by Jayden Woods
*
A certain smell always hung about the Royal Horde, Sean had noticed. It was not altogether good nor altogether bad, as far as he could tell, but a fluctuating mixture. Depending on the strength of the breeze, one might catch a strong whiff of the ram-wool from the soldiers and archons important enough to ride them. It was a bitter and musky smell, typically foul, but a smell Sean had known since childhood, and therefore not completely unpleasant. Riding that odor in smaller but more potent splashes was the aroma of peppers and spices, for the Vikand royalty was notorious for its love of trenchant flavors.
Whatever his opinion on it, Sean did not have to breathe a great deal of the army’s stench, for his wolf-mask protected him from its full pungency.
“Really?” barked a gruff voice. “You’d wear that mask now?”
The man who addressed him towered high above most other men. His shoulders bulged from both muscle and armor. Draga wool, the finest wool known to man and the hardest to obtain, draped his gold-plated armor in thick silver spirals. Judging by this and the heavy gold rings wrapping his arms and neck, he was royalty. His crisp blue eyes, coarse yellow hair, and boxy face provided yet another indication of his identity.
“High Chief Richard,” said Sean. “Why have you called me?”
“I didn’t.” Richard jabbed a thumb in the direction of a large carriage behind him. Metal rods and carvings framed the vehicle, showing off the best of Vikand’s metal-smithing. Bear hides hung from the roof to form the walls. Ropes bound two giant rams to the carriage, and their hooves scraped against the rocky earth as they stirred with impatience. Their spiraling horns gleamed with sharp metal spikes. “My father’s the one who called you.”
“Leonard Khan?”
“No shit. Now how about you tell me who you are?”
Sean just stared at him blankly through the wolf mask. He felt no need to point out the obvious.
“You know what I mean, shit-brains. Take off the mask!”
Sean did not move, except for a few of his fingers that twitched against his side. He would have loved to fling a throwing star into this idiot’s throat. But today Sean wore a simple tunic and trousers, so only a knife and a few stars were stashed in his belt. Besides, even if he wore his full outfit, he would not have enough stars to fight the Royal Horde. To tell the truth, he felt out of sorts in this situation. The few times royalty had come to call in the past, his father had been the one to answer them. And even then, the meetings had been discreet. A hundred hordesfolk had not marched to Wolven mountain just to give him an assignment.
So what on earth could this be about?
“I said take off the mask!”
Sean remained still.
“Friva-damn you!” Richard grabbed the hilt of his sword. It was a giant thing, nearly the width of his bulging arms, and the edge was serrated. Sean did not reach for his own weapon, but slightly adjusted his balance. The quickest way to best this oaf would be to use his own momentum against him.
“Richard, please hold your temper.”
A new man stepped down from the carriage. His face and coloring shared some aspect of Richard’s, but in all other things they were opposite. While Richard’s skin was leathery and coarse with hair, this fellow had the complexion of a baby’s; his round cheeks shone a rosy pink. He even had dimples. His blond hair was short and curly, as if casting a golden halo about his head. He wore no armor of any sort: only soft white linens. He lacked the muscular build of most men of Vikand; his frame—small though it was—more closely resembled the suppleness of freshly baked bread.
“Forgive my brother, won’t you?” said the younger fellow, swaggering closer. “He tends to draw his steel prematurely. As well as thrust it. You mustn’t fault him for it. He has been rewarded for such behavior all his life. As have you, I imagine.”
Picard grinned as if this clever observation should make them all friends. Then he put one fist against his chest and bowed slightly in the traditional gesture of respect. The right arm remained at his side, as it should, but in this position Sean noticed something strange about it. The arm seemed strangely shaped, as if the joints were uneven, and it also seemed disproportionately small. He wore a black leather glove on his hand that disappeared up his white sleeve. Buckles and straps covered the glove, criss-crossing every which way, and Sean also caught the glint of metal under gaps in the fabric. His other hand, meanwhile, seemed completely normal.
“I am Archon Picard,” the young politician went on. “Our father is Polemarch Leonard, also the khan of all Vikand. And you are a Wolven.” He took a step closer, squinting his big blue eyes. Sean noticed something odd about them. His eyes had a flatness to them, like staring into a stirred pond before the dirt settled. The gaze had no depth, or if it did, Sean could not determine it. “Won’t you tell us your name?”
“All you need to know is that I am Wolven. And if you have an assignment for me, you must tell me quickly, or I will return home.”
“Will you now?” Picard and his brother exchanged glances. Then Picard chuckled, as if sharing a joke with his brother, and snapped his fingers. “Fire!” he yelled.
Not much could startle Sean, but when Picard snapped his fingers, the Wolven flinched slightly. Picard made the motion with his right hand: the same hand wearing the ridiculous glove. If Sean had thought the arm was oddly-shaped before, he now hesitated to call it an arm at all. It did not move the way an arm should move. When the fingers snapped, they moved with uncanny swiftness, and made a clicking sound as if from within the flesh itself. Finally, Sean had noticed that just before snapping, Picard had pulled a strap of his glove with his other hand—almost like a trigger to set off the motion.
In any case, no one else seemed surprised by this, and a servant nearby even seemed to expect it. He walked up to Picard with a flint at the ready. Picard pulled a gray cigar from his tunic with his normal hand and held it up to the lackey. As the lackey struck the flint, Picard caught the spark, then sucked the cigar with great fervor. A flame caught and glowed red. When Picard exhaled, glittering smoke poured from his lips.
“There,” he said, his cheeks dimpling with a happy smile. “Now what were we talking about? Ah yes: you. I wanted to be polite and let you introduce yourself, but you don’t seem so inclined. Your name is Sean Wolven. Your father was Gray Wolven. He did not fulfill the most important assignment of his life, and so you have inherited it out of necessity. How was that?” He took another drag on his cigar, and for just a moment, the glitter of the smoke seemed to catch in his gaze.
Sean felt cold inside. He did not know how Picard knew his full name. But never mind that: a name was just a name. This didn’t trouble him so much as the rest. “What happened to my father?”
“If you want to know,” said Picard, “take off the mask and meet the Polemarch in his carriage. What does the mask matter anyway? I already know your name—as does everyone in hearing range—and even if I didn’t, I suspect I could pick you out of any crowd by those red eyes of yours.”
Sean wanted to take it off anyway. He could not see straight through the holes and his breath felt stifled by the ceramic. He only wore it because he thought it was expected of him, both by family tradition and royal etiquette. Often, hiring a face-less assassin seemed like a good idea for both parties involved. But perhaps Picard was right. Perhaps there wasn’t a point anymore.
“I’ll take the mask off once I’m in the carriage,” he said at last.
“No,” said Picard. “Do it here.”
Beads of sweat tickled Sean’s brow. What else could he do? Call Picard’s bluff and leave this all behind to climb back up the mountain? Or do whatever he asked and learn more?
His hand trembled as he grabbed the mask and began to pull. A welcome breeze splashed his face as he bared it. He lowered the mask to his side and reluctantly met Picard’s gaze.
“Very good,” said Picard. The archon’s expression increased Sean’s dread. Picard looked more pleased than he
ought to, as if he had won a much greater battle. “Now into the carriage. But as we go, I suppose I should forewarn you of one little fact. Your father is dead.”
Sean staggered mid-stride. He could not remember the last time in his entire life he had staggered. Picard watched it happen, for even as he pretended to shift his attention, his eyes fixed on Sean, and for a moment they looked like clear, bottomless pools.