The water level was low after the morning irrigation, so Philiastra jumped down inside, enjoying the splashing sensation of water as she ran. Despite all the time she had lived among humans, she could never feel quite at home in their cities. She closed her eyes, and tried to imagine that the buildings were trees, that the streets were dried riverbeds. That instead of symmetrical plots of grass, rigidly cut to a predetermined length, there were rolling meadows, and instead of a steady current of air from the fans around the gated community, playful summer breezes.
Somewhere at the back of her mind, shadows were gathering, but she pushed them aside. Customers liked to see a bright shining smile, and she didn’t want to let her father down ever again. It was important to arrive to work in a good mood.
The bells chimed the quarter hour, and she realized with some consternation that she wasn’t going to make the cross-town freight in time. Coming to a halt, she looked out over the silver district, sitting like a wedge between her and her destination. The clouds grew darker in her mind, but the thought of her father’s disappointed face shook her out of it. She would make him proud this time.
Launching herself over the side of the aqueduct, she slid down the embankment, rolling into a cartwheel just for fun. She slinked past the gatehouse where the hoplites lazily drank their morning coffee, and scurried into the opulent neighborhood.
Here the air was fresher, the streets cleaner. While there was an abundance of plant life compared to the rest of the capital, she took little comfort from it. Agonized bushes moaned at the unnatural shapes they had been pruned into, resembling a deer or an elephant, or some kind of serpent. Young trees strained against the bands that tugged at them from all sides, forcing them to grow straight like a spear in opposition to their natural design. It was difficult for her to ignore their pain. It emanated from every lawn and menagerie she passed.
Wood fireplaces belched smoke from every scaled chimney. The smell assaulted her, foul and bitter to her senses. It was almost as if the humans were intentionally trying to antagonize the trees here by constantly exposing them to the fumes of their incinerated brethren.
As she cut through a backyard, she could see ahead the tall walls with zig-zaggy staircases leading to her home district. She realized with joy that she would make it in time, and the thought of her father’s gentle approving eyes made her smile from ear to ear. Picking up her pace, she decided to sell a dozen cakes before nightfall. The lemon tarts had not gone over well the week before, and this would catch them back up to where they needed to be. As she imagined handing over the profits from so many sales, she got careless. Running too close to a slumped peach tree, she noticed it stirring at her presence, too late to react.
A root erupted from the ground and wrapped around her leg. With a loud yelp, she came crashing to the ground, knocking over a hippogriff statue and smashing a trio of urns.
“Please…” the tree creaked in its woody tongue. Its poor body shivered with from the pain of the artificial plum grafts inserted into its trunk to produce nectarines. “You are forest-kin, help us reclaim this land from the humans. Help us find revenge…”
“Let go of me, will ya?” she grunted, trying to keep her voice down as she kicked at the root that held her.
The ruckus was not lost on the household. Lady Demos came mincing out onto the veranda, her large poofy pompadour bouncing along with her. “Katsaros! Katsaros is that you?”
She shrieked when she saw Philiastra struggling amid the mess of broken urns. Within a heartbeat, servants leaned out of every widow and took up the call.
“Oh, great!” Philiastra grunted. She held out her hand and a magic circle appeared around her wrist, drawing in energy.
“Alchemy!” the peach tree hissed.
Her blast hit the root, forcing it to release her and recoil, but it was too late. Four stately butlers stood around her on all sides, corralling her in.
“Well, what is all this caterwauling, then?” Lord Demos intoned as he stepped out into the courtyard. The very air darkened around him.
Lady Demos fanned herself, teetering as if she might faint. “Oh, it’s hideous, just look at it.”
Philiastra felt herself shiver as she looked into his cold eyes. For several moments all was silent, save for the rustling of bushes and the flittering of leaves, but Philiastra could make out plain as day every word spoken to her.
“Traitor,” the bushes hissed.
“Traitor, she is a traitor,” the grass whispered.
“She uses alchemy,” the peach tree groaned.
Lord Demos sniffed with his long nose. “It’s like a nasty little cabbage with limbs.”
Philiastra could feel the servants draw in closer. She wanted to run, but she knew it wouldn’t work. Already guards were setting themselves up along the court walls. She parted her lips, forcing herself to speak.
“Uh…hi…I’m, uh, very sorry about the intrusion.”
“Not as sorry as I am.”
“I’m Miss Nasso from the, ah, Forest Prevention Bureau.”
Lord Demos cocked a well-plucked eyebrow. “Oh, are you?”
Philiastra chuckled nervously and stood up, trying desperately to look dignified. “Yes, well your district has a very high concentration of plant life. We have to be careful, if it gets dense past the tipping point, it could become forest, and then you’d have to evacuate.”
She motioned over to the tree that had snagged her. “See? Your peach tree has already developed the ability to move. If it developed full locomotion it could gather together with the other trees on the property and…
“It’s so kind of you to look out for us, miss,” Lord Demos said flatly.
“Well, you know, just doing my job and all.”
“If I could ask you a question, Mrs. Moros, if that is your real name. If you are from the bureau, then why are you wearing coveralls spattered with garbage?”
Philiastra glanced down at her clothes. “Ah…I had hoped you wouldn’t ask me about that.”
Lady Demos hit a switch and the clockworks within the veranda whirred and clicked, the entire structure reforming itself into a staircase. “Just kill it and be done with it. I should die if the neighbors found out we had a forest nymph infestation.”
Lord Demos tilted his head. “Forest nymph? I thought they were all wiped out.”
Lord Desmas tapped a sigil on his bracelet and glowing shackles appeared on Philiastra’s feet, rooting her in place.
Philiastra reached into her pocket and pulled out her talisman. “Wait! Wait, do you see this? I am in the Jenala familia. I am a citizen of the northern province.”
Lady Demos scoffed as she descended the staircase. “Jenala must be desperate indeed if she has lowered her standards that far.”
Philiastra ground her teeth in offense. “So, as a citizen, I cannot be punished without fair trail.”
Lord Demos pursed his lips and glanced over to the clockwork walls. “Well, that would mean something if you were a hundred yards to the north, but Jenala has no authority here. In this district, you have no law to protect you. We could shuck you where you stand and no one would trouble us for it, not even your precious Jenala.”
Philiastra took half a step back. “No way…”
Lady Demos took a moment to admire herself in a mirror held by a servant. “Ugh, I can’t stand the merchant class. They get citizenship in one teensy tiny little province and think that makes them one of us.”
Lord Demos reached into his silken robes and held out a cluster of golden talismans. “I am a consecrated member of seventeen familias. I have full citizen in every province on Ápinso, I can travel freely anywhere in the empire. It’s not just about status, it’s about love. The gods love me, and so my life has value.”
He stepped in close, a shadow falling over her. “And you are a thief caught trespassing on my lands.”
Philiastra felt a drop of sweat roll down her cheek. “I’m sorry, I just wanted to get home and…”
&nb
sp; Lord Demos gave a cruel smile. “So, weeds can feel fear, after all. Fascinating. Fortunately for you, I am no barbarian. I am a civilized man. You have wounded me, destroyed my property. Those urns were worth more than you’ll make in a lifetime. And so you will recompense me for my loss. Justice will be balanced, and you will be free to leave.”
“But I don’t have enough…”
“Oh, but you do, something far more valuable than money.”
“I…I do?”
“Mmm,” he nodded. “The essence made from your leaves. They say the essence of a forest nymph can cure any illness.”
Philiastra felt herself break out in a cold sweat.
Lord Demos glanced back to his wife. “I can think of a few people who would be most pleased to find themselves in possession of forest nymph essence.”
She folded up her fan as tossed it to him. “As can I.”
He caught the fan, a spring-loaded blade extending from each pleat.
Philiastra grabbed her pigtails and recoiled. “No, please, if you cut them off I’ll die.”
“Then at least this way you won’t have any debt to pass on to your next of kin.”
Philiastra could feel her knees shaking, but she held her ground. “You shouldn’t underestimate my tribe!”
She threw her hand out and released a blast of bright alchemic fire. The flames collided with Lord Demos, extinguishing themselves against an invisible barrier.
Philiastra’s eye went wide with fear.
Lord Demos laughed. “Oh, you thought that would hurt me, did you? That is just adorable.”
He reached into his robes and removed an intricate heart of golden gears and silver springs. “This is the heirloom of my house, bestowed upon my grandfather by Nisi, the goddess of war herself. It can deflect various forms of magical attacks.”
Philiastra snarled, tears forming in her eyes. “Twiggy humans, always hiding behind your gods. What would you be without them? Nothing. You wouldn’t last a day against the true inhabitants of Garralos.”
Lord Demos grabbed her arm and held her tight. “If your tribe is so much better than us, then why are they all dead?”
As Lady Demos looked on hungrily, he placed the blades against Philiastra’s skin, ready to scalp her. The young girl screamed in terror.
Suddenly an easel smashed into Lord Demos, sending him careening into the peach tree.
Everyone looked in surprise at the direction it had come from, finding Storgen squatting atop the stone palisade amid three unconscious guards.
“Seriously, Phili? I leave you alone for three minutes and you’re getting robbed?”
Philiastra wiped her cheek in relief as the shackles disappeared from her feet. “Sorry.”
Storgen jumped down as a butler ran up to oppose him. With a metallic chime, long blades extended from the man’s opulent sleeves. The butler spun in the air, threatening to decapitate Storgen, but he ducked below it and punched the man in the throat.
As he gurgled and crumpled to the ground, a second butler charged, throwing his silver serving tray like a discus. With a click the edge of the tray extended into a razor sharp cutting blade.
Storgen somersaulted below it and came up, punching the man so hard in the groin that it lifted him off his feet.
The serving tray decapitated a marble statue as the man fell to the side, moaning deeply.
“How did you find me?” Philiastra asked gratefully.
Storgen pulled out the auto brush and tossed it to her. Once it was away from him, it began glowing again. “You forgot this. I was on my way to return it when I heard you scream.”
“Kill him, you idiots!” Lady Demos hollered as she helped her husband to his feet.
Two more butlers attacked. With a flick of the wrist, the first produced fine cutlery between each white-gloved finger, then threw them with a flash of light. The second tapped a magic sigil on a crystal napkin ring, and the material unfolded dozens of times, flung like a net weighted with platinum.
Storgen jinked left, the cutlery slipping past his face and imbedding themselves into a fountain, then jumped right into a shoulder roll to avoid the net. He kicked up with one foot, catching the second butler in the chin so hard it snapped his head back.
As he fell insensible to the ground, the first butler drew a pie server and wielded it like a dagger. He stabbed at Storgen’s heart, slashed at his neck, reverse-cut at his shoulder, but each time Storgen slipped away before the blade could make contact.
Storgen charged past the man, kneeing him in the gut so hard it folded him in half, then striking back with his elbow, cracking the butler on the back of the head.
Standing amid the fallen attackers, Storgen leaned over and reached out his hand to Philiastra. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
“How…how did you do that?” she asked in wonder.
A wall of green fire rose up between them, forcing the two apart. Storgen turned around, but found himself trapped within a ring of alchemic energy.
“That will be quite enough of that,” Lord Demos said as he held out his hand, the gemstone at the center of his clockwork glove glowing brightly.
“Philiastra, hurry, get over the wall,” Storgen warned.
“But what about you?”
“Don’t worry about me, the hoplites will be here any second. Hurry.”
“I can’t just leave you.”
Storgen turned around gave her a confident grin. “I’ll be fine.”
“Storge, don’t do this, you can’t fight him.”
Storgen held up his scarred fist. “What are you talking about? I have everything I need to beat him right here.”
Lord Demos laughed. “Ah, so it’s a duel you want? It’s been a long time since I had to defend my honor.”
Casually, he removed the clockwork heart from its golden chain and flung it into the circle of fire. The mechanism unfolded itself, gears aligning, pistons connecting, and blades extending.
Impressed, Storgen whistled as the mechanical champion rose before him, pistons like muscles, bladed claws like fingers, rivers of glowing light like veins. “That looks really expensive.”
“My golem will be my proxy,” Lord Demos explained. “Now bring out your champion and let it begin.”
“I ah, I haven’t brought anything.”
The Lord and Lady laughed derisively. “Then you lose by default, you…”
Storgen ran past the clockwork champion and covered his face with his arms, leaping through the wall of fire.
Lord Demos couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Did he just…jump through the fire?
His tunic burning, Storgen charged Lord Demos and punched him in the face, the man’s poofy wig flapping free into the wind.
Lady Demos screamed in horror. “Blaggard, you can’t use your fists in a duel!”
Lord Demos staggered backwards. “Honorless scum, you can’t…ooof!”
His skin sizzling, Storgen kicked the aristocrat in the gut as hard as he could. The man fell to his knees, retching the expensive contents of his stomach onto the ground.
Storgen dove to the ground and rolled, desperately trying to extinguish his clothes. “Phili, get out of here, get over the wall, hurry!”
“You are like the craziest person I know.”
Dozens of armored footsteps could be heard drawing near from every direction.
“Now!”
“Right.”
Philiastra ran to the edge of the property, past the fallen guards and smashed perimeter fence, and began jumping up the wall. The spells on her legs glowing, she leapt back and forth, scaling the hundreds of feet effortlessly.
“Kill her!” Lord Demos coughed, reaching out with his trembling hand.
The mechanical champion clicked affirmatively and held out its hand, the fingers and palm reshaping themselves into a cannon barrel, lethal purple energy gathering at the tip as its crystal eyes zoomed in, placing Philiastra within the crosshairs.
“No!”
Storgen clamored back to his feet and charged back through the ring of fire. Grabbing the champion’s clockwork arm, he pulled back as hard as he could, the gears straining in protest.
The weapon fired, the beam streaking out, passing just over Philiastra’s head as she reached the top of the wall and slipped over.
Quick as lightning, the champion opened its other hand and the gem in the palm flashed to life. Storgen screamed as wicked tines of crimson lighting ravaged his body.
His burnt body fell steaming to the ground, and then all went dark.
Chapter Three
“And a great war was fought, and the heavens were laid to ruin, insomuch that the Gods could no longer dwell there. And so they were forced to journey to the earth below to live among the beasts. Those that followed Sirend settled in Hennamin, the islands of the eastern sea, and founded the Erotan Empire, while those that followed Reinala found their home in Garralos, the mountains of the west, uniting the scattered tribes to become the Nation of Agadis.”
- The Book of Cerebus, Chapter 5, Verse 22
Storgen could taste the smell of burnt flesh in the air. He tried to open his eyes but they refused. The acrid metallic taste at the back of the throat, the burning sensation in rings on his arms and legs. He knew it was his own skin that was making the smell without having to see it.
Again, he struggled to open his eyes, and this time they reluctantly complied. He found himself in a barred cage of alchemically hardened steel, his wrists locked to the arms of the chair with thick metal bands. When he instinctively struggled against the bands, he realized the chair was bolted to the floor as well. Nothing gave, save for a piece of scab which cracked fresh and began to ooze.
As his senses slowly came into focus, he became aware of the open-roofed hall beyond the bars. Scribes scratched away at scrolls before rolling them up and sending them whizzing away in pneumatic tubes, clockwork insects scuttled in and out of antechambers, delivering messages and beverages to the armored hoplites and constables working at their symmetrical sterile desks. Standing over him, he saw a familiar face, the hoplite from the park, with a large bruise running across the bridge of his nose.
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