Myrmidon

[Ruby]

The Lupine Hearth
The City of Rodham, 30th Nida, 1004 A.A

The festival of the moon falls on the first month’s beginning of autumn. The city of Rodham holds no other affair in higher regard, it’s citizens planning for the occasion the day the last festival ends. For weeks prior to the opening play, held in Market Square at the city’s heart, travellers pour into the city and the docks never sleep to bring food and supplies and street performers from across the free kingdoms. Nobody is more excited than the leading man of the Restless Fugitive theatre troupe, tasked with the principle role in the festival’s opening event – the performance of the play Lux Aeterna, written long before the three kingdoms were founded, and long before the fall of Almeria and the exodus of its people across the world.

“Wainwright, will you sit down?”

“No.” He winced. “No thank you, Liza.”

His prima donna and conscience sat at the rickety desk in his office with her arms folded across her chest and a withering glare aimed directly at him.

“You are on stage in a matter of hours. Why are you nervous?”

He had performed on stage a thousand times, and knew every line of Lux Aeterna with perfect recall. She had seen him dabble in liquor or warm up on the wings of the stage before, but had never seen him quite this unnerved.

“Don’t you know?” He turned to her and grimaced. “Oh, Oh I thought they’d have told you. I’m such an idiot!” He flapped his arms.

“Know what?” Liza rested her hands on the edge of the desk and began to tap out a nervous rhythm of her own.

“She’s here.” He began to pace back and forth between the bay windows and the open door leading out into the prop room. “I can’t believe she’s actually here.”

“Err, I might need some help here.”

“Valeena!” He turned back to her dramatically and spread his arms wide. He calmed down. “You don’t seem surprised.”

“Of course the queen’s here. Where else would she be?” Liza swallowed the urge to chuckle and relaxed back into her chair. “You’ve been pulling out your hair for this?” She attended each opening performance of the city’s three major festivals diligently. Though Liza had never seen the queen so much as break a smile during any of their plays, her presence was comforting to the troupe – it gave them clout, a royal ascent. “What the hell’s gotten into you?”

“No, you don’t understand.” He shook his head, eyes wide and fingers shaking. “She asked me if she could come.”

Liza furrowed her brow. “The Queen asked your permission to see a play put on in honour of the royal family? That. That is odd.” She bit her lip, hiding her doubt behind a placid expression and distracting herself by pouring herself a glass of wine.

Wainwright marched to the desk and picked it up before she could set the bottle down and calm herself. He downed it feverishly and held it at arm’s length, as though to suggest she should refill it.

[Ruby]

“Get your own glass!” She rose and snatched it from his fingertips, puckered lips forcing him back with a sorry expression. “You’re drinking before sundown, I’ve gone from uneasy to concerned about you.” She poured another glass and sipped it delicately. Blackberries and vanilla reminded her of calmer times and a light at the end of the tunnel. “Sit down,” she said softly. She gestured to the chair opposite and walked out from behind the desk. As he sat, she strolled to the window and stared out across the rooftops of the industrial district. Rodham was a beautiful city, and Liza could start out across the terracotta tiles and smokestacks for hours and never cease to be amazed. Until today, she had never considered herself to be a patriot, but the festival had a way of reminding people what they were fighting for. It reminded her why she took to the stage time and time again and never faltered.

“These are interesting times, that’s for sure.”

“It scares me.” Wainwright frowned. Liza didn’t need to turn around to picture his expression. “I’m never scared.”

“Even a lion has predators. Sometimes it just takes a while for them stalk out of the grass.” Liza took a deep drink of the wine, forgoing savouring it for a rush of blood to the head. “Right now, though, we can’t waver. Not even for a second.”

“Ugh, I hate it when you’re right.”

“Insufferable arrogance is what we’re about.”

Wainwright chuckled. He stared at the sun bolts piercing through the stained-glass fascia around the window and took deep breaths to calm his nerves.

“You had a good teacher.”

“Oh, the best,” she turned, “but today I’m going to teach you a thing or two.” She drained her glass. “We’re going to go out there and blow the crowd away and then we’re going to get really, really drunk for three days and three nights.” She returned to the desk and set the glass down. Her body language suggested for once that Wainwright should listen, and not talk. “Then we can find out what all this unrest is really about.”

He stared at her intently, trying to gauge her intent but failed miserably. He smiled, seeing himself in her and liking every bit of her gall. He stood.

“Alright. I think I’m ready. I just need a little wine to-”

Liza snatched the bottle away before his fingers were fully outstretched. She smirked and shook her head.

“Oh, oh no. You don’t get a drop until the Queen cracks a smile.” She cocked her head to one side cheekily, and did away with the bottle in a whorl of blue ribbons and a drop-in room temperature. “In fact, until she gives a standing ovation!”

“I taught you too well,” he said glumly. He gestured to the door.

“Remember, Mr Jones.” Liza made for the door, a spring in her step and the image of the burning sun beginning to set over the city stuck in her mind, “Not. A single. Drop.”

[Ruby]

Market Square

Market Square predates much of the city of Rodham’s heart. Standing at the centre of the Noble district, it is the only place where the wealthy and privileged deign worthy of opening to the public. Only during the festivals of the moon and sun and stars are the iron wrought gates swung open and the guards leave their posts. Some say it is a way for the Royal Family to show they are at one with the people. Others say it is to concede just enough humanity to keep their place at the top of the city’s hierarchy. A fountain shoots water high into the sky from the mouths of cherubs and the fonts of flowers carved into pure white marble. The Restless Fugitive build their stage about the monument to long forgotten founders and hide its waters away behind a plinth atop which the stage hands and acrobats reveal their talents to the world.

“Places, places!”

Liza clapped her hands several times and watched the melee of the troupe erupt. Left and right, people dashed across the stage to add the finishing touches to the opening act’s design. At the heart of the stage the leading lady barked orders at the top of her lungs, fighting against the roar of the thousand-strong crowd crammed into the easterly half of the square. The sun crested the cliffs and cast fire over the palace and anticipation sparked in the air.

“It took for too long to get the curtains up but I reckon we’re ‘bout ready Liza!”

She turned her head skyward, to where the canopy of the stage tent touched the top of the plinth and the crow’s nest hidden away behind a hanging circular veil. She raised an eyebrow when she caught sight of who was heckling her.

“Duffy, you little scrote bag, get down here and do your damned job. You aren’t Malone!”

She wagged a finger at him and he disappeared. “Where is Malone?” She turned on the spot, trying to pick out the youngest member of the troupe’s stage department. When she saw no sign of a mucky face and buck teeth she began to tap her foot nervously.

“Liza!”

She rolled her eyes and turned slowly to whatever disaster came next.

Duffy, a scruffy youth old enough to know better approached her from the east side of the stage with a bundle of rope in one hand and a crowbar in the other. Though he was taller than most of the troupe, he was lithe and pallid and in desperate need of manners.

“I thought your job tonight was to keep the extras in line and work your little peculiar brand of magic on the crowd?”

“It is,” he stopped just far enough away to avoid Liza’s infamous backhand. “But…”

“Think very carefully about what you say next.”

“But, well, there’s a bit of panic running through the crowd and people are getting restless.”

Liza always expected the combination of theatre, alcohol, and revelry to disrupt at least one act of their performances. A huddle of children streamed past them in pinafore dresses and freshly pressed woollen suits, taking their places for the imminent threat of the curtains going up.

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“They’re talking about the royal box…I, err, thought you should know.” Duffy took a step back.

“Let me know what?” She straightened her spine and glared.

“The Queen has a rather unusual guest. I, I think it’s the Grand Inquisitor.”

[Ruby]

Liza stared intently at the youth for a few moments, trying to gauge wherever or not this was fact or another of his attempts at humour. When she decided it was real, she rummaged in the pockets of her jacket and produced a small leather-bound notebook.

“What are you doing?” Duffy relaxed a little as the threat of violence disappeared.

“Something Wainwright said, about or Olbanian guests.” She skimmed page after page of notes about the affairs of Rodham’s court until she found a line penned in chicken scratch after one too many glasses of wine. Her heart sunk.

“Is it really him?”

“We’ve started to have doubts about the intent behind the Olbanian emissary’s ‘state visit’, so if the Grand Inquisitor is here then we’re are all in danger.” She closed the book and tucked it away. “Duffy, don’t tell Wainwright. It’ll only upset him and this play must, must go according to plan.”

“You don’t need to tell me twice.” He nodded in agreement and bounded off stage to finalise preparations for the opening act.

Sweat beaded on Liza’s brow. She had tried to quash the rumours spreading amongst the troupe about the presence of mage hunters and how close the city guard had come to finding their hideout in the docklands. Ever since the emissary had arrived the queen’s behaviour had soured. Her strange request now made perfect sense. Here was an opportunity for the Inquisitor to see ‘rogue elements’ first hand. She swallowed a lump in her throat.

“Lilly!” she roared.

Oblivious to the growing turmoil in their leading lady’s heart, the members of the troupe on stage wheeled fake trees into place and swept away sawdust. The children re-appeared, chasing a cock a hoop and laughing together as the tallest of their number tried desperately to keep it rolling over the roughshod planks. Liza faked a smile and dodged out of their way, trying to remember that not only was she the troupe’s female lead, but mother to its orphans as well.

“You’re not supposed to be here, sis,” said a familiar voice from behind a painted cut out of a garden wall covered in tissue paper vines. “What’s up?”

“Lilly, am I glad to see you!” Liza approached and appeared around the prop. She tried to smile, but an awkward grimace made Lilly stand up and put the hammer and nails down on a crate by her side.

“Can it wait until I’ve finished securing this? I don’t want a repeat of the summer pageant, Malone’s still got a nasty bump on his head from the parapet falling.”

Liza smiled.

“Fine, go on, what is it?” Lilly folded her arms across her chest defensively. Unlike the rest of the troupe, she and Liza shared a sisterly bond that afforded them a degree of openness Liza reigned in with anyone else.

“We have a guest in the audience I’d rather not be there.”

“Oh.” Lilly frowned. “I’d heard rumours. It’s nothing to worry about though, is it?”

Olbany was a kingdom far to the west of the continent, a theocratic state that put its suspicion and hatred of magic above all over priorities. War was brewing between Rodham, Olbany, and Pennon and had been for decades. Nobody wanted to admit that the tensions would grow into anything severe. Lilly curled her rolls of jet black hair in a bundle and tucked it neatly into a tight ponytail. She produced a strand of red silk from her sleeve and tied it in place.

“King Rodham has never allowed the Inquisition into our city, never mind letting them waltz right into a theatre known for its use of the Tongues.” Liza would be the first to admit their openness about their talents to anyone, but now she doubted wherever they had made a mistake.

“Which I guess means we’ve now got a target on our backs.” Lilly began to pack away her tools and bundle them into the crate. She bent to pick it up and began to haul it offstage. “Come on, we can worry ourselves sick after the play.” She didn’t stop to hear Liza’s protests.

“Places, places, places!” Liza shouted atop her lungs.

The stage emptied and the actors debuting in act one appeared in the eaves, clad in a variety of regal costumes and atrociously pomp wigs fitting of the styles of Rodham a century ago. Duffy clambered up the ladder to the lightning rig that ran behind the curtains the full length of the stage and started furiously cranking levers to drop glass chandeliers into place. Liza took a deep breath and disappeared behind the curtain covering the central plinth and stepped into the cool sanctuary of her dressing room.

[Ruby]

A red headed man taller than any other in the crowd watched with baited breath as the curtains swung open and a fanfare declared the opening act’s commencement. The thousand-strong crowd cheered, fuelled by adulation and the honey beer poured freely from great casks rolled into the square by the palace guard. Behind him, the royal box, raised on reinforced stilts and containing a hundred of the most influential people in the city waved delicate silk fans and gasped politely to show their enthusiasm. At the centre, on a grandiose throne carved in sandalwood and covered in thick furs sat Queen Valeena Rodham. She was the only member of the esteemed audience to remain perfectly silent as the chandeliers burst aflame and a long, cloaked figure walked out to centre stage.

“Give ‘em hell,” the red head said under his breath.

He turned his attentions back to the crowd, keeping an eye peeled for pick pockets and vagabonds shirking their duties. Unbeknownst to most Rodham’s citizens, the Restless Fugitive troupe had less than host intentions in hosting grand performances like this. The younger members of the troupe learned the tentative first steps in the theatrical stage by improving their reflexes and improvisation skills at the hems of widows and deep pockets of oblivious merchants. He caught a glimpse of a rugged looking tom boy hands outstretched towards an open bread basket and rolled his eyes.

“It’s going to be a long night.” He balled his fists and weaved through the crowd towards her to stop her falling at the first hurdle. His scarred face and bare torso drew wanton glances, but they soon turned back to the stage as the cloaked figure pulled back his hood and revealed himself.

[Ruby]

“Our tale, good citizens, lords, and ladies, begins in the palace gardens of our very own city one hundred years ago to this day.” He spread his arms wide. “It is the festival of moons, indeed the very first festival and the guests to the King’s regatta are soon to arrive.”

A drum roll burst out from the right eave and on cue, the huddled actors swarmed out onto the fae garden scene with parasols nestled against shoulders and gentleman on their arms. In twos, they wove in and out of the false walls and paper shrubs, chatting idly amongst themselves about etiquette and gossip and trivial affairs.

“The finest of the city’s nobles, doctors, merchants, and adventurers of great renown come to celebrate the start of autumn at the King’s behest. As they enter the courtyard, covered by a grand tent in crimson they see a devilish scene before them.” The Narrator bowed dramatically and swept himself off stage. Before the crowd had finished oohing he shed his cloak and scooped up a crown and mitre to change into his next role.

“My lords, aghast, revelry must come undone before such despair!” A red headed woman in a canary yellow dress scuttled forwards, backhand pressed to brow in a dramatic flounce. “Look what horrors are wrought!” She gestured at the empty throne which wheeled onto the stage from the left eave on a pulley and gear platform.

“Tis the king!” Her companion marched before his wife and held out his arm defensively, to stop her running to the king’s aid. “Call the guard!”

The crowd formed a half circle about the throne, rumour mongering amongst themselves to add flair. Four armoured women marched from out of the central pillar, the door to Liza’s dressing room disguised as a portcullis painted onto coarse fabric. They encircled the throne, battered halberds and tunics brandished with the shield and sword of Rodham’s sigil.

“Your majesty!” they roared in unison.

The King snorted.

“He lives!” the lady in yellow whelped.

A roar of relief erupted from the audience, who despite seeing the play countless times found themselves swept away in the melodrama. One or two fainted, newcomers to the stage or already too drunk to contain their excitement.

“What is the meaning of this?” The King grumbled. Silver sparks danced from his lips and carried his line out across the square. “Why have I slept through darkest dusk and blackest night?” He stared wide eyed out to the audience, crown eschew and mitre raised in outcry.

“My liege, we feared you were dead.” The captain of the guard approached and bent a knee. Lord Regent stared at her and pointed the mitre at her.

“Not dead, Captain Adele, but trickery is afoot – call the physician at once to inspect the wine!” The narrator come king pushed himself out of the throne ad stumbled, footwork expertly executed to make him tumble and fall away from the crowd onto a pillow concealed by the throne.

“No!” the yellow lady screamed, her cries haunting and echoing with magic. The chandeliers extinguished and the curtains dropped.

[Ruby]

“They fall for that every damned time,” Liza rolled her eyes and began to unbutton the yellow dress and turn it inside out. She put it back on and transformed into a priestly physician, long, black, simple robes to mark her as a member of the Academy of Medicine. A scrawny youth ran to her side carrying a wide brimmed straw hat as though it were made of gold, and retreated the second she took it on set it on her head.

“You’d be surprised,” Wainwright appeared from behind the throne and tossed the crown onto the throne. “I’m sure Arden spikes the mead to keep things interesting.” He unscrewed the mitre’s sphere and added it to the pile of props on the throne before it was promptly wheeled off stage. He produced a long and flat length of steel from behind one of the walls and attached it to the mitre’s shaft. With a flick of the wrist he set the spring mechanism lose and the mitre turned into a sword. “All set?”

Liza nodded.

“Places everyone!” She clapped her hands and the party guests turned into mourners, hats folded in half became mourner’s poultices and canes became tombstones to mark those last in the last great war to ravage their homeland. Liza looked skyward and gave Duffy a signal to open the curtain again, but felt a thud in her chest as the stage rocked as though struck by a cannonball.

“What the fuck was that?” Wainwright took to a defensive stance.

The stage trembled again as though thunder tore the sky apart overhead. The troupe searched frantically for the cause until the jovial cheers from the interlude crowd turned to panicked screams and profanity. Liza and Wainwright darted to the centre of the curtain and poked their heads out into the dusk light. Their eyes widened and their hearts raced and they retreated quickly.

“Liza. Liza, what is happening?” Lilly stumbled over a grave as she tried to get to the curtain to see, but her sister raised a palm to indicate she stay, and pressed a finger to her lips to bring silence into the stage. Another tremble caused the younger actors to whimper, and they huddled together behind the garden walls.

“Did you see where the fire was coming from?” Wainwright whispered to Liza. She shook her head. “It looked like the centre of the royal tent.” He bit his lip. “Or just off left from where the Queen was sat.”

“Everyone, don’t panic.” Liza stepped out into the open again and drew on her magic. She moistened her lips and spoke words of power. “Arm yourselves and return to the stage.” Silver sparks danced into the air, like ethereal embers burning into the hearts and minds of her family. Nobody wasted any time and returned a moment later with billet hooks, swords, rakes, and lengths of chain.

“Good,” she said with a stoic grimace. “We are going to go out there and protect the people in the crowd. Whatever you see, whatever you think is happening do not falter.” The silver sparks turned into a torrent of dancing fire like a dragon’s breath, filling the troupe with courage and obedience.

“Liza, what is going on?” Lilly, tolerant of her sister’s magic unsheathed her rapier and held it loosely in her right hand. “Is there a riot?”

The leading lady shook her head slowly.

“Screw this,” Lilly marched to the curtains and looked out into the darkening night. The crowd were running amok, flames flickered along the eastern length of the royal box, and twisted shadows flickered back and forth through the rooftops along the horizon. “It can’t be…”

“Wraiths.” Wainwright shook his head. “Those are damned Wraiths.”

[Ruby]

Arden ran through the crowd, heart racing and mind set. He barked at flummoxed gentleman and shrieking ladies to evacuate the square and scooped up crying children to get them out of harm’s way. Overhead, swooping black shadows raked spectral claws through minds and tore through the ranks of the beleaguered city guard.

“Don’t fight, get people out of the square!” he roared at a soldier with a plumed helmet.

The guard looked at him, terrified and sweating.

“Who are you?” he asked nervously.

Arden span about and walked up to him calmly.

“I am the one trying to save these people. Those creatures,” he pointed upwards, “can’t be hurt with swords and arrows. Evacuate the square, and do it quickly.” He left nothing else to the imagination and disappeared into the swell and crush of people fleeing towards the eastern boulevard entrance.

[Ruby]

“What are we going to do Wainwright?” Lilly unbuttoned her jacket and dropped it onto the stage. She started to limber up.

“Find Leopold and Duffy and bring them on stage.” The leading man scratched his head. “Then you get everyone else off the stage, take the back entrance and get down into the sewers.”

“But…”

“I’m not asking.” He stared at the seamstress. “Get them to the hideout and bolt the damned doors.”

Lilly nodded, hesitant, but ran off stage shouting at the top of her lungs.

“Do you mean for us to stay and fight?” Liza checked the balance of her rapier and gave it a satisfying swish.

“Who else can?”

“Arden knows to help people get away if trouble breaks out. We can hold them off until the square’s empty.” She nodded in agreement.

Duffy and a man in a top hat and gold threaded waistcoat burst out from behind the portcullis curtain, panting and panicking and unsure of themselves. They stopped a few feet away from Liza and gave her an expectant ‘what’s happening?’ frown.

“Wraiths. Someone’s attacked the royal box.”

“Shit me,” Duffy clicked his back. “I heard rumours something was happening tonight, but Hammertongue thought it’d be a riot or some gang showdown.”

The troupe stared at one another, trying to drown out the screams from beyond the curtain and compose themselves. Wainwright flexed his fingers and channelled magic into his hands. Liza waved the rapier left to right gently. Leopold unholstered his pistol and slowly loaded the chamber with six silver bullets, and Duffy began to mutter a verse under his breath.

“Wind’s grace guides me, flow through space, lift my heart and win the race.” A breeze rolled over the stage and the actor began to float, ever so slightly off the wooden planks.

“Are we ready?” Wainwright steeled himself.

They all nodded in unison.

“Duffy, do the honours.”

The bard raised both hands and cupped them together. His clothes began to flap as the breeze gathered around him and when he parted his fists, the curtains blew open and peeled back on the brass rail holding them aloft.

[Ruby]

Arden bounded up to the guards at the entrance to the royal box and flashed a piece of paper in front of them. They hesitated.

“Get out of my way, right now.”

“But, but,” they mumbled. They stared at him for a few moments before they parted their halberds and the swordsman vanished into the corridor.

Hot and humid, the wooden entrance to the royal box was dusty and dimly lit. It turned into a flight of stairs and he made short work of climbing them, hand running along the veneer rail to guide him in the twilight. He burst out onto the balcony, heart racing and eyes narrowed to make sense of the bedlam before him.

“Lords preserve me…”

Half the seats were empty, skeletal wingback chairs ornate and gluttonous. Half the congregation were still in their seats, heads knocked back and limbs hung loosely at their sides. As he approached, he started to see gaping wounds and lacerations on each one, some inches wide and still oozing blood. Delicate silks and well spun wool turned deep crimson and horrified, tortured looks frozen onto their faces told him they had met a painful, sudden end. He grits his teeth.

“Your majesty?” He approached the throne.

Both grander chairs were empty, unmarked and untouched by the feral spirits that ravaged the crowds. He shuddered as their cries grew in intensity in pursuit of the last remaining members of the audience as they tried desperately to push into the rear of each column streaming away from the square. Arden began to feel very uneasy. Not one person in the royal box had made it more than a few feet from their chair. Yet, some were not to be seen, as though they had been spared, or forewarned of what was to come.

“Your majesty!”

He stared at the far end of the box, veiled in roaring flames that barred the far entrance and left the only means of escape a narrow, cluttered and dangerous stairwell. The smell of smoke and fear filled his lungs.

“Sunder the spirits of the dead and give them life,” he clenched his fists. “What dies, shall never die and be remembered. Come to the veil between one world and another.” He punched the air towards the nearest dead noble and the body jolted to life, clicking and shuddering as the tortured spirit that once inhabited it returned with a crack of thunder.