by Char Cam
Alvaro was impressed, so of course, he had to be perverse. “Meh. It’ll do. I suppose. ‘Till something better comes along.” He dropped the rope and Gosgow thumped down and rolled sideways.
Talltop guffawed a laugh and slapped Alvaro’s back in a comradely fashion. He then dismissed his courtiers and followed Alvaro as he gravitated to the sunken lounge.
“Will that be all, Sir?” Henrow asked diffidently.
“For now, thanks. I’d appreciate it if you’d come back in about twenty minutes. Much to do and so little time and all that.”
Henrow bowed and silently left the room.
Alvaro, Talltop, and Iwanea followed by Bliztarf settled into the comfortable furniture with sighs of pleasure. Two maids entered, each carrying a burden of food and drink. This they set up on portable tables brought by the stewards behind them. When all was set and the service people departed, Alvaro waved at the refreshments. “I hope I don’t have to tell you to help yourself. Enjoy the food. Dinner is a tad far from now.”
More maids and stewards entered and set up tables, food, and drink at various places around the room for Talltop’s personal attendants.
Talltop made himself a thick tomato, onion, bell pepper, and cheese sub sandwich, poured himself a fruit drink, then stepped up to the main floor to walk over and stare down at Gosgow while he chewed thoughtfully. “He’s not your real problem. A human mage calls himself Frankenzoid is the real threat.”
“Who’s he?” Alvaro questioned.
Hilltop shrugged. “He’s a cold-blooded killer for one. Killed the last Kadan and burned the body so he couldn’t be rezzed. That set up a succession black hole. The Kadan never named an heir. Oh, everyone knew who should be the heir but he never said she was the heir. He never had any children, but he had three brothers. Strangely, they all died under mysterious circumstances within weeks of each other.” Talltop took another bite of his sandwich and chewed a moment before continuing. “They had several children between them. The next oldest brothers’ children should have been the successors, but ach! The whole lot of them would ruin the country! A council was set up that was supposed to choose the heir, but they all put up a different candidate making a deadlock and HA! Imagine everyone’s surprise when council members started resigning or disappearing.” Talltop glanced at Alvaro. “Frankenzoid had his hand in every circumstance. But no one knows who he is or what he looks like and efforts to root him out have been fruitless. One of the sons’ widow simply packed up herself and her children, which included the one who should be Kada, and left to put her family under the protection of the Imperator. You, my dear fellow, have been officially elected to straighten this whole mess out and my people are here to help.”
“And why would you be offering this help? What is it you’re after?”
Talltop grinned around another bite, then slurped a sip of his drink and swallowed, eyes gleaming with mirth. “Smart elf. Yes indeed. Here it is. We need this Duchy stable. We need its army. Desperately. To get that army, the monarchy fiasco needs to be resolved. Frankenzoid needs to be eliminated to get that done. We have an incursion of HoSafes we’re barely managing to keep in check. No duchy leader; no stabilization--and no army to come to our aid. So. Eliminate Frankenzoid to get the leader. Leader makes stable country. The army comes to our aid. Its very simple.”
“Uh huh. Who’s the legitimate heir and where can I find her?”
“Thought you’d never ask. Her Esteemed Sovereigness Denjel Starshining. She can be found in the Izanpuf capital, Azdromadarim, running the main healers guild hospital.”
Henrow returned.
Alvaro sighed. “Right. If you wouldn’t mind terribly, Henrow will guide you and your lot to get yourselves settled in your rooms.” He looked pointedly at the frozen body of Gosgow. “I’ve a few things to clear up. I’ll see you at dinner. Make it informal. My first day on the job and all, I just don’t feel like dressing up.”
Talltop laughed heartily. “We’ll deal well enough together. Enjoy your afternoon.”
The Baro dwarves were gone, and Alvaro stared pensively into the cold fire pit. “A HoSafe invasion into a lightly populated country which just happens to border an unstable land.”
“Very convenient, if yer ta beh askin’ me,” Bliztarf sniffed.
“Yeeees. Very convenient. Frankenzoid must be in league with them. Yes, that’s a big jump in conclusions, but this all feels planned, synced. Within a week of the kings last son going missing?” Alvaro turned as the library door opened. “I don’t believe coincidence runs so strongly. Henrow. Come in. Grab a snack, have a seat.” Alvaro waved negligently toward the food and seats.
Henrow cleared his throat. “No, thank you, Sir. And I’ll stand if that’s all right.”
Alvaro barely heard him. If Frankenzoid was indeed in league with the HoSafes, how were they communicating? How were things done in the game? If he burned bodies, he had a long distance way to communicate to give orders as to which ones. He couldn’t use a crystal; that could be intercepted.... He also had to have some knowledge about HoSafe’s because how would he have known where to contact them in the first place. That meant player. And the way he bought people.... “He’s got to be at least a Gold Card holder,” he mumbled aloud.
“You’ve been pacin’ fer ten minutes,” Bliztarf commented. “Whas goin’ on in yer head?”
“He’s a Gold Card player mage. At the very least a gold,” Alvaro said, rubbing his head. “Henrow, you’re my left hand man. Any guards around who are loyal to the Seat and not Gosgow?”
“Pardon, Sir? Left hand man?” Henrow asked bewildered.
“Well, I’ve already got a right hand man, so you have to take the left.”
Henrow, as major domo of a palace ruled by an unstable lord, was not slow in grasping the intent. “You wish to take me into your confidence?”
“That’s the general idea,” Alvaro smiled. “Who else would know what’s going on. You’ve seen and heard everything, either for yourself or from gossip among your employees. So. Tell me what I should know.”
Henrow hesitated. He dared study Alvaro and look into his eyes. Alvaro must have passed whatever personal standard Henrow held because he nodded and said, “I believe the Captain of the Seat is being held in the cells of the prison, Sir.”
“Send someone to bring the captain out,” Alvaro instructed grimly.
“They’re going to find out about the Captain. Bring him to me. If it looks like he’ll be rescued, kill him.
“Yes, Milord.”
EIGHT
Henrow searched the servants hallway. Made an undignified dash into his room. Inside, he checked habitually for spy devices--he found two, which he destroyed--then retrieved his personal crystal from it’s hidden nook in a bookcase carving. He activated it. Not long after got a response.
“Whatdya want?” snarled a familiar voice.
“Get your men together and meet in the courtyard…and don’t touch anyone.”
“What the--”
Henrow cut him off. If the man was as smart as it was claimed, he would figure it out. Henrow had already been absent too long. He looked through the peephole from his room to the hallway, quickly exited his room, made sure the door was securely closed, then rushed down the hall into the public areas.
He missed the shadow that glided in his wake.
Bliztarf watched from the shadows as the youth he’d watched Henrow give a note to handed that same note over to a man wearing sergeant stripes. The man was a veteran. No doubt. He had the durable look of a man who’d made hard decisions and lived with the result; good or bad. His dark hair was chopped close to his scalp and a scar ran straight across his forehead. It had healed crookedly and was puckered. His eyebrows tried to meet above his nose, but were turned angrily from each other by another rough scar that also sliced down his right cheek. His eyes were the color of a turbulent sea. They saw everything. Nothing could escape their razor vision. He sported a
goatee so emaciated, the man should have been arrested. And, like an old Chuck Norris joke, his chin was another fist. It was so block square, it could break bricks. This man was as tough as they came.
The men with him were of the same caliber. Their reaction to the note told Bliztarf all he needed. It was time to report to Alvaro.
“What in the Designed N--”
“Don’t touch anyone!” Sgt. Marvo Shanks hissed in warning. Everywhere he looked, villagers stood in deathly stillness. Some of them he knew. He didn’t want to take the chance of causing them injury by untoward contact. “Just wait here for our contact.”
“I’m here,” a young voice said as its owner of about twelve years stepped from behind a stone wall. “I’m to give ya this.” He handed Shanks a sealed scroll then scampered off into the mass of courtyard statues. Shanks broke the seal and unrolled the scroll.
The Captain is about to be released. He may not make it to his appointment.
See that he does.
“All right boys. Our chance to rescue Captain Finyar. They’re bringing him out of containment. Let’s be there to give him a warm welcome.”
“Someone told the Kadan about our good Cap’n, as we expected. Let’s move him out. The boss said first sign of rescue, kill him.”
Captain Mikle Finyar, late of His Eminence’s Guard, would have smiled at that…if he’d had the strength. No one would rescue him; he hoped his men, the only ones who would attempt it, were smarter than that.
He couldn’t see his captors anymore. They’d taken his eyes a few weeks ago. They were hoping that one of their high mages could use them to ‘see’ where he’d hidden a very important artifact. But they’d never find it. He’d given it to his son to hide and his son had done a very brave and dangerous thing: He’d taken the artifact into a catacomb, found a secret grotto to hide it in, then using a very special blade, he had killed himself. His essence had gone into the weapon and it could only be released by a very special spell. Finyar had felt his son’s death. Raged at his son’s death. Wept at his son’s death. These idiot imbeciles had thought he had cried because of the pain they inflicted on him.
They’d gotten nothing from his eyes, so they tried magic after that. He’d held out and told them nothing. However, his body was now a misshapen lump of clay and he’d never walk out of here. He fervently hoped his men weren’t coming for him.
He couldn’t see, but he could recognize sounds, smells. He knew the voice that ordered the men to move him. Smelled the sour smell of old beer vomit. Mackic. He’d been the one to put a tourniquet on Finyar’s right leg. He’d been the one that slit it open along its length. He’d been the one that inserted into the gaping slice geesha worms. Worms that had eaten him alive. Down to the bone. They’d broken that off to get it out of their way. They’d left his other leg attached, but first his toes, then his foot were slivered and chopped from him. The fingers on his left had were skinned and rotting and his right hand was a lump.
He had told them nothing.
For the honor of his son. For duty owed his son. For the love felt for his son.
Perhaps, with time and a patient healer, everything could have been grown back. Unfortunately, he was so twisted with dark magic, his body could never accept the white light of healing.
Finyar was yanked up by his arms onto the stub of his ankle suddenly and rather roughly.
“Careful there boys. Shela was at him last night and she slit his belly open again.”
He handlers became almost gentle after that. They dragged him up the stairs and into the freedom of the outside.
He felt the sun warming his skin for the first time in months. Fresh air made the stench of the prison more appalling and he shuddered. They dropped him on his back onto a gurney then picked it up and carried him about twenty paces. They shoved the gurney onto something, then he heard the slap of reins. Jerkily, whatever held the gurney began to move.
“That man aint walkin’ nowhere.”
“Quiet corporal. We knew he’d be in bad shape,” Shanks said angrily. “Armor up and let’s get the Cap’n freed. Kornar, down on top of the wagon from over there and stay with him. Prolly got orders to kill him on rescue. The rest of you, I hope, know the sharp end of a sword goes into the bad guys and I really hope you archers know who the bad guys are. Move out.”
The fight was short and vicious. Kornar landed, foot on either side of the gurney. The wagon stopped at once and the driver lunged back at him and lost his head from a single swipe of Kornar‘s sword. The other fifteen captors wasted no time fighting; they went straight for the Cap’n. The rescuers, however, diverted their attention with their own concerted attack and five of the enemy died before the rest realized they faced professionals. At one point Kornar was overwhelmed. Surprising everyone, a dwarf lunged onto the wagon and shoved everyone back with magic. Then he jumped off and laid into the villains fiercely.
Another surprise was the Deathgiver. He lived up to his class with a grace that was breath catching and soon there was no one left to kill.
Shanks jumped onto the wagon, leaned over to place a hand on his beloved Captain’s shoulder. He felt horrified at the wreck Finyar had become. He wondered if he should just be put out of his misery. This was the work of Frankenzoid’s mage Shela. Even she couldn’t reverse some of her magic. The Cap’n was done for.
“Sh-shank?”
“Yes Cap’n. You aint lookin’ so good.”
Finyar tried to laugh, but a croak had replaced his once hearty bellow. “Bastard. I-I’m still prettier than you-you’ll ever be.”
The Deathgiver leaned into the wagon. “Wrap him up. Give him to my Rogue. Anyone needing healing, come with me. For the rest, Sergeant, send out your men and round up any guards loyal to the Seat. Secure the palace.” He turned to go but then a thought stopped him. “Oh, and have Henrow find an auctioneer will you? Thanks.”
Shanks looked the Deathgiver over, wondering who he was. The knowledge came to him sharply enough he blinked back a painful shudder. “Yes, Kadan.” He turned to his men and yelled, “You heard the Kadan! Get ready to move out on his command.”
Shock had Adam Vitner, Bliztarf, slipping out of his character. In all of his years signed up in the United States Marine Corps, Adam had seen some pretty mangled bodies. This guy beat all of them because he was still alive. He was completely exposed and every trauma was open for viewing. His genitals were gone. Just. Gone. There was some kind of straw attached that kept the urinary pathway from collapsing and sealing, but that was all he had. His abdomen had been cut open and improperly closed and…something was moving around in there. He had a misshapen blob for a nose, no teeth, eyes or ears. One hand hadn’t any fingers and bugs lived on his other. The only untouched parts of him were his arms. That was probably so the guards had something to hold on to. He still had most of one leg. His foot was severed on that one. What was left of the other leg was a drying piece of broken bone near where his genitals should have been. Adam didn’t see how the guy could still be alive. Or sane. He knew one thing for sure: Anyone still alive after such horrific torture was going to be given every chance to recover.
If he were real. Adam relaxed. This thing had to be a robot of some kind. They did amazing things with robots these days. Sophia, one of the most public, looked pretty realistic. This one was a pretty good one too. Adam could see a pulse throbbing in his neck. Moisture, like tears, seeped out of his eyeless sockets. Blood oozed around the gash in his abdomen. It was pretty amazing!
However, as Adam wrapped this guy gently, reverently, into a tarp for transport, he felt uneasy. He really wanted this guy to be a robot because how could someone do this to another living being? This remnant of humanity didn’t act like a robot. Muscle really looked strained as he grunted with pain. Sweat really was popping out of his pores as he panted with effort to control himself. He felt as real as real could be and Adam felt his gut clench. Twist into interconnected pretzels baked into an inseparable
blob.
“All right, Bliztarf?” Alvaro asked gently.
No! Adam wanted to scream. He felt himself slipping into a fugue of--
“Got him, Bliz?”
“Ah got ‘im righ’n’tight, Alvaro. Ready ta transpor’,” Bliztarf answered promptly. Bliztarf shook his head. A moment ago he’d been feeling…off. Whatever the matter had been, he couldn‘t remember it now. He lifted Finyar with tender care.
“We’ll getcha home, Cap’n. Steady there,” Bliztarf assured the man he held.
“All right. Wounded, with me,” Alvaro called to the gathered men. “The rest, move out as instructed.”
The march to the courtyard portal, though short, was slow. The wagon had been useless because the prison guards had slaughtered the herd beasts that pulled it. It was easier and faster, but not without effort, to carry the wounded rather than wait for messengers to round up and bring back more beasts. The only mobiles available were keyed to Gosgow.
Before Alvaro and Bliztarf had left on the rescue mission, Henrow had explained that no healer resided nearby; they were heading to Azdromadarim for help.
“Bliz, when we get there, go into shadow mode like you did when you followed Henrow around the palace. I don’t want anyone seeing Finyar.
“I don’t know what they wanted, Captain,” Alvaro said frankly, “but I’m not giving ’em a chance to try to get it from you again.”