Wearing an insidious grin, the man peered out at Randel. The unnerving glint of lust was almost enough to make the mercenary look away. 

“Are you sure you don’t want a go at her?” the man asked, clamping his hand over the woman’s mouth as she thrashed around in the bed, trying to escape his grasp. Naked beneath him, she was as white as a ghost against the silk, maroon sheets, her eyes filled with the kind of terror that only those who knew they were going to die could muster.

Glancing at the woman with stormy eyes, Randel betrayed nothing of what he thought. He regarded her in silence. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She screamed against the hand over her mouth. “No,” Randel said, looking out the door again. “Finish your business. We didn’t come here for you to collect souvenirs, and I won’t be caught dead inside this estate. I’ll be outside.”

The pockmarked man atop the woman released her mouth, and when her scream pierced the quiet room, he backhanded her with such force that it no doubt loosened some of her teeth. Disoriented moans replaced her fight. Brasshin reached for his blade. “Have it your way.”

Slipping into the hallway, Randel closed the door behind him to block out as much of what he knew was to come, and ducked into the shadows created by the alcove opposite the room. He crouched, listening for footsteps, the telltale sign that they had been found out. There were none; no one had yet discovered their bit of business. 

Aggressive grunts and crying came from the room across from him. He ignored it, turning his attentions elsewhere. There was a certain code he followed, and rape was not part of it, but there was little he could say to stop a man like Brasshin. At this point, he refused to try. Still, it was that code that made him one of the most feared men of his profession: his cold, calculating gaze and expressionless countenance were enough to drive even the most stalwart of men to blanch. He did his job, and he did it well, without any distractions. Those distractions, no matter how pleasant, were liabilities he could  not afford to take, and if Brasshin didn’t finish his business soon, then Randel would leave him.

If it weren’t for the ease with which they had infiltrated the noble’s estate, and subsequently assassinated him, there wouldn’t have been any time for momentary pleasures. But, as was Randel’s way, the job was clean, fast, and quiet. As far as Brasshin saw it, that afforded them play time. The noble’s daughter saw it as anything but.

Moving out of the alcove to a nearby window, Randel surveyed the streets, the bone beads at the end of his long, silky black hair clinking together with his movement. It was a quiet night, lonely except for the occasional beggar or enforcer. They did not glance up at the windows of the noble’s walled in estate, nor did they pay attention to the dead men slumped behind the gates; the estate guards that were no match for practiced hands. Everything seemed perfect for their escape.

Of course, their route through the aqueducts beneath the estate had been a painless entry, but there was something about being thorough that Randel enjoyed. It was for that reason that, should they need to escape outside, they had made certain to take care of any odds and ends beyond their intended means of exit. That included the men lying dead outside.

Behind the door, there came a scream. Randel closed his eyes as that scream ended abruptly. There were sounds of struggle, then it was silent. The door behind him opened, and he looked over his shoulder to see Brasshin closing the lid of a box. Inside, he could see the edge of a blood soaked silk cloth pulsating weakly. He then wiped his hands clean of blood. Randel shook his head.

“Finished? You have her soul now?” Randel asked, betraying no hint of his annoyance.

Brasshin pat the box and smiled, but Randel did not return it in kind.

They were quiet, peeking around corners, and moving with practiced grace from dark hallway to dark hallway. No one crossed their paths; all those who had were already dead, stuffed in side rooms, or closets that were artfully jammed. If anyone wanted to follow their trail, they would have a time of it.

Eventually, they came to the stone stairs descending into the bowels of the building where the servants lived. Randel held up his dark hand, his bone beads clicking together. Listening, he let the thrill of the hunt pound through him. Knowing the measure of a man’s life, and holding it in his own hands, stimulated him. Death was real, and he controlled it. When his heart settled enough for him to concentrate, he listened. No one followed them. The pair started down.

It was quiet. Brick gave way to great chunks of drab stone, wooden doors recessed every twenty or thirty steps. Placards with the names of different servant families were mounted outside each. As they passed the third door on the right, it opened. A head peered out.

“It’s done,” Randel said, undoing the pouch at his waist. He reached in, taking care not to jingle the crown inside, and grabbed two silver.

Smiling, the man staring at them from the room held out his hand. His eyes grew when both silver crown were deposited in his palm. “He was where I said, then?” he asked, all black teeth and foul breath. Randel stepped back a step.

“Yes.”

“His daughter, too,” Brasshin commented. He opened the box to show the dying heart he had cut from her chest. The servant frowned, but said nothing.

“That’s payment for the information,” Randel said. “Don’t contact me again.”

Smiling, the servant nodded. He bit into the coins, then waved them at Randel and ducked back into his quarters. The two mercenary looked at each other, and started away.

Everything seemed to have gone too well. The ducts beneath the estate, unguarded just as the servant had said, led directly beneath the kitchens, and could be entered from the basement. The guards had not been ready for an assault from two trained mercenary sent to assassinate the noble. A simple job. The kind Randel liked.

Ducking into the recessed archway leading to the basement, the two men took the stairs two at a time. Further down, rats dodged their footfalls, water stains painting the stones. More than once, Randel stopped their descent, holding his hand up to listen. Nothing floated from the depths.

When they reached the bottom, Randel waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, then made his way between the stacked crates to the sewer grate in the middle of the circular room. He felt along the pillars holding the ceiling aloft until his toe bumped into the edge of what he sought. Bending down, he gripped it. “Help me with this,” he whispered to Brasshin.

“Gladly,” came a voice.

Flames flickered into existence, and the two mercenary pulled their blades. In a semi-circle before them stood a small group of men wearing cloaks the color of night, their faces obscured by hoods and bandanas. Each gripped the hilt of a short sword, the light from a singular torch reflecting off the blades. Only one stood weaponless: a man in the center, dressed in attire too fancy for the muted realities of servant life, but not regal enough for the role of a noble. He smiled. 

“Well, well, well. What do we have here? Two mercenary out of their element? I didn’t think Noble Cristof kept such company, but, then again, I don’t think it was company you two men came to keep, was it?” the man asked, his blue eyes trained on Randel. They shifted to Brasshin. “Brasshin,” he said with a laugh, “I knew without certainty that you would accept this job, but” -his gaze shifted back to Randel- “Mister Gaylin... I didn’t think you would reduce yourself to such pittance.”

Randel looked at the men. They were poised, ready to pounce, but something about the way the man in the center carried himself meant that it was at his command that they stayed. Randel would have to remember that. “Who are you?” Randel asked, his attention back on the man in the center.

“The name is Randolph.” He sighed. “Mister Gaylin, why is it you always seem to find yourself in hot water whenever the opportunity presents itself? What’s this been? Your seventh, possibly eighth time at the point of a blade?” He shook his head. “You don’t learn, do you?”

“Who are you?” Randel asked again, stressing the words.

“I told you my name,” Randolph said, smiling.

“Names mean nothing to me. I go by many.”

Tapping his lip, Randolph nodded in agreement. “You do, but Randel Gaylin is your given. Wasn’t your father once a-”

“Don’t you dare mention my father,” Randel said, taking a step forward. The blades came up towards his chest.

Randolph lifted an eyebrow. “Bit of a touchy subject, then? Fine. We won’t speak of it.” He twisted the edges of his thick, black mustache. “My given name doesn’t matter; you will call me Randolph. What I want from the both of you is obedience. I knew I would find you here, in the Cristof Manor, and I knew that I would find you tonight, on his estate. Randel, your knack for timeliness betrays you.” Randolph laughed. “That is your undoing. You see, when a man knows he has enemies, he takes... proper precautions. You wouldn’t have come tonight had you known that, and you wouldn’t have attempted to murder Noble Cristof. But because you did... well, let’s just say, the man who lies dead in a silk covered bed several stories above us is not the noble you came for.”

The two mercenary shared a look, but neither betrayed what they were thinking. Randel had thought something seemed too perfect. Not even the best jobs went as smoothly. Now he knew why.

Randolph continued. “Oh, but you didn’t know that when you slit his throat in his sleep, did you?” He inhaled sharply. “What is this? Randel Gaylin didn’t know he slayed the wrong man? He didn’t see the face? He didn’t know that it was an associate, someone he knew from years ago, who was to be executed in the coming weeks and just so happened to have a certain likeness to a noble that lives in this... very... estate?”

Randel looked at Brasshin again.

“You, of course, handled the job brilliantly. Bravo.” Randolph clapped. The echo reverberated off the walls all alone in the circular room. It abruptly stopped. “There are bounties on your heads; a ransom of crown worth more than the capital’s penal budget, even. You two gentlemen have been hard to locate. And, if I recall, it’s dead or alive.” Randolph shook his head. “You have been a thorn in my side for sometime, and here we are, at the end of our journeys. It seems... fitting.”

Without anyone noticing, Randel slowly fingered his dagger, feeling for the blade. He hid the hilt with his wrist, gripping the blade’s tip and letting the weight of the hilt tilt the weapon so that he was fingering only the blade itself. He had to wait for his opening. Looking quickly over the men to his left, he counted how many steps apart from each other they stood, and with which foot they carried their weight. That was knowledge that could not be bought.

“There are two outcomes to this scenario,” Randolph said, “you can come quietly or you can come after a painful, but brief, struggle. What will it be, gentlemen?”

Before anyone could blink, Randel pulled his arm back and, with a practiced wrist, flung the blade at Randolph. It hit home. The man grunted and stumbled backwards. He looked down at the blade stuck in his chest, between two ribs, right in his heart, and collapsed to his knees. Blue eyes came up to Randel, and the man fell face first onto the cold, stone floor.

Everything became a blur. Just as Randel predicted, the man furtherest to his left came first, swinging from right to left with the weight of his swing in his leg. Randel moved into him, pressing his left side against the man’s arm and taking the brunt of his maneuver. That gave him momentum as he jammed his forearm into the man’s adam’s apple and pulled him around directly into a swing from another blade. Randel managed to rip the blade from the man’s hand. He retreated, letting the man fall to the cold stone, and disappeared among the boxes and crates stacked to the rafters.

Losing sight of Brasshin, Randel moved, catching men as they came after him. Another one fell before he knew what had hit him. Shadowy figures danced along the wall from the fallen torch. Randel dodged a swing just in time, but wasn’t lucky enough to dodge another. It cut deep into his shoulder. Reeling from the wound, Randel brought his sword arm up and parried another wild swing from the man.

There had been six, not including Randolph. Randel searched for Brasshin as he retreated, but didn’t see him among the fallen in the center of the cellar. Blood pooled and dripped down the drain which had been their intended means of escape.

The man before Randel came at him when he ambled back into the clearing, swinging madly. Randel parried, ducked one of the man’s wild swings, and charged into him with his shoulder. He dropped his short sword and grabbed for the dagger still at his waist. The hilt of the man’s weapon came down on his back, and he grunted with the impact. Before he could manage another blow, Randel twisted his dagger into the man’s gut, and pulled. He could feel the metal slicing through the man’s abdomen, warm blood spilling from the wound. The man lost weight to his movements, and Randel turned the blade up. Viscera slopped onto his hand. He rose, pulling his blade from the man’s midsection, and glared as he slid to the floor and cupped his hands over his belly.

Pleading eyes came up, but Randel would not see them. His code of honor did not allow any prisoners. These vultures wouldn’t have taken any. Without remorse, he plunged the dagger into the man’s head. Vacant eyes stared back. Randel put a boot on the man’s chest, and pulled his blade out.

Peeking between the boxes and crates, Randel listened for Brasshin. If the mercenary had been killed, then his assailant would still be there, stalking Randel. Peering around corners, he slipped between the rows, listening, his dagger at the ready. He would not be surprised a second time.

Randel came to a halt when he turned another corner on the outside edge of the cellar. Hunched in the darkness was Brasshin, his little box open beside him. Two disgusting little items were partially hidden by its open lid. Brasshin reached over and closed it, then fastened the clasp, and dropped it into a pouch tied tightly to his side. He rose, and turned to Randel. On the other side of him lay a man, gutted, his lifeless eyes staring out at nothing.

“Are you finished?” Randel asked.

“Yes,” was all the big man had to say. Blood dripped from his fingers.

Randel bit his tongue, and moved back to the center of the cellar. Randolph lay in his own blood, partially covering the opening to the drain.

“We have a problem.” Randel looked back to see if Brasshin was paying attention. His eyes were fastened on Randolph. “They knew where we came in. The guards we murdered... might have been mercs paid to protect the noble.”

Brasshin grunted. Lustful eyes stared at Randolph.

“Up here, Brasshin,” Randel said with a snap. He directed two fingers to his eyes and pointed them at Brasshin’s. “We don’t have time for this. Soul or no soul, they know we’re here. There are two outcomes to what they have planned: Randolph manages to subdue us, or kill us, and drags our bodies out the front door, or we kill Randolph and figure out a means of escape. If they were smart, then they know we won’t use the aqueducts. If they were smarter, than they know that Randolph won’t stop us.”

“Right,” was all Brasshin had to offer.

Randel didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he listened for footfalls, a sign that others were coming to offer Randolph help. There were none. “At best,” he said, “we have a few minutes before the estate is swarming with guards.”

Brasshin grunted again. “Who is he, anyway?” he asked, gesturing with his chin to Randolph.

Annoyed, but interested all the same, Randel bent and rolled Randolph’s body over. He fingered for anything identifiable, and came away with a small gold medallion around the man’s neck. Groaning, he held it up to Brasshin. 

“I say we have less than a few minutes,” Brasshin said once he’d seen the symbol.

Randel peered at the symbol again: a fist clenching a gavel with a bolt of lightning behind it. He dropped it down the drain. “If the Justicar are the ones who planned this, we need to move. Now.”

That was all Brasshin needed to hear. The two made their way back up the stairs, listening every dozen steps. Servant doors flashed passed as they ran the length of the hall. None opened in their wake, but Randel felt the urge to open one and see what rats dwelled behind it. He knew that they had been given up by the servant, persuaded, perhaps, by the Justicar. They didn’t have time to met out the justice he deserved.

The stairs seemed to stretch into forever. At the top, Randel held out a hand, and listened. Somewhere on the northeast side of the building, he could hear running. Leather against stone. It was coming closer. Waving Brasshin forward, he slipped down the hallway in the opposite direction. They had a few seconds at most. If they could...

A glance out a courtyard window told him how much time they had: none. The Justicar had come. Men swathed in dark robes, and darker cloaks, moved between the rose bushes in the garden, blades glinting in the night. The dead bodies of guards the two mercenary had killed lay undisturbed where they had been dragged and hidden. Randel moved away from the window, deeper into the complex.

Two left turns later, he jiggled the handle of a door, then used the blade of his dagger to force it open. A windowless closet with a large grate in its center stared back. Motioning to Brasshin with his head, the two ducked inside and closed the door.

“What’s the plan?” Brasshin asked, glancing around the room. It was drab and unimportant, shelves with mundane items lining two of the walls. Randel studied the drain.

“I saw a dozen Justicar in the courtyard. No doubt there’s another dozen or two already inside.” Bending down, Randel poked at the bolts holding the grate in the floor. Two of the four were loose enough to pull out. The other two were tight. “I didn’t see any city enforcers. This is the Justicars’ jurisdiction. Laws don’t apply.”

“So we’re dead?”

Disappointed with the grate, Randel rose and went to the door. He put his ear against it and listened. “Hardly.”

“You know something about the Justicar that I don’t?” Brasshin whispered. “Every mercenary they have gone after and found has ended up dead. What happened in the basement was luck. That won’t happen again.”

“The Justicar aren’t infallible. They have numbers-” Randel suddenly whipped the door open and lunged at something in the hall. Plunging his dagger into the chest of a man, he dragged him back into the closet and deposited him on the floor, then closed the door. “-And they’re good. That’s all.”

Wide eyed, Brasshin stared down at the dead Justicar. He bore the same dark clothing and dark hoods as the men in the basement. A quick search uncovered the medallion around his neck.

Randel went about the work of unclothing the man. Finished, he held it up to Brasshin. “He’s your size. Put it on.”

The big man donned it. “Now what?”

“Now we leave.”

“I-”

Leaning in, Randel lowered his voice. “Now, we leave.”

Comprehension lit Brasshin shadowy face. “I like the way you think, Randel.”

“You can like it when we’re outside on the streets.”

Randel opened the door and gestured for Brasshin to follow. They dashed down one hallway and then another, checking around corners for more of the Justicar. Seeing none, Randel angled them towards the gardens. If his summations were correct, there would be less to worry about in the night than in the brightly lit estates. The Justicar believed them to be trapped. Randel would remedy that.

Peeking around a corner, Randel saw the Justicar before the man could see him. He ducked back around the wall, Brasshin crouching close beside.

“One guard is at the far door,” Randel whispered. “Play the part.”

Brasshin nodded and rose. Feigning defeat, Randel clasped his hands around a dagger behind his back and marched around the corner. Brasshin pushed him for added  effect. The mercenary glared over his shoulder.

The Justicar turned and watched them. Betraying nothing, he glided towards them, pulling his short sword from its sheath. His dark eyes flicked around the pair, seeing if any others accompanied them.

“Justice Randolph?” the man asked, coming within a few feet of Randel. It was all the mercenary needed. Without hesitation, he crossed the distance before the man could pull back his arm to swing, and plunged his dagger into his ribs. He covered the man’s mouth, silencing his scream, then gripped his throat to choke the life from him as he gurgled his last breaths. Finished with his work, he quickly disrobed the man, and donned his attire over his own. It was a touch too small, but it would have to do. Brasshin stood beside the door looking out.

“Is anyone coming?” Randel asked, wiping his dagger on the man’s pants that he now wore.

“No.”

“Good.” Randel joined him. “Let’s keep it that way.”

Beneath the light of a wall lantern, the two opened the door and peered out. In the darkness beyond the circle of light, Randel couldn’t see if any Justicar were lying in wait, but he knew they would be. Not all of them would have searched the estate. From what he knew, the few times that he had ever been aware of Justicar presence, there would be half a dozen stationed at key points around the perimeter, watching to see if their prey managed to escape. Wearing the Justicar symbols, the two mercenary would have to blend in.

The two split, Brasshin heading one way, and Randel the other. Randel slinked along outside the estate, periodically peering to study the windows above. Trained eyes would believe he was seeing if the quarry had been flushed from its hole. But he glanced outward as much as he did in, searching for one or two of the Justicar near the perimeter wall. Before he got far, he saw one, crouched beside a portcullis leading to a side street where the top of a stable and storage shed tried to hide behind the high wall. Using the tall, ornately trimmed foliage, Randel crept between the leaves, keeping low. He knew that man had seen him, but he didn’t know if the man’s vantage point was completely blind to Randel’s prowling.

“Why hide, brother?” a voice asked from the other side of the tall bushes.

Randel froze. Rising so that his hood could be seen, Randel glanced sideways at the man. “Because you never know who might be creeping in the night, brother.”

The man laughed. “You speak true.” His mirth disappeared. “You’ve come to report?”

“Yes.”

“Have they been found?”

“No, they have not been found.”

The man was silent for a long moment. Randel glanced out of the corner of his eye to see the man studying him. “What of Justice Randolph?” he asked, finally.

“Dead.”

“It’s a shame,” the man said slowly. “Justice Randolph had potential. But this was not unforeseen by the other Justices. They knew it was a mistake sending Justice Randolph in for the priority alone. He did not know what this... mercenary is capable of.”

“He did not.”

“I will let you in on a secret,” the man said, lowering his voice. “The other Justices despised him. This will put them at ease. Now they can focus on more important matters.”

There was deception. The Justicars were not as tightly knit as once thought. Randel would have to remember that if he ever met them again.

The door to the estate banged open, and someone came out waving their arms.

“What is this?” the man asked. Before he could take a step, Randel swung his dagger over the leafy barrier and plunged it into the man’s neck. He stumbled and went down, taking Randel’s dagger with him.

Cursing, Randel ran for the portcullis as the man at the doorway shouted back into the estate. He scaled the wall and dropped down on the other side, rolling. Diving into open alleyways, he lost the cloak and jumped fences, falling into backyards, and ruining flowerbeds. When he was far enough away, he stopped and ducked down behind a fence to catch his breath and listen. He could hear yelling several blocks away. 

“Rand.”

Randel tensed, looking around, grabbing for daggers that weren’t there. His gaze went to the cracks between the fence. “Brasshin?”

“Glad to see you managed to get out.” He went silent. “Stirred up the hornets nest, huh?”

“I suppose,” he said, reclining against the fence. Another minute or two, and they would have to move. “How did you get out?”

“Front gates.”

Frowning, Randel looked at the fence. “No one was guarding it?”

“There were two Justicar, but I’m not as fancy as you. Earned myself a nice gash for my troubles.”

“No one was manning the front door?”

“Not that I could see.”

Randel rose and wiped his pants off. He scaled the fence and dropped down on the other side beside Brasshin, who sat in the dirt holding his arm. The cut was deep.

“You need to get that looked at,” Randel said, offering his hand. Brasshin took it and rose.

“You know someone good?”

Nodding, Randel moved. The pair entered the streets away from the estate, and kept moving, running and keeping to the alleyways as best they could. Randel angled them to the west.

“What do we do about this, Rand?” Brasshin asked when they stopped to catch their breath and listen. “Botched job and Justicar aren’t exactly tick marks I want next to my name.”

“The job wasn’t botched, because there wasn’t a job,” Randel said, peering out the alleyway. “It was from the Justicar, and the Justicar only. We were paid money that they didn’t mind losing.”

“That doesn’t solve the problem with them. You want them looking for you day and night?”

The corner of Randel’s dark mouth turned up in a smile. “You forget where we stay? You think a Justicar would be caught dead in the Covent district? You think anyone in Covent would give us up? Long as we keep to our own until things cool down, we’ll be fine. After that, who knows. It’s an open world out there.”

Blood dripped from Brasshin’s arm. “I guess you’re right. A Justicar would have to have a mean pair to come looking for us.”

“Exactly.” Randel pulled back from the opening and eyeballed Brasshin’s injury. “Now, let’s get that taken care of so you can add another scar to your collection.”

Brasshin laughed. “I like the way you think, Randel.”

 

Cheering erupted around the cathedral as Reverend Miscalf stepped from the podium. The crowd surged forward to shake his hand. He was a God among these sheep that followed his every word. And why wouldn’t they? He brought them salvation. He knew the error of the ways of man, and sought to rectify them. He was the savior they needed.

“Reverend, your words have changed me,” a man said, shaking his hand and bowing.

“You realize the error of the old ways, and embrace the new ideas that make our kingdom great.”

“Reverend, you are an inspiration!”

“No,” he said, letting the word hang above the heads of the gathered, “you are an inspiration. Your struggle drives me forward to other cities to fight this fight.”

They drank his words, parting before him and following in his wake, awed by his very presence. He was ushered to a side room, and turned to address the crowds one final time. Vacuous stares greeted him; minds that could be molded.

“In the coming days, we will fight, and we will win. We will not let the north have their way with us. They will know devastation of a kind never before seen. And we will stand in the ashes of the old lies, with our heads held towards the new dawn. This, my friends, is what the future holds!”

Applause, cheers, all meant for him. He smiled and slipped through the door as it was opened behind him. Once closed, the voices beyond were muffled. Candles came to life in the stone corridor, and the men with him said nothing as they escorted him down the hallway, up flights of stairs, and around the innards of the tower. It was a good day for a revolution.

The procession came to a door, and one of the men knocked. A voice answered, and the door was opened to allow Reverend Miscalf inside. He entered without thanking the troupe, and closed the door behind him.

“Have a seat, Reverend,” a man said. He gestured to a chair across from himself at an enormous fireplace that filled one of the room’s walls. The others were lined with shelves.

Reverend Miscalf sat, and crossed his legs. He wore the smile of a man who knew his worth, but knew better the worth of others he could use. The man before him was one such individual. “It is done,” the Reverend said.

The man rose from his seat and walked to a table. He poured something bitter from a glass and took a swallow, then poured another and handed it to the Reverend. The Reverend took the glass. 

“You have done well in driving these people to madness. They believe what you say, Reverend. Even I am beginning to believe the words you weave.” The man cast the Reverend a dark glance. “There is something to be said for your words. You spin them eloquently enough, a skill that others could only hope to possess.”

Stroking his chin, the Reverend pulled his gaze away from the fire crackling in the hearth and looked at the man in the chair beside him. His smile was thin, without teeth.

“There is a fear in the north, you know,” the man continued. “They know that you are the wolf, the one who has driven these people to the brink. Some have sought to have you displaced.”

“But you would not let that happen,” the Reverend said.

The man shook his head. “My blade for you, Reverend. It has always been that way.”  Pulling at his black goatee, the man stared into the flames. “That is not why I say these things, Reverend. I say them, because we are changing the lay of the lands. We are creating a new people, a new world, a new ideal. That is what we are doing. When all has been finished, and we are no longer the people who live in the south, but the people who have all of the lands from sea to sea, we will be your people.”

“I have no ruling ambitions,” the Reverend said.

“You misunderstand me, Reverend. I do not mean that you will rule these lands. You will, however, rule the souls of these people. They will turn to you for spiritual guidance. That is far more powerful than any gavel or sword.”

Smiling, the Reverend took a drink of the liquor in his cup. It was sour enough to twist his tongue. “These people will be their own people. They will live their own lives, and they will-”

“I know, Reverend, what you have done.”

The Reverend looked at the man confused.

“You are the wolf.” The man rose from his place, his eyes locked onto the fire in the hearth before him. “You are powerful beyond all reason.” He reached down and grabbed for the sheathed blade beside his chair.

“What is it?” the Reverend asked, rising. “What are you doing? 

The man looked into the Reverend’s bewildered eyes. “I have seen how you warp men. My blade has been in the service of you, Reverend, for all these years, and I know the truth of what you seek. You didn’t think I would forget so easily, did you? What you told me all those years ago? Your ambitions?”

“Guards!”

The man looked at the door, but no one entered. Pulling the blade from the sheath, the man stalked towards the Reverend, who backed away.

“Nothing will come of this,” Reverend Miscalf said. He lifted his hands before him as the man was upon him. “You can not stop what has begun.”

“I don’t seek to stop it. I seek to mold it.” The man pulled his weapon back and ran it through the Reverend’s middle. “We are wolves, Reverend, you and I. You have moved these people with a singular mind. Now, I will move them with a singular blade.” Blood soaked the man’s hand as the Reverend slipped from the sword.

 

For the second time today, Theodore read over his notes, knowing that what ever it was he was missing would be the very thing that spelled out how he could avoid the outcome that would soon transpire. If only he could find it.

The longer it went on, the harder he was finding it harder to reason against this one specific outcome. For all the obvious reasons, the south deserved it. Serious transgressions had come from the south, sanctions and snubs that were unwarranted. Those could not go unpunished. Yet, he still didn’t understand why it brought war.

Going over his notes, he read about broken treaties -- treaties that dealt mostly with stolen cattle, and faith-based indoctrination. Not anything that affected an entire kingdom. It was trouble caused by a few bad apples, and not an empire.

Empire. The word tasted sour. If he labeled an entire people with such an ugly word, then he was only doing the very things that others were doing around him -- accusing without ever really knowing the truth.

Then again, overtures had been made. Many, in fact, had been scribed by his very hand. Just last week he had made a plea that fell on deaf ears, and sent a letter by courier to one of his southern counterparts. Their reply was terse, and filled with the kind of venom that made lesser men blanch. Theodore only crumpled it. Maybe they deserved this.

Setting his notes on the table, he went to the window and stared out into the dark night. Tomorrow. He could see the distant camps on the horizon, where the edges of the two kingdoms met. With a word, he could call them back, tell them to forsake the stupidity of what they were attempting, and return to their families. But how would that look, now that the people sleeping in the cities below his tall tower were red with murder? How would it look if their king could not see his war through?

“Your majesty?” a faint voice called from the doorway behind him. He turned to see a woman, skin the color of brown sugar, jet black hair spilling over her shoulders. She watched him with eyes like melted chocolate. She was beautiful in ways he could not begin to describe. “I didn’t mean to disturb you,” she said.

Crossing the room, Theodore took her into his arms. “How could you ever disturb me, my love? You are my wife.” Her smile stole his breath away. Leaning down, he whispered, “And call me Theo when we are alone.”

Their lips met and parted. “I will, my maj- Theo.”

He brought her to the window, so that she could look out at the kingdom below them. Their kingdom. His by birth, and hers by marriage. “Do you see it?” he asked. “Tomorrow, it comes to an end, Carmelia.”

“Don’t say such things,” Carmelia said.

“I don’t mean the kingdom, though there may be truth in that, since we have had a tenuous relationship with the south for many years, and we have no way of knowing what awaits us. No, I don’t mean the kingdom itself. I mean the peace.” He leaned out the window. “Do you hear it? That quiet is the peace that my father, and his father before him, managed to carve from the bowels of the beast that once warped these lands.”

“Do not blame yourself,” she whispered, leaning against him.

Putting his hand on the small of her back, he looked into her eyes. “I can’t help but feel that there was something I could have done. Anything.”

“Did you not try?” she asked. “Have you not made overtures to them?”

Theodore nodded. “A great many,” he said, returning to the notes on the table across the room. He had just recently made yet another, and it had been ignored. Ignored like all the rest. Searching through his text, he came to what he sought. His council had suggested a trade route on the eastern end of the kingdoms, a place so far flung for both realms that, if things did go awry, it would not affect the politics of the day. At least that was his hope. But, no, his messenger had come back in a box. His limbs had been pulled from his body, and his head removed. Just another in a long of line of infractions that had brought them to the brink.

“This is for a great cause, Theo,” Carmelia said, wrapping her arms around him. He turned slowly, and smiled down at her. Their lips met, and the taste of her stirred longing. “Now,” she whispered, “let me help you forget about war.”

It was the for the best. She pulled him towards the far door, where the bed chambers lay. Walking passed the window, he stared out one last time. Tomorrow, thousands of his citizens would fight for a cause they did not understand. They would fight their brothers, who had gone over the border for work, or lived there, their ancestry hailing from the south. Just like his sweet Carmelia. He couldn’t help, but feel a pang of regret, even as he was pulled into the bed, and enjoyed Carmelia’s sweet embrace. Because he knew that no matter the outcome, he would be held responsible.

 

 

Carmelia rose. Theodore slept. She dressed quietly, cinching her belt around her waist, and tip-toed from the room. Stupid fool, she thought. If you had only known. But she had played every card correctly. She had won the game. And when Lord Brethin knew what the north had raised, that they were not to be trifled with, then he would pay. The south would pay. She had warned him that he would feel her scorn one day. That day had come. Now, an entire people would pay. And she would watch the blood spill.

“For too long, we have been subjugated by those who believe us wrong in our beliefs,” the reverend shouted to the congregation from the podium, thrusting his fist into the air. “No more! We will not be trodden on by those northern children who believe that their rights are more important than ours.”

The congregation cheered.

“It is for this reason that we will rise up and take what is ours. We will push back the northern heathens, and reclaim our rightful place among the stars. Among the world and the gods. We will not be denied!”

The room erupted in applause, and Corte stood to join them. He cheered, chanting in unison with the others. It was their time. They would no longer be made to pay for the crimes of years passed; they would be respected for who they were, and what they had accomplished.

“When the call comes -- and believe me, it will come -- you must answer it! Stand up and be counted. Stand up to the oppression that threatens our way of life. Stand up for yourselves!”

Glory. That was the only way Corte could describe their mission. It was for the glory of their people that they would march. He chanted with the others to Reverend Miscalf’s words. The man was a genius. He understood the ways of the world, the oppressive nature of their northern neighbors.

The chanting continued, even as Reverend Miscalf left the podium, shaking hands with people and moving among the crowd. Corte made his way to the front, grasping the reverend’s hand and shaking it vigorously. Then he was gone, moving on to others, answering questions and giving words of encouragement.

Corte made his way out into the night, the press of people thick as they swarmed from the cathedral. Some talked in low whispers, others sang of the glory that was to come. Corte stood alone, hands in his pockets. He walked a little ways down the street, and turned into an alleyway. Midway down the alleyway, he knocked on a recessed door. It opened a crack, then wider once the person inside saw who stood beyond.

“I’ll be damned. Corte, I didn’t think you would be coming by tonight,” the woman said,” what with the reverend in town and all.” She was painted up with thick red lips and dark blue semi-circles above her eyes.

Corte came inside, and walked passed her. “It’s the glory,” was all he said.

She shrugged, then closed and locked the door. “What ever you say. I just figured you weren’t making a stop. You usually don’t when something like this comes up.”

Unbuttoning his jacket, he tossed it across a chair, then kicked off his boots. “The glory inspires one.”

She made a face and shook her head. “Well, you have an hour.”

He shrugged, and the two disappeared into the bedroom. When he was finished having his way with her, inspired by the glory of which the reverend spoke, he put his clothes back on and slipped his feet into his boots.

“Do you really believe what he says?” the woman asked, exposed for all the world to see. “About the north being evil.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve met some people from the north. They weren’t all that bad. They just had funny accents.”

Corte looked at her. She was too ignorant to understand, using her body instead of her mind to make her way in the world. What did she know about people? If they had money, then she liked them.

“They’ve been talking about war, you know,” she said, laying back to look at the ceiling. Corte eyed her breasts. “Do you really think there will be one?”

“I hope.” He stood and looked down at her. “I won’t be back.” Then he was gone, grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair, and leaving.

The reverend was never wrong, and just as he had said, war came. There was a call to arms. Corte joined, feeling the glory rush over him. It was time to break free from the clutches of those that wished deliberate death upon them. They would crush the armies facing them, and reclaim what was rightfully theirs.

There was a great deal of training. When they weren’t training, they were listening to the reverend’s disciples, spread throughout the military to bolster the men’s confidence and morale. There was no need for them, because there was no second thoughts about what they were doing.

When the day came, Corte marched with the others. They crossed the hills and rivers. They passed farmers and sheep herders. And they came to the border of their lands. Beyond, the repressive north lay, staring down at them with harsh eyes. There was a time, when Corte was younger, that he believed men could do no wrong. He laughed at his ignorance. How could he have been so naive?

The enemy, just as Corte knew they would, crossed the border, violating the agreements from decades passed. They came to make war, and the southern armies moved to stop them. Men clashed against one another. It became a mess of bodies and blood, bowels and innards. Corte pushed into it all, swinging with the great glory that as inspired by the reverend.

He killed his first man, relishing it, knowing that the demon would no longer be able to spread his evil. He slashed again and again, until he came upon something that filled him with revulsion: a northerner clutching the body of a southerner. The northern fiend cried, grasping the southerner. Corte briefly remembered that southerner from some of his training. He was an educated man, if he recalled correctly.

Without a second thought, Corte came upon the northerner and slay him. Still holding the southerner’s body, the northern demon gurgled his final breath and slumped over. Corte spit on him. This was the glory of the south. This was for the glory that was rightfully theirs.

Lowering the paper, Daniel stared out at the world; the lush green hills, sheep herders tending to their flock, and farmsteads dotting the valley below. There was a time when he stood on the porch of his parents’ home and looked into that valley, wondering what lay beyond it, over the hills and mountains, to the south. He wondered about the people there, their customs, and their foods. Mostly, he wondered about the girls.

But Daniel was no longer a boy with wonderment in his eyes. He was a man, and there were chores to be done, harvests to be reaped, livestock to be sold or slaughtered, and children to feed. His children. The lands to the south held no mighty significance now. He had more important things to consider.

It had been like that until his brother, Brintol, the eldest of the two, had gone to study in the southern academies. When he returned, he told Daniel things that made him reconsider his early thoughts: the people to the south were no different than they. They worked the same lands, herded the same sheep, and loved the same stories. Their women were no more beautiful nor plain, their music no more rich, and their life no better.

That was why Daniel remained at home. His brother returned to the south, where he had met a woman, and the two corresponded regularly through mail. As the two families grew, they traveled back and forth, and Daniel was given the chance to see the south with his own eyes. They were, indeed, just as he.

That did not stop the bickering. There were politics, which Daniel paid little attention to. Accusations about stolen land and outright governmental snubs. Even the people Daniel had once known as level headed said some of the same disturbing vitriol that he read in the city gazettes. Routinely, when visiting Brintol, his brother told him that he had heard some of the same from people in the south. Those ideas were dangerous. Those ideas made men say strange things.

That was why Daniel wasn’t surprised to read that war would visit them; war that was spearheaded by vengeful men out to satisfy their lust. He folded the paper, rose, dusted off the back of his pants, and went back into the house. The northern men who made war would come seeking his participation soon. He wanted to make sure that his family was prepared, in case he did not return.

It was three days later when the men came. Leaning against his hoe, he watched them cross his field in their city attire, and deliver a summons. He had a week to prepare his things. That night, he told the rest of the family. There was crying, and anger.

“Uncle Brintol is in the south, though, pa,” Jeremy said, leaning on his elbows. “Does that mean you’re soldiering against him?”

“If the south is soldiering the same way we are,” Daniel said. “But Brintol is a man of the mind. I don’t see why they would send him out.”

The family thought about that, but Jeremy, the youngest of his three sons, couldn’t sit still. He was still trying to wrap his mind around all of it. “I don’t get it, though, pa. We’ve been south. They ain’t no different than us. The people look the same, and they eat the same things we do. What’s all the disagreement about?”

Daniel sighed. He turned to Jeremy. “Ideas, Jeremy. In some men’s eyes, that’s all the difference you need. If a man has an idea that is not your own, you slay him, no matter what. This is what drives men... and it’s what destroys us.”

His son didn’t understand. He would one day. Then he would sigh like his father, and shake his head sadly. No good would come of this.

Leaving his family was the hardest thing Daniel had ever done. He crossed the fields along with other men, outfitted in the gear that the military gave to him. There were some who wanted nothing more than to show the south their wrongs. Others were like Daniel, with family in the south. Some were even southerners who had come north to make a life for themselves. They were now marching against the people they loved, and the lands of their birth.

Crossing a wide river, and countless hills, they finally came to the border separating the north and south. The southern armies waited on the other side, ready for battle. Men were organized, standing shoulder to shoulder. Daniel’s heart wouldn’t slow its pace. Would Brintol be in that mass of darkness facing them? Would he meet his brother on that field? He never had time to think on it.

There were trumpets, and a great deal of surging. Daniel nearly lost his footing as men poured forward, pushing him towards the enemy. And the enemy came with a great yell. Pulling the blade from the scabbard at his side, Daniel met them, clashing with them. He screamed obscenities, not because he was angry, but because he was bewildered by the sheer amount of rage leveled at both sides.

The battle raged, and Daniel fought. He clashed with men. Some he even knew; Brintol’s friends. He spared their lives, and backed away. But it wasn’t until he saw a face he wasn’t expecting that Daniel stopped. Brintol stared back at him, blade raised.

“Brother?” they said in unison.

Daniel reached out for him, but a blade erupted through Brintol’s chest. His brother’s dark eyes widened, then he fell forward into the grass. Screaming, Daniel clasped his brother, rolling him over, but Brintol was already gone. Daniel looked up to see who had slain him, but there were too many faces flashing passed. Tears coursing down his face, Daniel held his brother.

Ideas had slain Brintol. Ideas, and man’s ambitions. Ideas that made Daniel and his brother nothing but pawns in some sick game.