drabble.”

         “Course ye don’t. Not like I got long to be around, eh?”

         “Long enough,” the wanderer tightened the grip on the hilt of his knife, “and perhaps longer than you’d like.”

         “What do you mean to do, wandra? Hmm? Kill me, then what? Kill the clan, all of ‘em?”

         “I mean to live, something I’ve proved to be infinitely better at than you, given the circumstances.”

         “Ha! You’ll be strung and skinned ‘fore the end of it, oh I promise ye that dark one.”

         “Who sent you, nomad? Tell me and I’ll ease your pass.”

         The bald man spat. In the dimness the wanderer could feel his eyes upon his own, and even though he could not see but for the occasional lightning flash, he knew that they were staring at one another.

         “Tellin’ the truth, wandra, I couldn’t tell ya.”

         “Your tri - ”

         “Ah drop it, will ya? The old clans ain’t no more. Elk, Rabbit, Fox, Bear, gone.”

         The wanderer shifted. Last he had heard, the nomads had stuck to their usual course. Rabbit traveling with Bear, Wolf and Carp warring with Elk. South after The Dying, north at The Renewal. He had not been to the north in some time, but still, it seems news of a united tribe would have reached him by some means. “What mean you, gone?”

         “One clan. One family.”

         “How? When?”

         “Mmm. Those are the questions aren’t they?”

         “You lie,” the wanderer started his knife.

         “Wandra’ I speak the truth. Led by some bastard Fox named Helgarth,” Lester spat. “And he, he takes orders from another.”

         “Who?”

         Lester groaned. “Fucked if I know. If any know. Never seen ‘im but once. Don’t even travel with the family. Got his own army too I hear.”

         “He’s not a tribesman?”

         “Tribesman? He’s barely a man at all! Skinny sapling of a shit, with long black oiled hair. Any one o’ us could break ‘im with our hands, but Helgarth follows him like a bitch on a leash.”

         “Why follow Helgarth then?”

         “Wandra’, that’s a long tale and I ain’t got the time to tell it. If ya wanted to know, ye shouldn’ta stuck me.”

         “You started it.”

         “Gods be damned. Ye sure are one son of a bitch, you know that? A regular whoreson ye are.”

         “This Helgarth wants my head then?”

         “He or the sapling shit, aye.”

         “Why?”

         “Plough me, wandra’, I’ve told ya all I know.”

         “You left your home to battle the westerly storm roads to find a single man at a tavern without knowing why?”

         “Didn’t ask. Been sendin’ us on trips all manner of queer lately, what with the siege of LaFetamier and all.”

         The wanderer stilled himself, skin growing cold, eyes freezing. “What did you just say?”

         “Wandra’ I don - ”

         “Look at me,” the wanderer barked, his voice raising for the first time since he entered the tavern. He flung back the hood of his cloak, revealing a long mess of dark hair that fell stringely into his face. “Look into my eyes, nomad,” he drew himself atop the large man, cupping his face with his free hand. “Say again. LaFetamier is under siege?”

         “Well, no. Not yet,” Lester replied, weariness creeping from his wound to his voice. “Why, got family there? Hah!” The bald man threw back his head and gave a laugh, one final hearty laugh before the wanderer’s dagger found his throat.

 

 *****************

 

         It wasn’t hard to find the remaining nomad who had managed to escape the wanderer’s room. It was dark, but the frantic man had left more than enough of a trail in the half freezing mud for the wanderer to track. He hadn’t gotten far, taking shelter under a rotted oak trunk when the wanderer happened upon him. His death came swiftly.

         The night was still young and the storm brutal, but the wanderer could not afford himself time to rest, and Whorestown would not welcome back the man who had just murdered four men in cold blood, no matter how forgiving they were of the wanderer’s ilk. His transgressions were not novel or even all that drastic in comparison to the standard of the village, but he would not risk going back until after the dust settled and those of the village occupied their time with some other mishap.

         The roads to the east were dangerous at night. Highwayman in the summer, floods and rock fall every other time of the year, in addition to the highwaymen. The wanderer doubted he’d come across any of the former given the condition of the roads and the freezing rain. The mountain passes into Madabar, however, were another matter altogether.

         The capital LaFetamier was a three days journey on foot. The wanderer had made it before in less than two, but in his current straits, it could take as many as five.

         LaFetamier under siege by nomads, the wanderer thought. Or a dying clansman talking out his ass. The nomads of the north had been many in the past, but the wanderer had high doubts that their numbers even halved that of LaFetamier alone, never mind the rest of Madabar that would rush in to their aid. LaFetamier’s population made up more than half of the entire population of Madabar, true enough, but even so a combined counter by even a portion of the remaining cities would decimate the nomads, as it had done twenty years ago. And even then, LaFetamier would have likely prevailed without aid of the Plyostien and its forces.

         There had been no united tribe then, but nomads did set aside their differences momentarily in their attempt to take back their ancestral home. Wolf, Carp, Fox, Bear, Elk, Hawk, Beaver, Rabbit, they all might as well have been divisions of Madabar all their own. Elk and Carp had an ageless hatred for one another, and by association with Carp, Wolf had been thrust into their quarrels for the past century. Hawk and Beaver were small clans, with Beaver dwindling into nonexistence due to their queer cultist rituals. Bear and Rabbit supported one another, but only on their trek south at The Dying. And then there was Fox, the largest and strongest of the clans and rumored to be headed by the very descendants of Morghast The Forsaken. It was no secret that Fox had long coveted the lands of Madabar, and that its first target was LaFetamier.

         Before The Age of the Cradle, Madabar had been one of the last remaining provinces in Kreol to be settled. Stihl The Conqueror had set his sites on the untamed northern forests for years, but had not the men to claim it. Morghast’s forces arose out of what would later be Naelgrad and sought to ally themselves with Stihl to claim Madabar for their own. The two of them united, and together they explored the foreign frontier.

         But it wasn’t long that they began settling Madabar that queer reports began surfacing from both their men. Rumors of a primitive people, short in stature and covered in hair, began flow through their camps. It wasn’t until a patrol group was ambushed and killed by these natives that the rumors held any sway in the eyes of Morghast or Stihl.

         The natives turned out to be many, far more than the combined forces of Morghast and Stihl. They were from the Old Time, however, and had not mastered the art of forgery. Their weapons were made of wood and stone and were no match to the iron blades and chain mail of Morghast and Stihl. Over the years, the natives were exterminated and Madabar settled, with Stihl negotiating terms of legitimacy with a collection of city-states that would later become the Lotreshi kingdom.

         Meanwhile, Morghast and his men set to the north and west, building long houses as they went and consuming the land. They took to banditry on the developing trade routes from the west. Eventually they began to turn against one another.

         Stihl and Morghast grew distant from one another, with Stihl receiving outside influence from other leaders of prominent provinces. He became convinced that he no longer needed Morghast, and further, that Morghast was becoming a problem. Aided by Lotreshi soldiers, Stihl launched an attack on Morghast and his men. The longhouses were burned down and the men scattered. Morghast himself was taken prisoner and hung publicly.

         A hunt commenced for the rest of the men who had fled, but they regrouped quickly, and Stihl found that the loss of his men was not worth the risk of finding a few flagless rebels.

         Stihl went on to build his cities, shaping Madabar into its current state. He died before he was ever officially crowned king, however, ambushed by remainders of Morghast’s men. His son, Kelerkis The Wise, became the first king of Madabar, firming an alliance with Lotreshia and the developing the Eastlands.

         Centuries later, after the monarchy had failed in Madabar with the fall of King Ioletheis and the end of his line, the province weakened. The remnants of Morghast’s men, the nomad clans that had since grown and split apart after Morghast’s fall, banded together and had stricken Madabar where it was most powerful. With leadership in LaFetamier (and Madabar) uncertain, quarrels erupted over how they should proceed. Galeth of LaFetamier had the best claim and was arguably the most ably suited, but the people saw him as coarse and unforgiving. Many would not stay in a Madabar ruled by force and fear. In the end it was Aluciban who rose up in LaFetamier, uniting its people under his guidance, who took control and orchestrated the final assaults against the nomads.

         After the nomads were slaughtered and driven away, Aluciban proposed that a counsel take the place of a ruling king to ensure that power was never again abused as it was by Ioletheis. While many, particularly in LaFetamier, supported this notion, there were those that saw it as an invitation for the collapse of Madabar. Among the dissenters, the most prominent was Galeth. He rallied his men to his side, even baring arms at times to oppose the dismissal of the monarchy. But his will was challenged, and Aluciban had the whole of the capital against Galeth’s rebelling few. Galeth was no fool, and he fled LaFetamier, fearing what would happen to the opponents of Aluciban. He took his men with him, and together they settled in the Plyostein where few would think to search for them, as even fewer were aware of its existence.

         A wise choice it was for Galeth, as the young Aluciban soon took to slaughtering his opposition. His dissenters were few, but they had a tendency to multiply. Aluciban was harsh as he was swift, and the heads of the king kissers were felled as quickly as his executioners could swing their axes. The wise fled and faded into obscurity while the rash, the bold, and the stupid accepted their fate and greeted it with waiting arms and exposed throats.

         Over time, Aluciban grew more docile, and the opposition to the grand counsel diminished. An elected representative from every city in Madabar was chosen, and together they would meet to decide the fate of their good province. Galeth was naturally appointed to represent the Plyostein, though both he and Aluciban knew that his interests were more in the motives of LaFetamier and Aluciban than any ruling laws that they might settle.

         Still, a rivalry brewed between the two provinces, but it simmered now (partly because of Galeth’s death), whereas it had boiled beyond the lip of the pot before. Madabar was strong, and though conflicting, it was united.

         An imminent nomad strike seemed unlikely indeed.

         The wanderer took momentarily refuge under the ledge of a cliff basin. The cove was dry for the most part, but dark and sloping. He dared not venture further to its depth for fear of other tenants. The hooded man took respite against the stone confines of his sanctuary. Lighting flashed, though less frequently and accompanied by a duller roll of thunder than in the hours previous. The wanderer sat and smoked the remainder of his pipeweed. He would have to find some more when he got to LaFetamier. The weeds of the north had much to be desired, especially so close to The Dying, and much of what was available cost thrice as much coin as it ought to, but the wanderer cared little for the potency of his tokes. The fervor of the weed had worn off years ago, and he only continued now out of habit. Of all the things in the world, the repetition of the pipe was the only that brought the wanderer peace.

         It did not take long to exhaust his stash. He packed his pipe safely away beneath his cloak, but lingered in the cove awhile longer. The marching footsteps of pelting rain died down into the reluctant pitter-patter of a roaming storm, lost and faltering in its course. The wanderer let his head lay limp against his stone cushion. How long had it been since he had lied down? How long since he had eaten? How long had it been since he escaped the grasping arms of Lotreshia? Three days? Four perhaps? Too many, that was certain.          

         The wanderer’s eyes closed and he felt himself lifting towards the sky. He was weightless, he was lofty. He was a summer seed flying towards the sun, the wind taking him as his guide. Sleep was near, so inviting as it was.

         And then the shrieks came. Silent at first, almost as though they were some horrible whisper, the echo of a tortured soul. But they grew louder after a moment, and more numerous. The wanderer shook himself, eyes still closed, but still they came on. Cries of all sorts; cries from men, from women…and the children, the softest and most distinct amongst the sirens. There were no words, just the last cries of the lamenting.

         And then came the faces. So plain, so generic, yet so unique, each one with its own curvatures and colors and hues and expression. They floated in an abyss, an engulfing blackness that swallowed them up as they phased through the wanderer’s sight. Some were fair, some were foul, others were mangled beyond discernibility.

         But they all had mouths. Gaping mouths, closed mouths, shrieking mouths. Shrieking mouths. Oh how they screamed. How they begged. Some swore and roared, most cried. But they all screamed, and so too did they scream eternally. All of them wanted to know why.

         The wanderer’s eyes opened. He no longer leaned against the stonewall but stood under the weeping sky. He could linger no more. He set off once more on his course.

         The borderer between Naelgrad, Paelgriff, and Madabar was ambiguous. The three disputed the boundary constantly, but little blood had ever been shed over the matter. Each province assumed the greatest amount of land to be rightfully theirs, though it likely did not matter who laid claim to the mountain road. Few lived in the upper reaches of The Dalagmine Pass, and those that did paid fealty to no crest or flag.

         The wanderer figured he was still in Naelgrad but would soon be making his way east into Madabar. He kept his course parallel to the pass, not wanting to risk being accosted by any highwayman. The mountains lent him a better vantage point and a road less likely to be traveled by any others.

         It was a surprising thing indeed when the wanderer caught the sight of a flickering torch, making its way down the Dalagmine.  At first he thought it was more of the nomads, checking in on their perspective comrades whom he had slain in Whorestown, but as they drew closer, he saw that they traveled by wagon, a burden that the plains folk had scorned for far too long.

         The wanderer descended from his mountainous perch and took cover beside the roadside beneath some fallen boulders. The wagon rolled into view after some time, pulled by two oxen harnessed in a yolk with an armed guard walking adjacent to the beasts. From the inside of the flapping skins covering the wagon, the wanderer could just make out the figure of a child, or perhaps a slouching woman, illuminated by the light of a candle.

         He stepped out of his hiding place as the wagon drew nearer. It stopped at first, some 30 feet away, but continued after a moment when the wanderer made no move toward it. The armed man approached the wanderer, sword arm readying.

         “Queer night for a stroll, stranger,” said the man.

         “What be you carrying?” replied the wanderer.

         “That’s no business of your, friend.”

         “Mercenary, are you?”

         “The folks inside paid me good coin to see ‘em safely to Rapplebery. And I mean to do that, I do,” the man said, motion towards the sword hanging at his left hip.

         “Hm.” The wanderer’s blade flashed and the man in front of him dropped to the ground, neck nearly severed. A muffled shout was heard over the bleeding rainfall and a man emerged from the wagon, a set of arms groping at him from within. He ran towards the wanderer, mud splashing upon his trousers with each step he took. He held his arms out wide, shouting. The wanderer approached and the man remained still, steadfast. A woman’s voice could be heard over the rainfall, screaming from behind the protection of the skins. The man paid the woman no mind, intent on the wanderer.

         “He had a boy ya know!” the man shouted. “And three girls!”

         “Then he chose a poor profession,” said the wander. “I don’t want your lives or women, just your gold.”

         “Gold,” the man scoffed. “you’ll be finding none of that here.”

         The wanderer swung his sword arm and slammed the pommel of his blade into the man’s temple. The man screamed and fell and more shrieks echoed from within the wagon. Those damn shrieks. The wanderer strode towards it, throwing back its flaps and revealing the woman and four children huddled beneath a fur cloak hiding within. The woman stood in between the children baring knife and having pushed a basket to the lip of the wagon.

         “Take it,” she cried, voice unstable, “it’s all we’ve got.”

         The wanderer took the basket in hand and opened it, revealing two loafs of bread and some cheese. He turned back to the wagon, scanning its contents. His eyes fell to the four children.

         “The cloak,” he said.

         The woman hesitated. She looked at her husband lying prone in the mud, then back to the wanderer. “’Tis all we have, sir. Please, spare us the fur. We’ll not survive The Dying.”

         “The cloak or your lives,” the wanderer replied, readying his sword.

         “It’s…it’s all we have left,” the woman pleaded, tears streaming down her face.

         “I want it.”

         The woman began to weep and the wanderer raised his sword. She sprung into action, gathering the fur-padded cloak from her children. The youngest, a boy not more than three, began to cry. “Mama!” he cried, “mama, no!” The woman cried too, but still she handed the cloak over with shaking hands. The wanderer took it, running his hands through the fine fur. He draped it over his shoulders and then left the pass, scaling up the more mountainous route he had previously been traversing. He turned back once to see the woman huddled over her husband, still lying in the mud. He was unsure of whether or not the blow he had delivered had felled the man. He wondered if he should go back and finish him off, the family too. Leave no enemies, only corpses, he reminded himself.

         He was too far up the mountain now; to go back would be fruitless. Even if they survived the night, the road would not be kind to them on the morrow.

         The wanderer stored the cheese and half a loaf of bread in the breast of his cloak, taking another half in his hand and discarding the remaining loaf and basket. The cold, molding bread didn’t last long and he would have traded it all for just a little more pipeweed. The rain ceased entirely as the sun began to rise and the wanderer ate the second half of his mealy loaf. His stomach was full as he descended the slope to the main road that would take him to the heart of Madabar, but he was still so empty.

 

That Last Post Was Brought To You By…

Drunk Mitch, who just literally killed of all of your main characters. Suck it, nerd.

The Past Few Nights I’ve Been Getting Drunk Before Writing….

…And I keep waking up to find out that all of my characters are dead. Like…even the ones that I need to be alive. Drunk Mitch wants Sober Mitch to give up.

Anonymous asked: Sooooo are you the wanderer then or....

The way I’ve been posting is a bit misleading as to the significance of the wanderer (the character). I don’t look at the wanderer as a character, but more as a general overall theme. Running from your problems, shifting your life when its advantageous, succeeding only through the worst parts of human nature, what to do when you lose faith in humanity (and at this point I’m about 90% sure the story is going to end with the actual destruction of humanity once its faith is lost) that kinda thing. The wanderer isn’t really the protagonist, he’s just the first character I created in my head some odd 12 years ago, and because of that I’ve spent the most time with him so he’s easier to write. But I’m at an impasse right now as I’ve just started writing the story in a linear way (ya know, at the beginning instead of in the middle. Ground breaking shit there) and I really need to transition to another character’s point of view because the wanderer isn’t likable enough to tell a story though consecutively. Which is the point, he’s not supposed to be likable, which is why he doesn’t function well as the main character or sole protagonist. His significance is in the fact that his appearance sets off larger things in motion, introducing more relaetable characters as a result. After that he’s not that integral to the larger part of the story, he’s just there to offer a foil to other characters and keep the theme. But the nature of the wanderer is in everyone, whether the accept it or not. The only difference from him and the other characters is that he lives by that nature instead of attempting to alter or suppress it.

So no, I’m not writing this in the sense that the wanderer is supposed to represent me or anything, at least no more than any other character is supposed to represent me. A big personal inspiration for his character was when I realized at a young age how prone I am to switching alliances between friends and family members based on what can benefit me instead of where I lie emotionally with them. That sorta sewed the seeds for the rest as I explored that concept, but that’s about the extent of it. But if I had to choose a character that I relate to the most, it would probably be Haldin (though that wouldn’t make sense based on the limited excerpt he’s featured in). He’s probably one of my favorite characters, and most recent, and no other character that I’ve created illustrates such complex growth, deterioration, and corruption. I have about 2 pages of outlined notes detailing his experiences throughout the story and for most of it, he’s really not even that big of a character.

Basically he’s a dude who was doing pretty alright, made a few decisions to better his station in life, played by the rules, and then shit hit the fan and he had a panic attack and fucked pretty much everything. He cares about one thing over anything else (maintaining the monarchy in a world that wants to get rid of it [lame, right?]) because he truly believes it to be the best, and ends up sacrificing everything he loves to retain that thing, and then it ends up not being that great anyway. That’s kinda like me and college when my career ultimately fails me or drives me to drug abuse. But beyond that, Haldin’s just kinda a slimy fuck. Manipulates others, lies, justifies his actions with his end goal. He’s a real piece of shit, towards the end. And so am I. So is most people, I think, which is why he’s a fun character to explore. Another thing I want to do theme wise is dis-spell the sense of honor, and Haldin makes a perfect tool for that. Guy who had honor, whatever you consider that, lost it, was in denial of it, justified everything he did with it, and even after he loses everything except his kingdom (which he no longer wants) he still clings to it. The one thing he has, that he doesn’t even have, a shell of his former self in self denial.

On a related note, it’s really hard as a writer to write about a concept that you consider unfathomably stupid, as I do with the concept of honor. I needed to create honor-bound main characters that are likable and witty in order to achieve what I want, but I hate writing them like that because the concept is so repulsive to me that I don’t want to associate my creations with it, even when the purpose is to denounce that very concept.

But that’s a tangent for you. No I’m not the wanderer. I’m all the characters in some way I guess. But my favorites are the wanderer, Haldin, The Executioner, Mirothis, and Meliza. Nothing is ever told from Mirothis’ point of view and Meliza is a really minor character, but those are my favorites. But none of this means anything to you, because the only person who knows who the fuck any of these people are is me.

Being without a tongue is a curious prospect.

Crooked

During my Freshman year in college I had a very peculiar English instructor. He gave weird assignments and liked when we gave weird results. This narrative formed the basis of a short third person “story” called The Flesh Well, which is actually the first post on this blog. I just stumbled upon this raw form in my email. I don’t like it, but it does represent a tone that I’m striving to maintain in all of my written creative endeavors.

Theoriginalassignment:Write you own character relating a truly awful story that he or she witnessed or that happened to him or her, so terrible, so shocking, the person has to get drunk to tell it. At least 3 paragraphs and I encourage you to write more. The story can be true, it can be made up, it can be true but expanded. It’s up to you. Try to shock us.

The product:

Asylum

The released convict took his seat in the British pub two hours early. He needed to make sure that he was sufficiently inebriated for the interview to come. He chose a table in the back corner, far away from all the other patrons in the pub, and drank heavily until the time came. He saw the interviewer walk in right on time, and waved him down. The interviewer took his seat across from the convict and readied his writing implements. He took note of the several full shot glasses on the convict’s side of the table and conceded that they were within the guidelines of their prior agreement.

Michael:I’m assuming that you remember our arrangement, but just to clarify, I’m going to repeat it. You are not to talk. You are not to ask any questions, interrupt in anyway, gesticulate at me, or make eye contact. You are to write. And only write. If you run out of ink or lose pace with the speed I’m talking, too bad. It’s taken me twelve years to do this and I’m only doing it once. You fuck this up now, and the story is lost. Forever. Understood?

The interviewer nodded.

Michael:Very well. As I’m sure you and everyone else in this hellhole of a town is aware of, I served a four year stint in solitary confinement, from 1821-1825. I was falsely accused of battery and attempted murder and I was held at the Einsworth Sanitarium. It is there that all the “visits” took place.

Michael threw back one of his shots.

Michael:They called me crazy, deemed me insane after my second year. A doctor declared it and said that I was not fit for society. They aimed to keep me in that cell the rest of my life, which would not have been long had it not been for the thought of my…

He trailed off, then quickly guzzled another shot.

Michael:My family. Then, on July the 24, 1825, the warden himself came to my cell and told me that I would be released in four days. My conspirators had come forth, wrought with guilt. Four years too late I’m afraid, because as you can see, the damage was already done. Nonetheless, I was ecstatic. And also terrified.

For you see, The Shadow was in tune with all that I knew. If I knew that I was to be free of my cell in four days, then so too did The Shadow. I knew that It would try to do all in It’s power to ensnare me, to ensure that I could never leave, or if It could not keep me forever, to exhaust my usefulness.

Michael breathed deeply with tears welling in his eyes. He took a moment to stare up at the ceiling and break briefly from his tale. He threw back yet another shot and then continued after a few minutes.

Michael:For three days I stayed awake. The “visits”, you must understand, they only happened in my sleep. At first I thought The Shadow only came at night, so I started sleeping in the day, but the “visits” still persisted. I spent those last three days trudging back and forth in a single line in my cell, following rough path in the cold, hard stone that had been weathered and worn down by my cell’s previous occupant. At long last I could not deny sleep’s sweet embrace. On the last night, I laid down on my cot and succumbed to the deathly slumber. I closed my eyes for but a moment, but that was all The Shadow needed to find me.

When I opened my eyes, I was no longer in my cell. The merciless and unyielding stone walls still stood the same and my cot was still hard and stiff, but the barred window above me showed neither moonlight nor sunlight. Through it shown only an eternal blackness, the likes of which could not be pierced by any instrument of man. As per every “visit”, I rose from my cot and made my way to where my cell door should have been. Instead of a barred gate stood a wooden portal with a latch. A green and purple light emanated from beneath its cracks. I rose, but not of my own will. I rose out of a sudden urge, and incessant need to. I felt propelled forward. My body made it’s slow, reluctant stroll to the door even as my mind screamed at it not to. Even with my hand around the latch, I dared not ever enter that god forsaken room. Yet every night, I pulled the door open.

Michael took another break to take a shot. He looked at the interviewer momentarily to see him writing furiously on his parchment, attempting to keep up. Michael smirked, the effects of the potent liquor taking full hold.

Michael:Good to see you playing by the rules, chap. This must be a very big break for you. First one to talk to “Manic Michael” in twelve years. Ha!

Carrying on. Every night, every “visit”, I would open the door, and every night I would see the same thing. A bent and crooked old man would have his back turned to me, hunched over some new contraption. Unnatural rocks and alchemy sets would emit dim auras, lighting the small room in a dull way. What that man’s name was is a mystery to me, but he knew mine well enough, and he remembered me every “visit” just as I remembered him. Yet every night, our session would start this way. His back to me. Every time.

This time, this last time, was no different. Only when he turned to face me, he wasn’t wearing his usual anticipatory, evil grin. He bore a scowl that stopped my heart mid beat. I had never seen him angry, even during the rituals when he was peeling back my flesh and boiling my limbs.

“Thought you could escape, did you?” the crooked man said to me. “I’ll be honest, when they told you that you were to be released, they really did throw a big kink in my plan, yes they did. You were going to revolutionize the century, Michael. I had so much to discover with you. But I’m afraid this may be the last time that we meet…unless I can coerce them to make you stay, which will be difficult indeed. What a waste! But there’s still much to be learned tonight.” He smiled. Like he always smiled. I tried to run. Like I always tried to run. It was then that The Shadow seized me, as it always did. Two cloaked figures that appeared in the shape of men, but under the shadow of their veil you could see that they were not. Their faces were mangled and their skin was blue and decaying. Their lower jaws protruded outward, teeth jagged and gums little more than an open wound spilling blood. They had no tongues, and where their foreheads should have been there were only gaping, black holes, almost as if their heads had been caved in. Were these the crooked man’s past subjects? I can only assume that they were.

They strapped me to the operating table, shrieking their horrid shrieks while the crooked man prepared his tools. That was the worst. I heard those shrieks even in the day. Something so utterly inhuman, so utterly unnatural. Full of pain, a reminder of the constant agony that I was about to be in.

The rituals were always brutal, that was the point. From what I gained from the crooked man, he was studying me, and others like me. Extracting some sort of chemical from my brain when the feelings of pain and terror were introduced to the body. I don’t know the logistics, and I don’t care to. But he always made sure to make the injuries that I sustained in the torture room look as though I had inflicted them on myself, so as not to raise suspicion. This night…this last night…he held no such reservations.

Michael broke off. His eyes flickered, he took another shot, and then his voice rose, almost in a kind of friendly way. This interviewer truly was one of the only people he had spoken with in twelve years, and he almost felt connected with him, as if he could trust him.

Michael:You know, there were some mornings where the guards would come to check on me or bring me food or what have you, and they would find me curled on the floor, shaking, sobbing…bleeding. And you know what they would do? Nothing. Nothing! “Is there something wrong with him?” a guard new to the prison asked once, to which is superior replied “Him? Oh that’s just ‘Manic Michael’. He’s one of our crazies. That one’s completely off his rocker. We find ‘im like that every morning.” Everymorning! And they didn’t do a god damned thing!

Michael began to sob openly. He slammed his fist on the table in agonized frustration and took yet another shot. He took a few minutes to compose himself before moving on.

Michael:Anyway. My last night at Einsworth. The crooked man began as he usually did; cuts and lashes to the arms, the legs, the back and chest. Said they were more for a terror effect than for pain. I could only raise my head enough to look down at my chest, and after he was through it would be covered in my blood. That was just to get the chemical, the alzeez, as he called it, flowing. Then came the actual ritual. This was different every time. Sometimes he would burn me. Sometimes he would cut me. Sometimes he would drive nails through my hands or rip the fingernail right off of my fingers. He would often scald me. One time he fed me a poison that caused me vomit and shit blood. The point is that it was always different, and always looked like something I might have been able to do to myself.

This time was different. First, he smeared a thick, bitter substance over my mouth. It lapped over my tongue, and forced me to swallow excessively. It was then that I realized that it had sealed my mouth shut. I could not open it at all and had to breathe through my nose. He then used a similar adhesive to pry my eyelids open, which he was prone to do from time to time. Then came the needle. He used a device that I had never seen before. It was like a small crane with a very long needle attached to the end. He methodically lowered it down to my face until it came in contact with my right eye. He paused, and the pushed it through, piercing my pupil. I remember trying to scream out, but I couldn’t, as my mouth was still sealed. The needle burrowed its way deeper and deeper into my eye, until at last it welled up and became swollen. Then, by method of a crank, he caused the needle to rotate and spin like drill within my socket. It spun faster and faster, until my swollen eye bulged further, and then burst, and leaked down my face. The needle still proceeded to spin within my eye even after it was reduced to mush. The pain was incredible. While this was all happening, I began to hear voices in my head, voices whose tones I had never heard before. They said nonsensical things to me like “The mood is laden Earth” and “Patches do solemnly fly” and other such things. Sometimes they were speaking in a command like way, other times they were screaming in horror, much like the horror that I was experiencing. And then suddenly, my world went black, but I was still very much awake and aware. The pain in my eye was gone, though, but the voices persisted. Slowly, an image came into view as from far away. it looked to be a person or a child of some sort. As it grew closer, I realized it was a little girl. My little girl.

Michael sucked in deeply, attempting to hold back his tears but failing miserably at the task. He reached for another shot, but his shaking hand knocked it off of the table and spilled the rest of its brothers. Unfazed, he brought his shaking hand to his shaking head and leaned on it, staring down at the table and sobbing openly now. He continued, talking directly into the table.

Michael:I hadn’t seen her in four years, so I knew that she must have looked different. But this was how I remembered her. I didn’t know her any other way. I knew somewhere deep down inside that this was just part of the ritual, but I was too overjoyed to care. That bastard. That fucking bastard…

For a moment I had completely forgotten where I was, had completely forgotten I was in some unchartered dungeon with a needle burrowing into my skull. I saw her and all my pain was lifted and the voices stopped. She drew closer and closer, and…and she drew closer.

And that’s when I saw her in full. “Eva,” I was able to gasp, but only when I realized the terrible truth of the image I beheld. She stood there, lifeless and stitched. Her stare was unblinking and her flesh was rotting off the bone. Her limbs were…sewn…sewn onto her. Her eyes were dead, she was dead. Yet she walked. Just my Eva. And blackness.

Slowly, her mouth dropped open and beetles crawled out and dropped into the backness. Then she turned around, revealing her backside which had been completely stripped away, her bare skeleton and organs plain for me to see. And then she began to walk. Back from where she came. Back into the abyss. Forever.

Michael wept loudly and openly. A few patrons of the pub began to eye he and the interviewer, but neither one of them noticed. It took Michael nearly twenty minutes to compose himself enough to become audible again.

Michael: After she had gone, the blackness lifted, and I felt the real pain again, and my good eye saw the crooked man performing his tasks. He took the needle out and stuck it into other parts of my body, and each time he did, the vision of Eva came back. He spared my left eye, but only because he wanted me to watch what he did to me. Only because he thought he might use me again in the future.

I was released the next morning. No one questioned my eye, they simply bandaged it and sent me on my way. I took a train home immediately, unsure how my family would respond to my arrival. And my eye.

I opened the door to my house. And you know what I found. Everyone in this town knows what I found. Yet they still call me crazy!

My wife and child, their body parts scattered throughout my home, as if they had imploded or been ravaged by some Savannah animal. The police knew it couldn’t have been me, I was in jail, and their bodies were so decayed. Too decayed. They looked yearsdecayed, despite the fact that many of our neighbors claimed to have seen and talked to them mere weeks before they were found.

You know the rest. An empty investigation and still no answers. Ever since then, every night that I’ve managed to fall asleep, I’m woken up by those shrill, horrible shrieks. And then I look above my bed stand, and there stands The Shadow. Those two cloaked figures, shrieking at me, waiting for me. Waiting for me to come back. Their faceless forms watching me as I rest. But I get no rest.

People think I’m insane, and maybe I am. It certainly would seem so at times, and I don’t deny that I’ve contemplated the possibility myself. But what if I’m not? If there’s even the slightest possible chance that what I am telling you is real, then what kind of world are we living in?

The interviewer looked up, as Michael had asked him directly. He shrugged his shoulders and made a motion with his head, indicating that he didn’t know.

Michael:Right. Right. Thanks for playing by the rules, chap. I needed to do this. I needed my side heard.

Michael produced a revolver from underneath his seat. The interviewer jumped back in panic, spilling his well of ink over the pages of parchment that he had written on. Had Michael seen that, he may have acted differently. But he did not. He cocked back the hammer, stuck the barrel in his mouth, and pulled the trigger. His brain matter coated the back wall and surrounding tables. His limp body fell back against the wall and collapsed in the dark corner of the pub. In the shadows.

Section II of The Wanderer: An Execrpt Part III

Footsteps rang out, echoing against the damp cobble walls. Too heavy to be Azriel, the wanderer thought, sitting in his rank cell, too quick for Meril, and too soon to be fed. It’s Haldin.

The king appeared in the dim corridor a moment later, waving away the two guards that had been stationed at its entrance. He stepped into the light, adorned in full royal garb as always, a shining beacon of color in an otherwise droll dungeon. Hands clasped behind his back, the king approached the wanderer’s cell.

“Zethiel,” the king said flatly.

“Come to release me?” the wanderer asked, sitting with his back against the far wall of the cell.

“I’m afraid I cannot.”

“I’m afraid you’re wrong.”

“Things have become…complicated.”

“Is that what you call it?”

“Azriel mistrusts you.”

“Last I checked, Azriel wasn’t the king, just the bitch he ploughs.”

“Hear me now, snake, I’ll not stand by idly and be insulted by a vagabond behind bars.”

“Then feel free to join me in my cell, sire.”

“Don’t test me, Zethiel.”

“Fucking unprofessional Haldin. I’d expected more out of you.”

The king recoiled. “Perhaps if you would…explain-”

“Explain what? You’ve made some enemies and they tried to kill you. I stopped them. Perhaps you should explain why that puts me behind your bars.”

“How did you know the assassin was there?”

The wanderer scoffed. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten what you’ve hired me for.”

“Not at all. But you reacted fast. Faster than all of my men.”

“And if I hadn’t, you’ve drowned in a pool of your own blood. Am I to be punished for saving thy royal ass?”

“My advisors suspect you may have planted the assassin to gain my trust.”

“Azriel suspects that.”

“Her too. You shouted when my arbalists shot him. Why did you want him alive?”

“I’ll tell you, Haldin, you’re a brilliant strategist, but are you ever a shit king. The man had information, information we’ll not learn now that he’s dead.”

“Undoubtedly, but I’ve learned that your ilk is immune to our forms of persuasion.”

“He was no viper. If he was, even I wouldn’t have been able to stop him. Garth knows the game you play now, he likely has decided to roll the same board. But the Shades will not work with him, I am sure. Mercenaries, swords for hire, bards with blades that fancy themselves assassins. He’ll be throwing those at you now, I’d venture.”

“You think Garth would really stoop to such measures?”

“You did.”

“I am to lose everything! I needn’t justify myself to the likes of you.” Haldin seethed suddenly, throwing his fists out to his side.

“No, but if the last true king of the last true kingdom can be brought down to hiring cutthroats and spies, I don’t see why Garth, who has allied himself with the likes of me before, wouldn’t. Especially when he is to gain everything.”

“The bastard.”

“Aye.”

The king clasped his hands again and paced, biting at his bottom lip. He stopped in front of the wanderer’s cell door, body rippling with tension. He was practically hopping.

“Come closer, Zethiel,” he said.

The wanderer shrugged and stood, starting toward the king.

“Despite what the others may think, I believe that you did save my life,” Haldin said in a whisper, even with no one else around to hear. Such a guilty man. Such a good man. This was a mistake.

“I did,” the wanderer said, drawing his face closer to the bars that separated the two, the king and the killer. “Seems that I overestimated your usefulness, however,” the wanderer continued, outstretching his arms to the corners of his cell.

“This is, and shall remain, but a minor hiccup. Should you choose to cooperate.”

“A minor hiccup. Tell me, is it Haldin who is king of Lotreschia or Azriel of Naelgard? Because I had forgotten in my moment of incarceration, so utmost was her ruling.”

“My, I didn’t realize that policy in the Lotreshian court interested you so much,” Haldin replied with a disarming smirk.

“It usually doesn’t, save the times that the continuation of my life depends on such policy.”

The king steeled himself. “Azriel shall be dealt with, gently. She’s grown accustomed to being part of the governance in recent years.”

“Well she’s almost as bad at it as you are.”

“I need Naelgard, Zethiel. All that I’ve hired you is for naught if not for their support.”

“You also need me.”

“Ha! You flatter yourself, assassin.”

“War is upon you. A war you cannot win. Madabar may not have regained their full strength, but they will crush you. Garth has a command force unlike anything I’ve ever seen gathered in all the realms. You used me to strike the nest, and now the hornets are coming for you. Without me, you’re going to get stung, a lot.”

“And what would you do? Take on an entire army yourself? Sneak through all the soldiers’ windows in the middle of the night and quietly slit their throats, is that it?”

“An army is only as strong as its commanders. Unfortunately for you, Garth has acquired the best commanders that exist on this side of the Arubia. I can change that.”

“A few dead generals won’t make a difference in this war.”

“It has never been numbers that’s defeated Lotreshia. Always superior command. Always. And there is no command superior to Garth’s. He has three quarters of the men you have, maybe less, but he will decimate you nonetheless. Make no mistake, king, you need me.”

“Desperate words from a desperate man behind bars.”

“Fool of a king. It’s shame I hadn’t let your father live a bit longer. Perhaps then I wouldn’t be working with a novice.”

“You’ll not provoke me, assassin. And you’d do well not to try. I’m your only friend here, I’m the only one that can get you out of this cell.”

“Ah, but now you flatter yourself, sire. Either you’ll kill me, or you won’t. I’ve cheated worse death than this. Your threats fall on deaf ears here.”

“You will rot here.”

“Then you will die. Your kingdom in ruins.”

Haldin licked his lips, bringing his face closer to the bars, closer to the wanderer.

“What would you have me do?” he whispered harshly.

“I would have you act like a proper gods damned ruler. I knew your hands were clean when I came into this, but I’ll be fucked if I thought that you didn’t expect them to get dirty.”

“Well forgive me if I’m not accustomed to scheming with assassins.”

“I’m not in the business of forgiveness.”

“And I’m not in the business of terrorism and murder…yet here we are.”

The wanderer cocked his head, studying Haldin’s face. Kingly, by all accounts, but flawed. The softness of his lingering youth betrayed his stern visage. A green king. A weak king. Lotreshia is ripe for the picking, and Garth is a man fond of fruits.

“Haldin, we are not partners. Not allies, not comrades, not friends, not anything. You don’t need my forgiveness, and I don’t need your apologies. The only reason we’re working together, the only reason you are alive right now, is because it’s benefiting me, and I will continue to let you live so long as it’s convenient. But this,” the wanderer said, rattling the bars between himself and the king, “this is very, very inconvenient.”

“There are things at work right now that you cannot comprehend. Azriel -”

“Gods plough Azriel.”

“Her father rules Naelgrad, Zethiel. And he has become a very…particular man where his beloved daughter is concerned. And his beloved daughter, my beloved wife, is quite aware of this fact.”

“Fuck you, Haldin.”

The king remained undaunted. “He’s become troubled in his old age. Acts rashly, on a whim now. And he’s getting worse. Azriel knows not the weight with which she grapples. Power is blinding her. She fails to know her limits. I’ve restricted her in the past, only to have her resist me through Marrion. Should she choose to reveal that I defended an assassin against her, I fear for the stability of Lotreshia. It could sew the seeds of secession.”

“You’ve let a sniveling cunt that wanted to play monarch for a day overtake your kingdom.”

“You see my dilemma.”

“That you’re an incompetent sack of shit with a misplaced crown atop his stinking head?”

“I shan’t try to maintain a facade in front of you. I’ve fucked this.”

“More than you know.”

“You see why I cannot just let you free?”

“What I see is irrelevant. Go back to your queen, sire, I think I can hear her calling,” the wanderer turned his back and started toward the back of his cell.

“I cannot release you,” Haldin continued as the wanderer walked away from him, “but like you said, you’ve cheated worse deaths than this, and should you escape, I don’t think that it would come as a great surprise to many.”

The wanderer turned, facing the king, eyes falling to his clasped hands held in front of his royal crotch. A key fell from them, clattering to the stone floor.

“Now there’s a true ruler if I ever saw one,” the wanderer said, heading back toward the king.

“Your gear is down the hall in the next room. You will wait for the guard to change six more times. By then, three days will have passed from my visit. After that I will send a message to The Wiry Eel addressed to one Germund. That message will detail where we are to meet next. You are not to kill any of my men in this process, assassin. Do we have an understanding?”

“I owe you nothing, Haldin. If you want your men safe, station them at other cells.”

“I’ll not have innocent blood on my hands.”

“Innocent blood is awash on your hands, sire.”

“Those men were enemies, traitors to my kingdom, deniers of my crown.”

“You think those were the only men I killed?”

Haldin glared at the wanderer, the youth fleeting from his face momentarily. He snarled, but said nothing. The wanderer knew that he wanted to, he knew that Haldin was holding back every kingly urge in his predestined body. It must have been hard for him. Too soft for a king, the wanderer thought, too entitled.

Haldin was well accustomed to the method of ruling, but he’d had no practice. An idealist, not yet hardened by the reality of his task. He had done well until now, but the wanderer suspected that was thanks more to luck and the presence of Lord Eerothe than to any aptitude Haldin had as a ruler. He still did not comprehend who the wanderer was, or even what he had hired him to do. People like the wanderer didn’t exist in the world of King Haldin. There were no snakes, no vipers, no Order of the Serpentine Shad, there was no Shadowskin to Haldin. Only men who respected the crown and those that didn’t. I should never have killed Baldwin.

Baldwin had known, he had been nothing if not…adequate. Yes, he clung to his nobility and his honor and his appetite for justice, but at least he didn’t buy into all of the shit that he spewed. Shame I never worked with him, the wanderer reflected. Would have made a fortune.

But he hadn’t worked with Baldwin. He’d slain him. “Kill no kings”, they’d said. “Leave no enemies, only corpses”. Haldin’s not the only one who’s fucked things.

“Remember this, sire,” the wanderer said, “you need me. I don’t need you. Do not become inconvenient to me again.”

“Zethiel, I know your kind, and if you were planning to kill me, you would have killed me.”

“I have no such plans, currently. That may change. This is your warning.”

“The wanderer giving me a warning? I didn’t take you for the type. Fancy me all of a sudden?”

“I like you well enough, sure.”

“You…like me?”

“Aye,” the wanderer said, picking the key from the ground and looking at it resting in his palm. “Remind me of someone I used to know.”

“Dear gods. I shudder to think of who you think I really am.”

“Steel yourself, king, he was of noble blood.”

“Oh? Not someone you killed I should hope.”

“No,” the wanderer said twirling the key to his freedom between his fingers, “not me. Not this time.”

The king lingered for a moment, but the wanderer paid him no mind. He stood fiddling with the key, marking its shape and edges. He knew that there was no way he could escape with the guards remaining alive. He wasn’t even convinced that he could escape with the king remaining alive. His plans had fallen to shit. He should have known better than to make such a novice mistake. He would blame it all on Garth, but truly, the wanderer knew that it had been his fault. He hadn’t kept his passions in check, he let his hatred burn too bright, and it had cost him, again. The Executioner had ruined him.

But truly he hadn’t, for the wanderer knew that he was at fault for that too. The Shades way was the right way, but he had veered too far from the path.

Footsteps rang out against the cobble walls again. The wanderer looked up from the key to see Haldin retiring from the dungeon. “King,” he called.

The king stopped, turning slightly toward the wanderer.

“Marrion of Naelgrad, he is an old man, is he not?”

Haldin nodded.

“Should you give the word…”

“No.” Haldin said quickly.

“There are other ways to kill besides blades and arrows, sire. A man so old, few would question it.”

“Listen here, assassin,” Haldin said, voice booming, “you will not mark me as one of your typical inbreeding murderous clients. I do what I must, but I am no kin slayer. Do not question my honor again.”

“You brought it up, Haldin. You wanted me to know he was the problem.”

“We’re through here,” Haldin said, continuing down the hall and out of sight.

“You cannot ask me to do it yourself, Haldin, but I know what you want,” the wanderer called after him, but the king made no reply.

Three days. The wanderer had three days.

And so too did the king.

The Wander: An Excerpt Part II (Epilougue [probably])

Iron manacles bit deep into his wrists, working through the soft flesh. His naked back brushed against the stone wall as he swayed, suspended by steadfast chains. The Executioner woke, warm blood trickling down his arms and chest. He opened his eyes but the only vision that greeted him was a distorted blur of darkness. He blinked, trying to shake the confusion away. The sound of cackling embers and scraping metal filled his ears as the warm easterling winds caressed his bare midriff. He wasn’t in Naelgrad anymore.

His eyes followed the sound of the scraping metal and settled on a figure bent over an anvil with his back turned. His arms were pumping, sharpening, sharpening the knives.

“Shadowskin,” The Executioner said, his voice dry and raspy.

The figure did not turn, did not even take notice that his prisoner had awoken. The sound of the scraping metal continued to ring out. He fears no attention. Either he has me, or soon will not.

The Executioner knew that he shouldn’t have let the assassin go. So stupid. So juvenile. He knew the man would hound after him, he knew that he wanted him more than he could have possibly wanted to escape. He should have sent him into the abyss.

Oh, but how could he? That look upon his face, so tormented, so pure. So wonderful. How could he bring himself to end that kind of suffering with death when life would be so great a burden to endure?

“I shall hurt you where you hurt me” he had told him. And oh how I did. He did not know how he would when he had told him, but he had in the end all the same. But now the game was done. Now he will have me.

What good foresight he had had, not killing the woman when she first approached his camp. The other Shades had wanted to, but she was only one, and a female at that. The earls did not send women to do their work, and so he had told his companions.

Even still, he was wary of her, especially when she asked for his private attendance, and even more so after what she had offered. It seemed like a ploy, like a spy sent to misdirect him. But if it were a spy, it was not one of Shadowskin’s design. He would not be so stupid as to think that the woman wouldn’t have been killed on sight, and a miracle it was that she wasn’t. But it was also unlikely that the old wind seer or the honor bound graybeard devised such a scheme.

“There are whispers among the men close to Lanis that it is not all of our lives that you seek,” she had said to him.

“The only lives I seek are the ones Lord Erothe instructs me to snuff out,” The Executioner had replied.

“And there are none that you would snuff of your own volition?”

He knew that she knew then, which meant that he had known as well.

“Shadowskin.”

“Who?”

“You know who, otherwise you would not have come. What have you to say?”

“I have an offer.”

“I certainly hope so,” he had said, opening his black cloak to reveal the dagger and chained hand axe on his belt.

The woman did not balk. “We know you are following us, but we don’t think that you know where we are.”

The Executioner had remained silent. Truth be told, his scouts had not been able to pin the location of their party, but she needn’t be privy to that information.

“I am willing to update you as we move,” she had continued, “on certain terms.”

“Why?”

“I have no love for him, this Shadowskin, but I do for others.”

The Executioner had smiled then. “Ahhh.”

The woman had not returned his gesture. “I will not hide it,” she had said, “we fear you. All of us. Him too, perhaps most of all. He does not say it, but he does.”

“That is where you are wrong, girl.”

“He speaks of the Serpentine Shade as certain death.”

“And indeed we are.”

“Every man fears death.”

“This man wishes for it.”

“Then I shall help you grant his wish.”

“So long as I harm no one else, is that it?”

The woman had fallen silent then, her face pointed at the ground, yet no tears welled in her eyes. He had marked her as a peculiar creature then. So desperate, yet so adversarial. So masculine.

“Is it too much to ask that no others be harmed?” she had said at last.

“Stupid girl. This is war, and two enemies do not stop slaying each other because one suddenly decides they do not like the manner in which their friends kill.”

“Then there are three that you are not to harm, should I hold my share of the deal.”

The rapidity of her response had surprised The Executioner. He could hear the sadness in her voice, the fear, but her face had hardly showed it, willing as she was to wager the lives of her comrades. A curious thing that she hated Shadowskin so passionately.

“And if I don’t agree?”

“Then you won’t get the information I have to offer.”

“Then I’ll kill you.”

“You won’t.”

“And why not?”

“Because if you want him dead as badly as I need him dead, you’ll hear what I have to say.”

The Executioner had smiled again at that. “Seems my endeavors aren’t so secret as I’d thought.”

“We took a captive.”

“And he talked?”

“Shadowskin said he was green.”

Or hired, The Executioner had thought. Erothe had been running low on good Shades and had taken to dressing mercenaries up to maintain his visage.

“Very well. Once every fortnight, starting tonight, you shall meet me 4 miles to the west of your camp at midnight to divulge where you plan on heading, as well as a count of your provisions, weapons, horses, and the like. In return, three members of your party of your choosing will be safe from our arrows.”

“How will you know where our camp is?”

“You will show us. Tonight. We will track you, and a fortnight from now, you will tell me whether Shadowskin lives or has died in the assault if I do not see his head for myself.”

“You will go…tonight?”

“My patience wears thin, girl. Who is it that you want spared?”

The woman had recoiled then, surprised by The Executioner’s lust.

“Arkinis and Derango of LaFetamier, and myself. I’d ask that you not harm the seer either, if it can be helped.”

“Where Erothe is concerned, it cannot be. But the brother, the lover, and the self. They shall go unmolested.”

The woman’s mouth had dropped at that, her eyes begging answers.

“Has Shadowskin taught you nothing? We may not know here your party lies now, but that has not always been the case. Your men will not be harmed.”

“But how can you-”

“Irrelevant how I know you, Isis, but know that I do. Remember that, should you decide to turn back on our offer.” Truthfully, The Executioner had not been in possession of any true leverage. The informants that had been placed in their war party had not returned for weeks, likely discovered by Shadowskin himself and disposed of at a time where no alarm would be sounded within the group.

The woman did her best to maintain her stoic visage. How young is this one? The Executioner had thought. No Shade, but certainly cut from a different cloth than the rest.

“You play a dangerous game, girl.”

“Not by my choosing.”

The Executioner had scoffed. “Yet here you are in my tent, alone, with no one to guide you, but not by your own choosing?”

“The world moves, in what direction I have no control, and if I do not move with it I shall falter.”

“Surely. But I don’t think you understand the gravity of what you have done here. Come. I have something to show you.”

The Executioner had led her deep into the Serpentine Shade’s semipermanent stronghold. He waved away his companions within the fort and took the woman down into the pit. He led her by the vacant bloodstained racks and curved and crooked instruments. He led her by the dimly lit piles of bones still covered in rotting flesh and shit where the prisoners had lived their last moments. He led her to the torture room.

“The Order of the Serpentine Shade has never been large, but oh how it has always been wealthy. And successful. Do you know why, girl?
If ever there was a face made of stone, it was hers then. Not even a grimace betrayed her.

“It is because we are efficient,” The Executioner had continued, making his way to a table covered in a lambskin sheet. “And do you know what makes us efficient? Do you? Do you know, girl?”

Her eyes met his, and then they shifted, growing damp.

“An intricate knowledge of the human body and all the parts that will cause pain when pricked, but not death,” The Executioner had approached the woman then. “Your chest,” he went on, slipping a knife from his side and cutting away the woman’s tunic. “It contains everything you need to draw breath, but not all in one spot, you see.” He had pressed his knife into her then, and she had screamed as the blood spilled out. She had went for her sword, but The Executioner spun her around and stuck her again, this time through the back. Another twist and a slash of his knife, and the woman’s sword belt clattered to the ground. He released her then.

“Deep wounds,” he had gone on, lifting his bloodied knife to his nose, “but so survivable.” He had pulled a stool over to him, beckoning the woman to sit. She shied away, grasping at her wounds, but it did not take her long to realize that she had no place to run. She eased her way onto the stool. He had then gone to work suturing her wounds closed. He had been delicate, pushing the needle through her skin rapidly but fluidly. It had seemed that the shock absorbed most of the pain, she hardly flinched.

“The brother, the lover, and the self,” He had said, tasting each word. “Tell me, girl, are you afraid?”

“Yes,” she had said.

“Ah, but not enough.”

The Executioner had stood then, having closed only half of a wound and returned to the lambskin covered table.

“How many of your friends have we killed?”

The woman gave no answers other than the flames in her eyes.

“How many, girl?”

“I won’t be a part of your games.”

“Ah, but you’re the one who wanted to play. Playtime is almost over, and then it will be time to work. How many?”

“Too many.”

“Were they dear to you?”

“Some.”

“Not all?”

“Some more than others.”

“What about him?” The Executioner had asked while pulling the lambskin off the table to reveal a naked bleeding man chained to a rack.

The woman had brought her hands to her face and this time let the tears stream. At last, The Executioner had thought.

“Blanthe,” she had sobbed.

The man raised his head, looking about. He tried to speak, but only a hoarse wheeze passed through his cracked lips.

The woman sobbed again.

“No introductions are needed here, I see.”

“Release him!”

“The brother, the lover, and the self, girl. This one is mine.”

“You can’t!”

The Executioner had flown across the room then, knocking the woman off her chair and onto the hard dirt ground. He pressed his leather boot to her throat. “You do not tell me what I cannot do. The the brother, the lover, and the whore self. He is mine, I will have him, and you will watch so you know what will happen to you should you forget the terms of our agreement again.” He had hoisted her up then and forced her closer to the table, dragging the stool behind so as not to further aggravate her wounds. He then reached for a curved sickle like knife and placed it in her hand. “You make the first cut.”

“What?” She turned to him, eyes puffy and flowing. The man on the rack was now weeping as well, deep sobs and gurgles surging from his tongueless mouth.

“Cut him. Do it.”

“It’s…it’s not part of the deal… I-”

“No, it’s not part of the deal, but you will do it all the same. Cut him, girl.”

“No…I…” she began to sob.

“Cut him, do it now or he’ll wish you did,” he took ahold of her hand then and guided the knife down to his prisoner’s midsection. As soon as the tip touched the flesh, she fought away from the Executioner’s grasp.

“No! No I won’t.”

“Stupid girl,” he had said and then turned to the man, “She did this to you. She made me do this.” The Executioner had then pulled out clamps and set them on the man’s eyes. Before the woman could make a protest, he had brought a tiny knife out across the his lids, severing them on both eyes. His scream shook the walls, and the woman shrieked.

“Cut him!” The Executioner had growled.

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she sobbed again and again as she brought the sickle knife across the man’s flesh.

The Executioner had pushed her out of the way then and finished the rest himself. He impaled the man through the chest, the same way he had wounded the woman, but instead of a knife he had used a sharpened metal pole, much like a spear, and ran him all the way through to the table surface, carefully gliding in between his lungs. Were it not for the frail state of his prisoner, he would have punctured him two more times. Instead, he took up a knife and had set to pressing the cool steel into the warm fleshy fingers. The skin raised around the blade, stretched as much as the biting edge allowed, and then erupted in blood-flow. The flesh fell away as The Executioner brought his knife round. The prisoner had cried out and the woman had cried. The tendons were severed, curling around the blade, coating it in a deep purple hue, and melting to the table in sopping pile. And then there was only bone left in his wake.

Always the hardest part with such a tool. Always the most unpleasant. It couldn’t be done slowly like it could to the pink, tender flesh of a man. The cut couldn’t be savored. It had to be fast, deliberate, effective. It had to severe, immediately. There was no time to absorb the cut, to feel the damage being wrought, to taste the agony. There was no new blood to flow, for what had been there before was already abound. There was no art to cutting bone. Only purpose. Only necessity.

The Executioner pressed his knife all the way to the table and straight through his prisoner’s index finger. The man cried out again, and had he been hydrated, would have shared in the tears that that crumpled woman in the corner had been weeping. The Executioner had picked up the severed finger with delicacy, twirling it about, examining it. A clean cut, he had thought, and indeed it was. He had absently tossed the loose digit aside then and set to starting on the remaining fingers. His prisoner might have protested or pleaded, he could not recall, so focused was he on his work. The first cut was superb. It was clean. It brought the doom into his prisoner’s eyes and drew the life forth from his veins. The second cut had been the same. And the third, and the forth. By the time The Executioner had reached his prisoner’s thumb the table had had its fill of blood and was spilling it over the sides. The Executioner had drawn out his salt bucket then and submerged his prisoner’s hand into it. Oh, such a cry as that from a man so broken. So horrified. So intoxicating.
The Executioner had run his hand over the table surface, coating it in blood, and had brought it to the prisoner’s own face. He was powerless to stop it, racked as he were, powerless and unable to protest as his tormenter lapped over his cheeks and his brow and his lips with his own blood.
The Executioner grinned as the man ceased to struggle, submitting to his fate, accepting his torment. A man so broken, there was never a greater sight.
The Executioner took up his knife again, and set to cutting round his prisoner’s wrists. The first cut was nowhere near as sweet as it had been with the fingers, but he had savored it nonetheless. His prisoner had already been broken, there was not much more that could be brought out of him, he was nearly expelled, but oh how delightful it was to confirm all of his fears. To allow him to know the certainty of his death, his torture. To have him know that he would never again caress his wife, or drink from a flagon, or stroke his prick, to know that he would have to watch as limb after limb, piece after piece, were cut away from his body and dangled before his helpless eyes.

His ecstasy was not long lived, however, as his prisoner died before he finished the first wrist. His body had endured all it could. A pity it hadn’t been a bit more. Such a pity, it always was.

The Executioner had crouched down to the woman then, close enough to smell her breath, and her tears.

“Do you see now, girl? Do you see the board you play on?”

She had given no response, but only to stifle her sobs and lift her eyes to his. He had matched her gaze, unblinking, hand ready to go to his axe should he need it.

“Are you going to finish stitching me?” she had asked at last.

“Hm?”

“The knife you ran through me, caused a lot of bleeding, or is that not accounted for in your ‘intricate knowledge of the human body’?”

“Easy, girl.” Cut from a different cloth indeed, he had thought.

Her wounds had been sewed in silence after that. The woman had composed herself well and nary blinked even as the needle pass through her pale northern flesh. Stupid, lucky, suicidal, but she did prepare herself well.

The Executioner had then led her to the main encampment, summoning most of his units to attendance.

“Know that my archers will have their arrows on you as you enter the camp,” he had told her before they had set off, “and I myself won’t be far from your back. Twenty five poisoned arrows and my chained axe. You will not live if you try to cheat us, do you understand?”

She had indeed. The Executioner had still had his doubts, all the way they traveled he was convinced that she was leading them astray, into a trap even. But she proved her worth when the first camp noises echoed throughout the wood.

“How have you hidden such large force so well?” he had asked her.

“We are not camped all together as one. Commander Garth Blighton has divided our group into six, spaced throughout the forest some miles.”

“Risky.”

“He knew that our full force would never stand up to anything Naelgrad would throw at us, and of course The Shades have never been concerned for numbers. This seemed like the best way to conceal ourselves without risking the destruction of the entire unit.”

“Clever. And Shadowskin is at this one?”

“Yes.”

“The seer too?”

“Naturally.”

“What of this commander, this Garth?”

“No.”

“Pity. You will take us to that camp next, I think, in a fortnight. You’ve served your purpose, girl. Enter, and know that you will not be targeted here, so long as you stay out of the fray.

“But the others, if I am not fighting, they will suspect -”

“Do whatever theatrics you have to, girl, but gods help you if you injure one of my Shades.”

The assault had started so well. The ring kissers fell like flies caught in a fire. That was, until seer had arrived. Until The Executioner’s injury…

That old fucking man. I wouldn’t be here now if it weren’t for him and his black arts.

But he certainly wouldn’t have been anywhere if it weren’t for the woman. How she had run into the brush, bow in hand, staring at the splinters protruding from his legs. She could have killed me there. She could have done what Shadowskin and the seer could not. But she had not. What had she said then, was it, “They’re coming, run!”? He had remembered laughing and looking at his leg. The only part of him that he thought would be doing any running was the blood from his veins.

He had managed though. The woman had turned to check where her comrades were and when she had turned around The Executioner had all but vanished, though all he had really done was nestle himself into the rotting bark of a dead tree. A wonder it was that the seer did not come looking for him to see if his work had been finished, but of course there were always other snakes in the grass ready to bite.

Shadowskin had lived that night, but the woman stayed true to her word and met with The Executioner a fortnight after. His wounds had not recovered, his flesh still festered where the splinters had taken to rotting and the healers hadn’t been sure whether one of his legs would require amputation. Nevertheless, she had approached his envoy and held her end of the deal. And she continued to. A fortnight after that, and a fortnight after that, and a fortnight after that. She relayed the location of her camp, the supplies it contained, the sick and the wounded, and most importantly, what Shadowskin had been planning.

She proved to be quite the asset over time. The first few meetings were tenuous, awkward at best. Such hatred in her eye. It was not seldom that The Executioner pondered whether the woman would rather see Shadowskin or himself drowning in blood. But she grew accustomed to the meetings, and something hardened her somewhere along the line. Perhaps it was the death of her lover. While, in truth, the pact they had made was of little import to The Executioner, he had not planned the lover’s death. An unfortunate thing indeed that that tusk had found its mark in his chest, but the woman did not fault the Shades. Such was war. Such she had learned. A smart girl.

But not overly smart. Oh how she lusted after Shadowskin’s demise after The Executioner had recovered enough to fight again. Each new meeting she grew more anxious for another attack, and each new meeting The Executioner had disappointed her.

“Has something changed? Have the Shades forgotten about him?” she had asked after one of their meetings.

“Nothing’s changed, girl. These things take time, I’ve told you. Off with you.”

“These things didn’t seem to take so much time the first night.”

“Aye, and you see how well that went,” he had replied, pointing out his still injured leg.

“So when will you try again?”

“When the time is right.”

“And when will that be?”

“We’re done here,” he had said, starting off toward the Shade encampment.

“No! We made a deal!”

“A deal I’ve not broken.”

“But the wanderer still lives!”

“And soon he will not, but I cannot say when.”

“But Derango, he’s -”

“Dead. But that was not of my doing. We both know that.”

Tears had welled in her eyes then. “Please…you must…do something.”

The Executioner had turned toward her, approaching cautiously. “Tell me girl, for I am most curious, how has Shadowskin wronged you so for you to risk your life time and again to come to my treasonous meetings?”

Her tears had sparkled in the moonlight, running down her cheek as her face had risen to meet his gaze. “He’s an animal – no, not that. He’s a…a…”

“Machine,” The Executioner had said.

The woman had caught her voice in her throat. “Yes. He’s a machine. He’s worse than the others. He’s worse than you.”

“And here I thought you were just starting to like me, girl.”

“He kills and it’s just…that. He feels no pain, no anger, he just does it. To…anyone. He doesn’t think about it, he doesn’t think about anything. He doesn’t sleep, not like other men do, and Erothe. It’s the only thing in the world that matters to him. The rest of us, the rest of humanity, is just an obstacle to him, pawns to get what he wants. And what he wants is just more death! He’s insatiable, yet he’s so unaffected, so uncaring, so…so…”

“Evil.”

“Evil. He’s evil, gods be damned.”

“Mmm.” She knows. She understands.

He had taken her then, he did not know why. He still didn’t. But in that moment, he felt so connected to her, to another person, a feeling unlike any he had had before. Stripping flesh and searing skin pleased him well. Bringing that kind of pain to another, such a sensation! But the touch of a woman, this was something different. No pain, no agony, no blood spill, but how he had graveled in pleasure. And she had let him, kissing him deeply as he cut away her clothes. Breasts, untarnished, bare, warm and accepting. Such a sight.

And then he had been inside her, and that was something else entirely. Three quick pumps and it had been over, but it had been enough to incapacitate him. He had rolled back onto the cool wet grass under the shining stars, sweat and saliva growing cold on his face.

“Do you know how the Order chooses their Shades?” he had asked her later as they were clothing themselves.

“Do I want to?”

“They take them as children, all of them, that’s the only way. Once a child turns 9 or 10, they’re unbreakable. To break them would be to kill them, and dead Shades are as good as no Shades. Do you know who took me?”

“Shadowskin, I’d venture to guess.”

“No. Not Shadowskin. Fleshbreaker, my second in command, took me. But Shadowskin was there.”

“Is this why you hunt him so?”

“The woman had been my mother, she and I lived in a farmhouse. Small, cramped with others, but on the outskirts of Hardenberg. A safe place until the Order raided it. Set fire to the village, killed the women, took the men prisoners. Shadowskin was in his youth, he didn’t lead the party, but he was there. Came into the kitchen where the woman who had been my mother and I were hiding. He grabbed her, shoved her against the wall…started to undress her. I ran from underneath the table and tried to help, but caught Shadowskin’s blade with my face. Ran me straight down to my hip. The woman who had been my mother, she called out to me, told me to run, to look away, pleaded for my life. All the while, Shadowskin looked at me, paid her no mind. Bent her over and entered her. She cried, but he hadn’t cared. I tried to stand, tried to help, but I was dizzy. In the end, he cut her throat in front of me. And then he walked away. He left me.”

The woman had remained silent, head pointed at her feet.

“Do you see now, why I hunt him?”

“Yes…your mother -”

“Not my mother!” he had screamed, flying at the woman, pinning her to the ground, crushing her throat. “She was my mother. But no, not her. It’s because he left me, do you see? He could have finished me, he should have finished me! But he did not. He left me. And now? Now I am him.”

“But you’re not -”

“Silence, girl,” he had said, releasing her throat. “I need not your condolences, just for you to trust that I will find him. And I will kill him. Do you trust that?”

“Yes.”

“Then go. You’ve idled here too long already.”

That was the last he had ever seen of the woman. She had not returned to any of their meetings after. It had not pleased him to watch her fall in the end, but that small price to pay to see the look on Shadowskin’s face was beyond negligible. To feel him feel something, to cause him true pain, to hurt him where he had been hurt. It had been worth the life of one woman, the lives of two armies, the lives of five nations. But it was over now. Now it was Shadowskin’s final move. But he had lost. Truly he had. The Executioner had done what he set out to do, and he had done it better than he dare dreamed possible.

Shadowskin was almost done now, his knives sharp and heating in the coals. The Executioner still saw only his back, only the hunched silhouette of the man who had made him. The man who would now end him. Make no enemies, only corpses. He had failed at that, and now he would pay. But so too had Shadowskin, and so too had he paid. And paid so dearly.

A man so broken, there was never a greater sight.

The Wanderer: An Excerpt Of An Exerpt - A Preview of An Oncoming Post

The Executioner had pushed her out of the way then and finished the rest himself. He impaled the man through the chest, the same way he had wounded the woman, but instead of a knife he had used a sharpened metal pole, much like a spear, and ran him all the way through to the table surface, carefully gliding in between his lungs. Were it not for the frail state of his prisoner, he would have punctured him two more times. Instead, he took up a knife and had set to pressing the cool steel into the warm fleshy fingers. The skin raised around the blade, stretched as much as the biting edge allowed, and then erupted in blood-flow. The flesh fell away as The Executioner brought his knife round. The prisoner had cried out and the woman had cried. The tendons were severed, curling around the blade, coating it in a deep purple hue, and melting to the table in sopping pile. And then there was only bone left in his wake. Always the hardest part with such a tool. Always the most unpleasant. It couldn’t be done slowly like it could to the pink, tender flesh of a man. The cut couldn’t be savored. It had to be fast, deliberate, effective. It had to severe, immediately. There was no time to absorb the cut, to feel the damage being wrought, to taste the agony. There was no new blood to flow, for what had been there before was already abound. There was no art to cutting bone. Only purpose. Only necessity.

The Executioner pressed his knife all the way to the table and straight through his prisoner’s index finger. The man cried out again, and had he been hydrated, would have shared in the tears that that crumpled woman in the corner had been weeping. The Executioner had picked up the severed finger with delicacy, twirling it about, examining it. A clean cut, he had thought, and indeed it was. He had absently tossed the loose digit aside then and set to starting on the remaining fingers. His prisoner might have protested or pleaded, he could not recall, so focused was he on his work. The first cut was superb. It was clean. It brought the doom into his prisoner’s eyes and drew the life forth from his veins. The second cut had been the same. And the third, and the forth. By the time The Executioner had reached his prisoner’s thumb the table had had its fill of blood and was spilling it over the sides. The Executioner had drawn out his salt bucket then and submerged his prisoner’s hand into it. Oh, such a cry as that from a man so broken. So horrified. So intoxicating.

The Executioner had run his hand over the table surface, coating it in blood, and had brought it to the prisoner’s own face. He was powerless to stop it, racked as he were, powerless and unable to protest as his tormenter lapped over his cheeks and his brow and his lips with his own blood.

The Executioner grinned as the man ceased to struggle, submitting to his fate, accepting his torment. A man so broken, there was never a greater sight.

The Executioner took up his knife again, and set to cutting round his prisoner’s wrists.

The Wanderer: An Excerpt

The wanderer found him sitting by the dark pool near the cliff face. The moon was out and bright, but that made it no easier to see Garth through the midnight mists. His dull gray mail and plate armor blurred together with the still black waters, and what little cloth he wore was absorbed into the pool’s stillness as well. He sat upon a tide-smoothed boulder, staring into the black depths. It was late to be so far away from camp, though neither knights nor nomads has been seen in days. Still, Garth had enemies closer, from which no amount of scouts could protect him.

A knife to the back would be easy enough, the wanderer mused as he approached. One simple slip under his breastplate and I’ll be rid of him.

But no, it would not be that easy. It could not. Zethiel was ill liked enough by the men he himself had brought, a lone Pleostineon earl found with his throat quietly opened in the night would not win him any favors. Some of the Serpentine Shades could very well be lurking about, true enough, but even so, the soldiers would suspect him before them.

The wanderer was almost upon the commander now, so close he could hear him breathe. His heartbeat slowed and his hand instinctually went to his dagger. He licked his lips.

It could all end here.

But it mustn’t.

Zethiel slid his leg over the boulder and took his seat next to Garth. It was hard to tell in the dim light, and the earl did well to hold his composure, but the wanderer caught the momentary flicker of surprise in Garth’s eyes as they rose to meet his own.

“I’ve commandeered your boulder,” Zethiel said.

“To what do I owe your intrusion, viper?” Garth asked, barely moving his lips to make the words.

“Would you believe me if I told you that I have an affinity for dark pools of water and staring into them?”

“I wouldn’t believe you if you told me the sky was blue and that babes are made with cocks.”

“You wound me, commander.”

“I sooner would.”

“At long last, we sympathize.”

Garth grunted and rose from his seat and turned to head back toward camp. Zethiel noted his clenching fists as he did so, and how his left seemed to brush against his sword scabbard. The wanderer’s hand fell to his own. He thumbed the cross-guard and pommel and felt a sudden fire burning within him. No, he frowned, I am no novice. He let his hand fall to his side, extinguishing the flames.

The wanderer spun around on the rock, never bothering to stand. “Such a shame that our prize king got away. What an oddity that he was not with his royal guard.”

Garth did not move to reply, nor did he cease his walking. Zethiel leaped of his rock and followed behind at an equal pace. “No matter, I suppose. A lot of good his guard will do him next time I happen upon the last true king of the last true kingdom. While it does make them more tolerable, guardsmen just never seem quite as effective when dispossessed of their limbs. Seems you and your men finally proved of some value.”

The commander stood for a moment before turning around to face the wanderer. No amount of mists could hide the flames in his eyes. “What do you mean to say to me?”

“I just find it queer that you would cut down all of the men set to protect this king and then somehow allow him to flee past my grasp.”

Garth’s face did not move, so hard, so unyielding. His cold blue eyes met with Zethiel’s pitch black ones, but neither turned away, and neither blinked.

“The man deserved a nobler death than the one he would have received at the tip of your knife,” the commander boomed. So forward, Zethiel thought, so proud.

“You let him live.”

“I did the honorable thing.”

“Is sacrificing the lives of thousands of your men so honorable?”

“I need not answer to you, viper.”

“No, but you may have to answer to the men of Madadar.

Garth threw back his head and laughed. “You would threaten me with the judgement of my own kin? Half of the men of LaFetamier and all of the Pleostine would have done the same, you think any would give your accusation any weight?”

“Lanis would.”

“Lanis is but one feeble old man.”

“A feeble old man who commands the skies.”

“Then let him bring rain and we shall see how water fares against steel.”

“Such honor to threaten a lone old man with an army.”

Garth spit. “I needn’t stand here and trade words with a forked tongue serpent. Slither back to your hole, snake.” He turned, quickening his pace and Zethiel followed in suit.

“Are you so eager to have us all die as your father did?” Zethiel called to him.

The commander did not turn around, but even through the darkness Zethiel could see his sword hand was tensing. I have him.

“What does a viper like you know of my father?” he seethed.

“Only that he was killed by a viper like me.”

“How c-”

“It seems someone did not want the heir to the Pleostine to ever be.”

“The Pleostine has no heirs, we-”

“No, but you were to be earl commander regardless.”

“Commanders are chosen by the people of the Pleostine.”

“Or bought with power and gold like everywhere else.”

“You lie. I’ve had enough of your tricks, viper.”

“You think an outcast assassin has survived as long as I have without knowing every little secret in the shady underbellies of every city west of the last true kingdom?”

“And?”

“And?” the wanderer said, incredulous.

“And what of it?”

“And it seems the Pleostine, for all its honor, is no more lacking in shady underbellies than Whorestown. And it also seems your father was a stranger to neither underbellies nor the whores they belonged to.”

“You lie.”

“Do I?” Garth cocked his head back. Motionless eyes carved in stoic faces met again.

“You said you only knew that he was killed by one of yours.”

“I lied. Vipers are prone to that. I know much and more of your father. A man like that doesn’t escape the notice of the Serpentine Shade so easily, even half a century after his death.”

“Who?” Garth was fuming, and even with his back turned, Zethiel could tell his chest was heaving, though the rest him appeared still, save his clenching hands. So well trained. Limber too. He would have made a decent Shade.

“I know little of the circumstances, and care even less. The assassin was sent for your mother though, and you as well, tinier and so much less honorable inside her. It is not often that a Shade is killed before he can make his bounty, but your father saw to it that this one was.”

“Why do you tell me this? What are you?” Garth seethed.

“I tell you because your are twice as fierce as you father ever was and three times as feared. And that son of yours is even more fierce than you.” Suddenly Garth went very still, even his hands. If he breathed at all, Zethiel could not tell. He knows what he must do, but it’s too late to quell that rage. Fool. “The price on his head, I won-”

The commander spun, tearing his hand and a half longsword from its scabbard and charged. The knife, Zethiel thought as he came on, the knife would have been so much easier.

Rage had not completely robbed Garth of his wits, it seemed. He swung at the wanderer once with a quick one handed slash and doubled back in time to guard against any counter. Zethiel drew no weapon, but only jumped back out of range as the blade came on. Another slash came his way, and again he jumped back. A feint had him jumping out of range a third time, but then the earl charged him and made an overhead cut which forced Zethiel to duck just beneath the arc of the blade before retreating again.

“You’d strike an unarmed man with naked steel?” Zethiel said in the accent of the Pleostine.

The mockery was lost to Garth in his rage. “Vipers are never unarmed,” he said and pressed again with a two handed attack aimed to take out the wanderer’s legs.

“Vipers have no arms,” Zethiel said as he hopped over the slashing sword and continued to retreat. I’ll soon be against the cliff face, he noted, that will not do.

“No arms, but poison and deceit and hidden fangs,” said Garth as he took a wide swing that the wanderer easily sidestepped, attempting to flank the earl, only to feel his iron-clad shoulder barrel into him and force him back into his retreat.

And he knows that will not do. “The old dog learns.”

Garth continued to press Zethiel with quick slashes, giving himself enough time to recover and force the wanderer back. Zethiel saw no break to unsheathe his sword and his daggers would be useless against the range of Garth’s blade. The wanderer kept his hands open, hoping to find a place to catch Garth in one of his strokes and disarm him. The commander earl never gave him the chance, and Zethiel was forced against the cliff face.

His feints were flawless, his strokes pure. If there was ever a perfect fighter, it was Garth. Zethiel had known of his prowess before, but even after watching him in battle, he had never expected such precision out of a foe so blind with anger. The wanderer found his hands creeping towards the pouch at his midsection, monetarily forgetting that his precious smoke capsules were spent. Damn.

The wanderer darted to the side yet again, and found Garth’s shoulder forcing him back against the cliff face. The commander earl followed with a diagonal swipe aimed to cleave the wanderer from neck to nave. A perfect strike. Zethiel could retreat no more, soon he would be pinned against the encroaching rocks. Dodging left would sacrifice his shoulder and dodging right his hip. The only way to go was forward.

The wanderer ducked low and rolled under Garth’s swing, the flat of the commander’s blade grazing his hooded head. He rose, slender curving sword in hand, and faced the commander just in time to deflect his backswing. The blow was hard, and fast, and Garth was quick to recover and deal out another that the wanderer had no hope of parrying.

He’s stronger than any man past 40 has any right to be. Fast too. Even adorned in his plate and mail, Garth’s strikes were fluid and sure and he boasted no signs of weariness. Rage flooded his eyes and fueled his pumping arms. He did not relent in his assault on the wanderer, even once Zethiel regained his footing and found even ground with the commander. He pressed him hard and he did not slow. He’s not human.

Zethiel tried to step away from most of Garth’s attacks, fearing that his blade would not hold up against a direct blow from Garth’s longsword. The wanderer took to deflecting his swings when he came too close, but even that effort left his arms aching. He saw openings where he could have darted inside of Garth’s reach and strike at him with his shorter sword, but he knew that his blade would not likely pierce Garth’s breastplate anytime soon, and he knew that Garth knew this as well. At times the commander made no effort at all to protect the center of his chest. Goading me. I’ll not take the bait.

But he had to make a move. Garth would find a weakness soon and the wanderer had not the skill to close all his openings to that man. He went on the offensive, throwing his blade up over Garth’s incoming arching swipe. The commander’s attack turned into a parry, as Zethiel had anticipated. The wanderer brought his blade back and out again, but Garth easily side stepped his thrust.

“How hungrily the snake lunges,” Garth sneered and pressed on with his own thrust.

Zethiel turned his blade aside and momentarily felt the fire within him again, but was quick to quell it. But it was hard. Oh, how he hated that man, hated him with a passion that could only be rivaled by the hatred he bore Eerothe. But why? Garth had never wronged him, not directly, and it was rare that Zethiel ever found himself particularly fond of anyone at all. But why such loathing for this man? This commander whose only real fault was falling to the stupidity that is inherent in all that occupy his station in life. He is no different than the others.

But yet…he was.

It’s because of the captain, Zethiel reflected as he ducked beneath an overhead strike and answered with one of his own. I like the captain.

And why he bore that man any amiability was another mystery entirely. They’re the same fucking person cut from different colored cloth.

The wanderer jumped back and let Garth charge him, attempting to spin around and cut his hamstring. Garth caught him unaware, however, feinting at his gut but bringing his blade up suddenly at the wanderer’s neck. Zethiel’s sword rushed up to meet Garth’s and their steel sang as the commander’s blade was caught mere inches from the wanderer’s flesh.

Two hands clenched around his hilt, Garth followed through with his swing and continued to press the blade further toward Zethiel’s throat. The wanderer shifted the angle of his own blade and turned away Garth’s. The commander’s sword went out wide as Zethiel batted it away in circular motion. He moved in to strike at Garth’s ribs…

…when a mailed fist slammed into his face.

The wander plummeted backward, dazed, but had enough foresight to roll over his head and continue his fall, avoiding Garth’s follow up strike that surely would have finished him.

Zethiel sprang to his feet, his sword out in front of him even as the pain began to wash over his skull. He wiped the blood from his eyes and prepared to retreat from Garth’s oncoming assault. I will not win. I cannot. It was only a matter of time. He had known from the start that Garth would prove a difficult foe, but never did he anticipate this kind of perfection. No, Garth was very different than the others of his cloth.

But no assault came. No charge, no strikes, no game of parry and dodge. Garth did not advance. His sword was not even raised. Zethiel remained in his defensive pose, poised to spring into action the moment Garth made his advance, but it never came. The fight was over.

“I said what are you doing?” a voice called from the wanderer’s left. Arkinis.

“Sparring,” Garth said flatly, eyeing Zethiel as he spoke.

“With live steel?” Arkinis pressed, none too convinced.

“As my enemies are wont to do,” Zethiel answered, returning Garth’s look.

Arkinis’ eyes widened and he pointed at the wanderer, “You’re bleeding.”

“As my enemies are wont to do,” Garth said, sheathing his sword.

Arkinis eyed them both before resting his gaze on the wanderer. Zethiel opened his palm to him and gave him a slight nod. Arkinis only cocked his head in reply.

Garth started off toward camp as more onlookers began to come into view. Most bore torches and some were fiddling uneasily with their weapons. The sound of ringing steel had made them restless.

Garth found a group of his men and turned back to where Arkinis and Zethiel were standing. “That was a bit of fun, viper. I should like to do it again some time.”

Zethiel looked up and met his eyes once more. “I wouldn’t.”

Garth smirked. “Good,” he said, and then walked off.

The other men who had gathered began to disperse once they saw that whatever had transpired had come to a close, but Arkinis stayed by Zethiel until they were out of earshot.

“What the hell was that?” he whispered harshly.

“Calm yourself, boy.”

“Calm? What did you think you were doing? Lanis told you -”

“Gods damn what Lanis said.”

“He grows angry, Zethiel. You cannot keep at this.”

“Lanis needs me.”

“He needs an army more.”

“And I need him not at all.”

Arkinis sighed. “There’s no getting through to you. Once you went missing he sent me out to find you. When I found out Garth was gone to I feared I was too late.”

“Hm. I think you were just in time.”

Arkinis stopped in his tracks. Zethiel turned and faced the boy. “You mean to tell me he would have killed you?” he asked, trying to keep his voice as low as possible.

“What? Nonesense. We were merely sparring.”

“Zethiel, I -”

“Of course he would have killed me. Use your ploughing head, boy.”

“But, why then?”

“Because I don’t fit into the class of people that he deems worthy of survival. Also, I told him I would sell his son’s life.”

“No, I mean why did you…fight him?”
“Think about it, boy. The earl commander of the Pleostine is found by a secluded lagoon with a single knife strike in his throat. Who is going to be blamed? Even were it not me to do it, I would bear the fault of such an act. But for Garth to die in full combat…why would I agree to such terms if I meant to actually kill him? The men of Lafetamier would have to accept that Garth acted first and I slew him out of necessity and the men of the Pleostine…well they’d follow Garth if he led them off a bridge.”

“Only you didn’t slay him.”

“A minor technicality.” The wanderer brought a hand to his face and when he pulled it away it was coated with fresh blood. My ploughing head.

“Lanis may have something for that.”

“I suppose the old man has need of me.”

“He’s not happy.”

“He never is.”

“Something you two seem to have in common.”

“You mistake me, Arkinis, I’m thrilled to be in your company.”

“There could always be worse.”

“You’re right. I could be surrounded by competent men at arms. Then I’d never be able to plot their deaths after they exceeded their usefulness.

Arkinis shrugged. “Lanis is in his tent. If you’re planning on killing him as well, I’d suggest your more routine method. Your face was hard enough on us all before Garth’s fist, gods only know what Lanis might do to it.”

Arkinis retired and Zethiel made his way up to Lanis’ tent, nursing his face all the while. The boy has grown through this all, Zethiel thought, not enough, not enough to survive it, not yet. But it’s a start. He couldn’t say for certain why, but the thought pleased him.

The wanderer stepped through the flap of Lanis’ tent and found the seer’s back turned to him. He was bent over the map, muttering curses to himself. Zethiel seated himself on one of the empty wine barrels at the tent’s entrance. “You sent for me?”

“Why do you hate him so?” Lanis asked exasperated, not looking up.

Zethiel made no effort to conceal his actions from the old man. “He’s inconvenient.”

Lanis’ head shot up from his map. “Inconvenient! Yes, that must be it. Everyone seems to be an inconvenience to you.”

“Aye.”

“Yet you do not hate us all with such fervor.”

Zethiel remained silent. He knew the old man wanted answers, but he had none to give. He did not even know them himself.

Lanis turned away from his map and faced the wanderer. “No, you certainly do not like any of us, you’ve made that clear, but this vendetta you hold against Garth…that is unique. What has he done to you? Why do you seek his ruin so?”

“He hinders our cause -”

“He hinders your cause.”

“Are they not the same?”

“The end, yes, but not the means.”

“He hinders it nonetheless.”

“But don’t we all? Arkinis, Isis, Derango, Garth, Mirothis, myself. Do we not all hinder your cause? As far as I can tell, the only difference between myself and Garth in your eyes is that I do not feel the same hatred for you that you feel for him.”

“I am hated by many men, that is not what is so loathsome about him.”

“Then what is?”

Zethiel fell silent again. He looked down at his hands coated in his own blood, the blood of his folly. “I do not know.”

“You are not this creature as you have been. A monster some call you, and aye, you may be that, but not such a stupid one as you have been tonight. In your quest to blind Garth with his hatred for you, you failed uncover your own fiery veil. Your own anger could have been the death of you.”

Zethiel’s eyes did not move from Lanis’. He had no words for the seer. He was right, as he always was.

“The captain,” the wanderer muttered at last.

“Mirothis? What’s he got to do with any of this?”

“He and Garth. They want each other’s heads.”

“And?”

“And the captain aids my cause.”

Lanis tilted his head back and breathed in deeply. “Oh. I see.”

“It all goes back to Alicibar.”

“Mirothis was quite fond of him as I recall.”

“The captain knew him well. Perhaps even better than I.”

“I think that what you’re trying to tell me is that you consider Mirothis your friend.”

Zethiel broke away from the seer’s gaze and gave a puzzled look. “I hope not. I don’t want to have to kill Mirothis.”

“Do you normally kill your friends?”

“Usually.”

“Pity. But you are making his enemies your own for no other reason than that they are his. It appears there is at least one of us who you look at as less than an inconvenience.”

“It’s not just the captain. Garth and his father were ever the scourge of Alicibar. I never bore any love for those of the Pleostine.”

“Many in this camp feel the same way. But we need Garth, Zethiel. We need his strength.”

“No, you need his strength. He and his men are inconsequential to me.”

“But you need me, and I need his strength.”

“That is where you’re mistaken.”

“Unless you’ve learned how to destroy a daimon in your tumble with Garth, I am still your only hope of ever killing Eerothe.”

“Damn you, old man.”

“You will not fight Garth again.”

The wanderer scoffed, motioning at his torn lip and crooked nose, now caked in drying blood. “No, I certainly will not.” At least not on his terms.

Lanis eyed him suspiciously. “Whatever loyalty you feel toward Mirothis -”

“It’s not loyalty.”

“Whatever it is, do not let it blind you into doing something so utterly stupid again.”

“We need to be rid of him. His actions push us further back, delay our progress, and he’s -”

“And he’s an enemy of Mirothis.”

“That matters little.”

“Oh, I disagree.”

“Fuck off, old man.”

“Zethiel, I have no desire to match my words against yours anymore than you do, but you cannot severe what tentative ties we have to the Pleostine. I need them, and whether you choose to accept them or not, that means you need them, and they will not follow us without Garth. We need Garth. You need him. Do you understand?”

“You’re a con. You tie my hands with the promise of Eerothe’s death, but hold me as a slave to your will.”

“If you weren’t so difficult to trust, I wouldn’t have to.”

“And how am I supposed to trust you?”

“You’re not. You’re to obey. If you do, you have my word that you will receive that which you want, or we shall all perish. If you do not, you will not receive what you want, but shall still perish nonetheless.” Lanis said the last few words very slowly and as he did the air in the tent grew heavy and the shadows cast stretched longer against walls. The wanderer inhaled, and as he did, he felt an invisible noose tightening around his neck. “Do we understand each other?”

The wander raised his eyes to meet Lanis’ cold stare. “I’m afraid we do.”