Eldrich. The dancing floor of war. The scene of the Battle of The Greatest Loss.
His finger traced the carving on the obelisk, feeling name after name after name. When he reached the bottom, he came to line of text that commemorated “Those who fell for glory or for a better world whose bodies were found but whose names were not.”
Pouchii’s face turned angry now. How could the world do this to them? How could they be so un-thought of that no one even cared about putting their name on their gravestone?
Or did someone care about them? Were there people still sitting at home who, in vain, hoped that one-day their loved ones would return? People whose loved ones were dead. People whose loved ones would forever remain a number on a statistics sheet entitled “lost”. What could be worth that much? Why were people so willing to have their bodies dumped in a pit that overflowed muck and blood and have their names not even recorded as “dead”? And how could the world live, knowing about these atrocities?
Pouchii was lost in thought. Anger turned to tears that forced themselves from burning eyes. They pattered to the ground and mingled with the mess at his feet.
Suddenly he fell to his knees, sobbing in fury and grief. He raised his hands to the heavens in despair, rage silently screaming his injustice. The fluid soaked into his trousers, it’s cold embrace seeping against his legs.
His whole body shook and he hugged his legs to him in an attempt to still them. He gulped in great mouthfuls of air, his tears somehow drying on his face. He lifted his hands to his face, rubbing his eyes dry.
He had fought for this. He had fought for a new world. Was this what he had been willing to die for? A world devastated by shock, horror – but mostly death. Lots of death. Had he fought so that millions could die?
No, he tried to persuade himself. He had killed for life. He had killed so people could live in peace. In harmony. Not on this hell of earth. This mockery of life. This evil.
He tried to stand. His feet shook, however, and they collapsed under him. He hit the ground with a wet thud, and the boggy earth absorbed his impact. His face was smeared with nineteen-year-old-old blood. He glanced up at the pillar, towering above him. So high above him. A beacon of what he would have died for – and now he looked on it with contempt. How could he have fought and killed? How could he have wanted peace if he was willing to do this? He was a traitor to his own cause.
He pulled himself to his knees and looked long and hard at his hands. The bloodstains were still visible in his mind. An imprint on his conscience of all those he had murdered. The man he had struck down as he fled. The man he had stabbed through the chest, whose blood had spurted out in rivers. The woman whose head had rolled from her shoulders, engulfed in a rushing torrent of … he couldn’t go on. He tried to shake such images from his mind, but there was nothing he could do. Nothing he could ever do to erase his wrongdoings.
He hauled himself up, leaning on the obelisk for support. And it was then that he read the text at the very bottom of the inscribed script.
“In memory of those who fell defending peace”
And he remembered why they had fought. He had wanted to die so that the world could be free. So that others could live in peace. And for everything there must be a sacrifice. He had wished to be that sacrifice – millions had.
So, had they really won? Was war vanquished? Maybe. He had been told they had. The governments had been quick to inform him, and others like him, of their success. “War was dead!” they had proudly proclaimed.
But was all that death worth it?
He battered the doubt from his mind. Of cause it was, he told himself. The world was a better place now, wasn’t it? At least, that was what they had told him.
And anyway, if he had doubts now they were pointless. The time for deciding whether or not to go to war had long gone. There was no going back now, even if he had wanted to. And did he? Did he want to undo the work of billions of people that had ended wars all over? Did he want to go back on what he believed in? Or at least what he had believed in.
He turned away from the obelisk, his face somehow happy, despite it all. The world had changed. He could feel it everywhere. In the birdsong and in the people. In the streets and in the fields. In the Sun and in the Moon. He could feel peace in the air. Peace and Hope for a new land and a new life. They had all died. And yet out of this despair and misery and death there had risen hope and peace and new growth.
And then he started to laugh, partly with joy and new discovery, and partly with something very close to insanity. But it was a good insanity, a happy madness, and joy radiated through it. And now he looked at the mounds of bodies covered in grass with a new eye, looking not with sadness, but with fondness for those he had known and loved, who had died doing something worthwhile.
Then he raised his head and laughed to the heavens, and the sun seemed to emerge from its smothered position behind cloud, to soar overhead, and laugh with him. The world was fresh! It was reborn, beautiful, glorious and serene, a world he was grateful to have fought to create.
It was almost worth killing for. Almost.
But Pouchii could never forgive himself for that. He knew that. He had a heavy heart as he prepared to leave that slaughter field. And yet he now realised why he had fought. He could live in happiness. Almost. He knew he would always remember that day. And he knew he would sometimes regret it too. But right now he wanted that battle to have taken place. He needed that battle to have taken place. And why? Because he knew that he could never have lived at peace with himself if, even now, thousands of smaller battles were still being fought – because he could not have been bothered to fight for peace.
He would live out his life still respecting those he killed – still praying for those he had fought alongside. He would always live: “In memory of those who fell defending peace.”
That had been just last year. He’d thought it would be a bad idea to return, but he’d felt it was needed – he’d wanted reassurance, that Greatest Loss wasn’t a waste of life. That what he had done had somehow been worth it…
As if that could ever work.
But then, even as his mind drifted over the battle, he heard the stirring drums of war, the long shouts running echoing through the skies, and crowds on crowds triumphantly expiring, as clear as the day itself. And suddenly, he was there again, amidst the lines of Salimans troops, his musket in hand, and sword hanging heavily from his belt, amongst the howling crush of violence.
In front of him, a Fireian stood tall, in his red coat and high hat, his bayonetted gun pointing straight at him. Pouchii’s trigger finger twitched, and a fair few millimetres of lead smashed through the Fireian’s shoulder, making him howl in agony as Pouchii dived onto him, drawing his sword and slashing through the red coat, into the soft tissue below as he bled, shrieking as steel slipped in and out of his body. When Pouchii stood again, his white uniform was coated in gore, flecked with blood and splodges of mud, another enemy was dead. Just another couple of hundred million to go.
And then the main line of Fireians hit his own line. There was an almighty crash, and Pouchii’s musket vanished under trampling feet. He lashed out with his sword again and again, until his muddy palms were slick with lifeblood. A giant Fireian charged him, howling with rage, until Pouchii skewered him with his sabre, and even then he ran on a few haltering paces, before he thudded to the ground, still howling, just with more desperation.
Now Pouchii tried to withdraw his sword, but it was stuck fast. He turned from the gore-riddled puddle that the man now rested in, only to be faced by another Fireian, this one circling him with intent. He lunged out, his blade catching Pouchii’s side, causing him to gasp in pain, and twist away. Now he went for the red-coated Fireian, his hands twisting with no mercy, his fists ducking under his guard, snapping the sword-wrist with sickening ease. The steel dropped to the ground, and Pouchii loomed. His fists rained down onto the helpless face, cracking every bone he could reach. And, as the man twisted awa
y in agony, Pouchii stomped his heel down hard into the Fireian’s throat, forcing closed the vital passages for air, and bringing that well-oiled machine early to the scrapyard.
And now he slowly became aware of where he was. Standing, panting, in the middle of a room that was as dark as night itself, with the astonished eyes of Lord Sethlon and his two knights fixed onto him.
And then he glanced down, at the squishy form beneath his feet. He looked away quickly, stepping off the grisly human remains that squelched on the tiled floor.
“Assassin,” Sethlon explained, breezily. “Lucky you got him, really. He was going for Sir Cralton with a big knife.”
“Yes,” Cralton sounded rather wary. “Though perhaps next time you could keep your eyes open. It’s rather disconcerting when if you brutally kill someone without batting an eyelid mainly because both your eyes are tight shut.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.” Pouchii rubbed the sleep dust from his eyes.
“And snoring while you snap someone’s neck is generally considered inconsiderate.” Sir Marquel seemed less worried. He’d seen it all before. He’d been on the front line at Greatest Loss himself.
“Anyway, it’s nearly morning, so I suppose we could go and see if our friend the king has made any progress.” Sethlon sheathed his sword. Clearly he hadn’t had to use it.
“How can you tell?” Pouchii frowned. “It looks as black as it did last evening.”
“Watch.” Sethlon tapped the timepiece, and turned towards the door, which Pouchii noticed, for the first time, had been smashed in so that the lord had to step over the splinters as he exited.
“Ah.” Pouchii nodded, and then followed Sethlon and his knights out into the corridor.
It was just as gloomy and dim as when they had entered. The corridor now, however, was filled with men in black flapping robes racing up and down, looking important. All looked rather heavily armed to Pouchii.
“We’ll walk as if we know where we’re going.” Sethlon grinned. “I suppose we’re bound to reach the throne room eventually.”
They all nodded, and followed the lord as he strode purposefully down the centre of the corridor, causing all sorts of chaos amongst the walking assassins. More than one looked like he might draw a blade at the group, but Sethlon’s imperious stare made them bow and scraper before them. No-one threatens a Sethlon.
It took just a few minutes for them to worm their way through the vast tract of tunnels and passages that led to everywhere and nowhere almost simultaneously. Eventually they came to the very end of a long queue that led off down the corridor to a large door, which was clearly the same one by which they had exited the throne room last morning.
“Do you think there’s a way to get fast tracked to see the king?” Sethlon mused aloud.
“You could play the old ‘Sethlon’ card.” Sir Marquel suggested, and the lord nodded enthusiastically.
“The thirteenth Duke Klagen, Lord Protector of the Moons of Saliman, Honorary Knight Commander of the Royal Guard, Master of the Spire, Knight of the Realm, Knight Protector of Mythicalsis, Honorary Knight Imperial of Beauty, Honorary Knight Protector of Fire, Honorary Knight Royal of Rock, and Lord Commander of the Sethlon Sword and Steel Company demands entrance and audience with the noble and valiant omnipotent King of the Assassins, long may he sit the obsidite throne.” The Duke proclaimed in a loud and forceful voice, whilst starting to brush past the men in the queue. One man turned, his cloak flapping as he drew his dagger.
Sethlon barely blinked, and unsheathed his great sword, letting it slip effortlessly into the still air between them.
“Perhaps I forgot one title.” Sethlon’s voice was low and menacing. “Present Universal Fencing champion. Fancy a tussle?”
The man sheathed his blade without a word, and turned away. Sethlon let his sword slide back into its scabbard, and brushed past him with a little insulting shove in the small of the back. The man didn’t blink. Clearly he had heard of Sethlon’s reputation.
The doorway swung open before them, and the guards of the king bent their knees in homage to the lord. Sethlon threw back the hood of his cloak, and swept into the hall, his face proudly staring out defiant at the Assassin King and his court as they stood around.
“My lord Sethlon.” The King spoke clearly and with a certain amount of poise. “What may the Assassin King do for you this morning?”
“I have come to see if you have that information we talked about last time.” Sethlon smiled confidently. “About the Viscount Connection.”
“Indeed.” The King looked slightly troubled. “I believe the information you require may be acquired shortly, but…”
“I am sorry, your majesty, but what information is this?” A man to his left spoke, with a hissing Windian accent, and a sinister scar running across his cheek.
“Daviss,” The king turned to face him. “Lord Sethlon wanted to know who had ordered the death of Viscount Masala, so I said…”
“I cannot tell you, I hope.” The man scowled. “After all, there is meant to be a thing called client confidentiality.”
“Daviss, if I can just explain…” Sethlon started towards the throne.
“No, Sethlon, you will not.” Daviss hissed. “No-one threatens the obsidite throne, and no-one dares to try to learn the secrets of our assassin orders. This you must learn.”
“Daviss, really,” The king’s voice had lost its authority now. “I must demand that you…” Daviss raised a single gloved hand and pressed it down on his crown. The knife points slid downwards, slicing through flesh and bone alike, as the king’s final words became a long, drawn out howl of agony.
Daviss turned to the lord and his companions, his eyes narrowing to slits.
“What was it that you wanted?”
“You are going to tell me who ordered the death of Viscount Masala.” Sethlon sounded shaken. He drew his sword to emphasise his words.
“How dare you draw steel in the throne room of the assassins.” Daviss signalled to the attendants, and pistols appeared in every hand, pointing straight at the four of them. “You will be punished. And I suspect that the Marquess Von Frederick will be more than pleased.”
“He won’t when he hears that you told me that he paid you to kill Takka.” Sethlon edged towards Daviss, his sword held before him like a burning brand in the dim light.
“He won’t hear, will he?” Davis grinned, and drew his own revolver. It didn’t even twitch as he pointed it straight between Sethlon’s eyes. “Say goodbye to existence for me.”
Sethlon started forwards, his slow steps accumulating into a sudden burst of power. He ran, his feet pounding the tiled floor, as Pouchii, Marquel and Cralton all drew their swords in turn and charged the assassin gun line.
“So futile.” Daviss’ finger tightened on the trigger.
“Fire.” The word was clear, and echoed round the room. It was a cut-glass Saliman accent, and even Daviss looked confused as it reverberated around the hall.
And then the crossbow bolts hit. The assassins barely had enough time to realise that they were dying before they were stretched out across the floor, blood pooling through their black cloaks and gushing over the tiled floor. Daviss fell, his body slumped against the obsidite throne, and his unfired revolver hanging uselessly by his side.
Sethlon stopped running and looked up as twenty men with crossbows descended from the roof on ropes. Their faces were hooded, and their grey cloaks were fringed with white. One walked towards the lord, freeing himself from his rope as he did so.
“Thank Rosium you came in time!” Sethlon smiled enthusiastically. “I will make sure that you are richly rewarded…”
The man interrupted him with that voice again. “And why, in Heftun’s name, do you think I’m not going to kill you?” He pointed the crossbow at Sethlon’s heart. And, beneath the cowl of his cloak, his lips creased.
“Three reasons,” Pouchii walked straight towards the man. “Firstly, the agents of the House of Sethlon wou
ld probably string you up faster than you could say ‘fire’, secondly, I have this gun pointed straight at your head,” He cocked the revolver. “And thirdly, and most importantly, that crossbow isn’t loaded.”
“Quite right,” The man’s lips curved, as he holstered his weapon. “I’m The General, Saliman Secret Service – the SSS.”
“I didn’t think Saliman had a secret service.” Sethlon frowned.
“That’s how secret we are.” The General’s lips twitched again. “Anyway, I think we’d better get out of here quickly, before all hell breaks loose.”
“Quite right.” Pouchii nodded. “Any ideas as to how?”
“The front door generally works,” The General let his legs sweep over the tiled floor towards the great double door opening. “Even if it does require a little more violence.”
The Viscount Connection Page 7