Myrmidon

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.

“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.”

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.”

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.

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.

“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.

“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.”

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.

“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.

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.

A thick black plume of some rose high above Rodham. Bodies lay strewn across the cobbles of Market Square, backlit by the burning braziers smouldering throughout the wide thoroughfare. The troupe approached the edge of the stage slowly, emotions running high as they pieced together what had happened. To the east and west they could hear the last of the crowd exiting into the side streets, carolled by the city guard and in no particular frame of mind to stay behind.

“Up there!” Duffy pointed above the royal box.

Along the roof, three ghastly figures clung to the tiles and feasted on what they could only presume were bodies. Raking claws stole souls and gaping maws ripped open flesh. Movement in the royal box drew Wainwright’s eye.

“Arden..." She could sense the cloying presence of undeath. She swore loudly.

“No…no Arden. You idiot!” She leapt down onto the cobbles and bent both knees to break her fall. Before Wainwright could stop her, she was sprinting across the square to her brother.

“Follow her Duffy.” Wainwright turned to Leopold. “How’s your aim tonight?”

The merchant smirked and span the chamber of his pistol. He clicked back the hammer and pointed it to the nearest of his targets. He closed one eye to focus, and slowed his breathing.

“It’ll piss them off boss.”

“Oh,” Wainwright mimicked Leopold’s expression. “I’m counting on it.” He turned back to the night sky and readied himself. “Fire!”

The gunshot echoed through the square and before the wraiths could take flight, a silver bullet exploded into its shoulder and sent sparks and cavalcades of lightning rattling along the tiles. It’s cold, calculating eyes turned to the stage and a deep, guttural cry heralded its ascent and descent down towards it’s attacker. The other wraiths followed, discarding their prey aside. They rolled down the rooftops and crashed to the cobbles below.

“Again!” Wainwright unsheathed his longsword and pulled it back in a two-handed grip. “Fire godamnit!”

Leopold let loose a salvo, each bullet narrowly missing the leader but catching the second in the chest. It spiralled, screamed and dropped to the cobbles. It reformed quickly, and found itself staring down a very angry seamstress.

“Bastard!” she roared, spiralling as she advanced and cutting through the wraith’s neck with her rapier. It went straight through, a thin purple line forming where the silver blade touched its essence. She stopped ten feet away and span about.

Duffy caught up with her, eyes glistening and daggers forming out of thin air. He too them and leapt, the wind in his step lifting him skyward like a leopard. He ploughed through the wraith, lashing out with his blades wildly. When he rolled to a stop, he rose beside Liza and gestured for her to flee.

“Stop Arden, I’ve got this.”

She stared at him. “You sure?”

Duffy nodded. She did not need any further re-assurance and spat before she continued towards the royal box.

“Hurricane’s strength, a whorl of power lifting me up, bring the heavens to my side and guide my aim.” Silver sparks crackled along the daggers as a breeze formed about them and summoned a miniature whirlwind about each. “Knock down my enemies and breathe life to my heart!” Swollen with magic, the bard charged and met the wraith as it leapt at him, talons raking, long, tendrils of its ethereal cloak whipping wildly behind it.

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.

A thick black plume of some rose high above Rodham. Bodies lay strewn across the cobbles of Market Square, backlit by the burning braziers smouldering throughout the wide thoroughfare. The troupe approached the edge of the stage slowly, emotions running high as they pieced together what had happened. To the east and west they could hear the last of the crowd exiting into the side streets, carolled by the city guard and in no frame of mind to stay behind.

“Up there!” Duffy pointed above the royal box.

Along the roof, three ghastly figures clung to the tiles and feasted on what they could only presume were bodies. Raking claws stole souls and gaping maws ripped open flesh. Movement in the royal box drew Wainwright’s eye.

“Arden’s up there.”

Liza swore very loudly.

“No…no Arden. You idiot!” She leapt down onto the cobbles and bent both knees to break her fall. Before Wainwright could stop her, she was sprinting across the square to her brother.

“Follow her Duffy.” Wainwright turned to Leopold. “How’s your aim tonight?”

The merchant smirked and span the chamber of his pistol. He clicked back the hammer and pointed it to the nearest of his targets. He closed one eye to focus, and slowed his breathing.

“It’ll piss them off boss.”

“Oh,” Wainwright mimicked Leopold’s expression. “I’m counting on it.” He turned back to the night sky and readied himself. “Fire!”

The gunshot echoed through the square and before the wraiths could take flight, a silver bullet exploded into its shoulder and sent sparks and cavalcades of lightning rattling along the tiles. It’s cold, calculating eyes turned to the stage and a deep, guttural cry heralded its ascent and descent down towards it’s attacker. The other wraiths followed, discarding their prey aside. They rolled down the rooftops and crashed to the cobbles below.

“Again!” Wainwright unsheathed his longsword and pulled it back in a two-handed grip. “Fire godamnit!”

Leopold let loose a salvo, each bullet narrowly missing the leader but catching the second in the chest. It spiralled, screamed and dropped to the cobbles. It reformed quickly, and found itself staring down a very angry seamstress.

“Bastard!” she roared, spiralling as she advanced and cutting through the wraith’s neck with her rapier. It went straight through, a thin purple line forming where the silver blade touched its essence. She stopped ten feet away and span about.

Duffy caught up with her, eyes glistening and daggers forming out of thin air. He too them and leapt, the wind in his step lifting him skyward like a leopard. He ploughed through the wraith, lashing out with his blades wildly. When he rolled to a stop, he rose beside Liza and gestured for her to flee.

“Stop Arden, I’ve got this.”

She stared at him. “You sure?”

Duffy nodded. She did not need any further re-assurance and spat before she continued towards the royal box.

“Hurricane’s strength, a whorl of power lifting me up, bring the heavens to my side and guide my aim.” Silver sparks crackled along the daggers as a breeze formed about them and summoned a miniature whirlwind about each. “Knock down my enemies and breathe life to my heart!” Swollen with magic, the bard charged and met the wraith as it leapt at him, talons raking, long, tendrils of its ethereal cloak whipping wildly behind it.

Arden felt the spirit ensnared by his spell fight back, but bent it’s will with a forceful push of his mind. The corpse buckled and rose, as though suspended on rope and cantankerously stepped away from the chair. He traced symbols in the air to finalise the binding and then unsheathed the sword on his left hip. The curved, bloodied blade vibrated at the presence of the undead.

“What happened?”

A voice emerged from the corpse’s open mouth, but no movement produced it. It shuddered with every word.

“The Grand Inquisitor summoned them. The Queen escorted her faithful through the west wing.”

“Why?”

“War.”

A blast of fire shot out from the stairwell and engulfed the corpse in an inferno. Arden retreated, sword raised until he saw Liza appear from the gloom snarling at him.

“What are you thinking?” She charged to the corpse and drove her rapier into the creature’s forehead. The purple light in its eyes faded and mist poured from its wounds, the spirit within returning to the afterlife. “You made an oath!”

“Only they can tell us what happened, and now we have an answer.”

“How do you know it’s not a trick?” She withdrew her blade and wiped it clean. The corpse fell in a heap and blood continued to ooze out in a puddle. Liza watched it in horror. “The Grand Inquisitor needs no more ammunition to use against us, Arden.”

“They knew. They made this happen. The Queen wanted us to be here, an accident to weaken morale. This is grave for all of us.” Arden sheathed his sword and folded his arms across his chest.

“Whatever happens we will deal with it, together, because that’s what Rodham does.” She jabbed her blade at him accursedly.

“Have it your way.” His tone was barbed and sultry, but Liza brushed it aside. “Where are the others?”

She pointed out to the square and left him to his thoughts. She caught her breath atop the stairs before descending to help her family.

Wainwright ducked as the wraith leapt at him, slashing upwards with his blade blindly. It shrieked, but continued towards Leopold who stood aghast and tried to fire point blank. The shot flew wide, and the full force of the wraith drive the merchant off his feet and back into a paper wall. It crashed backwards and he rolled into a dishevelled heap.

“Run!”

The leading man turned and bit his tongue. The wraith composed itself and floating slowly over Leopold. It descended, claws raking and tendrils of shadow flailing wildly.

“By grace and virtue, water, come to my aid. Rain torrents upon this stage and wash away it’s sins!” Fists clenched, Wainwright punched the sky and a rumble shook the planks loose from their supports.

The curtains on the right side of the stage blew open as wind rolled across the square. Water poured out of every nook and cranny, crashing through the pillars like a waterfall and washing over Leopold with crushing force. It clipped the wraith and dragged it under, washing it, and all the props out onto the right side of the stage in a calamitous mess. Debris clattered out onto the cobbles of the square, soaking Wainwright’s boots and mingling with the piss and ale and bodies.

“Leopold!” He watched the subsiding waters nervously. “Leopold!”

A top hat appeared from behind a nest of plans and brooms, and the merchant rose, soaked to the core with his pistol still in his hand. He looked at Wainwright with begrudging thanks, and trudged over to the front of the stage.

“Did you have to go quite so far?” He spat water and took off his hat. He shook it and put it bac on his head eschew.

“It was that or have your soul torn from your body.”

“Well, yeah…” He glanced nervously over his shoulder. “Is it dead?”

“I doubt it. But it’ll weaken it enough for us to make our escape.”

Leopold looked back with a surprised expression. “Escape? It’s not like you to run from your fifteen minutes.” He emptied his clip and tossed the bullets aside. He reloaded it from his pouch, the shells kept dry by the proofed leather.

“We helped give people chance to flee, and this isn’t a fight we can win.”

To prove his point, two shrill cries filled the dark square behind them and when they turned they caught a glimpse of Duffy in a dervish war with the remaining wraiths. Flashes of light marked the clashing of swords against claws, and a distant melody pierced the tense silence.

“He’s learnt how to show off from you, that lad.”

Wainwright chuckled.

“I’ll have words.” He approached the edge of the stage and leapt off. He bent his knees to brace against the fall and looked up to Leopold expectantly. “Let’s take his lead, shall we?”

Leopold rolled his eyes and followed, his heavier frame jolting his back and shedding a litre of flood water onto the cobbles as he fell. He took to a slow jog behind Wainwright, who unsheathed his longsword as the use of his magic took a heavy toll on his concentration and his strength.

“Can’t let you have all the fun scamp!”

Duffy caught a glimpse of two shadows turning into friends and sighed, ducking and weaving around the wraiths trying to slit his throat. The wind on his heels gave him freedom to backflip and twirl and keep himself out of harm’s reach, but even his youthful exuberance began to waver.

“Took your damned time.”

The closer wraith reared up and approached the newcomers in a low arch, stopping Leopold and Wainwright in their tracks. Three bullets ploughed into its chest as the longsword in Wainwright’s hand burst into flames with a single command. The scent of lavender and pine filled the air and drowned out the cloying scent of death.

Arden watched the melee grow, weighing up his options as duty and family fought for his attentions. Though a part of the troupe, he served the royal family as an enforcer and spy, trying to keep the Olbanian military from infiltrating their city and tearing them apart from within. He felt betrayed and a failure at the same time. He dropped his hands to his sides and made his decision.

“Forgive me, your majesty.”

He vaulted the barrier and dropped into the dark.

Liza charged at the wraiths with the rage of the sun. Duffy saw the effects of her magic before he realised she was there, crackles of lightning and fire swarming around the wraith he danced around. As Leopold and Wainwright pushed one wraith back, the other began to dissipate beneath the onslaught of a woman scorned.

“Flame’s brand burns bright, send the day into the night, crush the ancient and the wicked!” She skidded to a halt, arms waving in a pattern that controlled the prangs of flame and spiralling them around the creature. Each rotation sent the bolts piercing through its body, deep purple and effervescent sparks shot out with each wound.

“Duffy get down!”

Wainwright raced to push the bard out of harm’s way. Leopold’s final two bullets tore the wraith’s skull apart, but the creature, in its death throes, lurched at Duffy with its claws outstretched. Wainwright leapt and crashed into the youth’s shoulder and took both cadre of talons to the chest. As the wraith faded, the leading man’s life force was drained into the aether and a lifeless, pallid corpse crashed backwards and rolled over facedown.

“No…” Liza whispered hoarsely. She shed the magic in her fingers and froze. The cold night air pricked her skin into goose bumps.

“Wainwright!” Leopold appeared by his side and he hesitated. “Wainwright, can you hear me?” He leant slowly and patted his brother on the shoulder. The body was ice cold and frigid. “Oh…shit.”

Liza and Duffy appeared on the opposite side and together, they rolled Wainwright onto his back. The moment they saw his face, blue lips and vacant eyes their worst fears came true. The trio fell onto their behinds and stared. Liza shed a tear first, and soon became hysterical. Duffy hugged her and tried to hold her back.

“Wainwright!” She screamed.

“Liza, I’m so sorry…he’s gone.” Leopold closed Wainwright’s eyes and rested his arms folded across his chest. “He did what he always does.”

“Protect us, no matter the cost.” Duffy finished Leopold’s thoughts, and when Liza started to compose herself he let her go and inched away. “What should we do?”

Liza stared blankly into empty space.

“Liza. Liza, can you hear me?” The bard waved his hand in front of her face. “Liza!” He shouted.

She turned to him and sighed. She wiped the tears from her eyes and as much of her make up as she could on the hem of her sleeve.

“We take him home.” The emotion in her voice sent a shiver down Duffy’s spine. “We take him home, then we find whoever did this and cut out his heart.” Malice sparked on her tongue, passion and grief riling her heart and threatening to make her lose control. Duffy nodded sympathetically and made to pick him up. Leopold assisted.

“Let us say the words.”

They heaved and carried him, stretcher like between them. Leopold took the legs and Duffy the shoulders. Liza approached his side and rested both palms on Wainwright’s chest. Arden padded into view, his dull emotions showing no signs of life. He circled them and rested his hands atop Liza’s. They spoke in harmony and bound themselves with blood and the Tongues.

“To home, through fold and failure, to sanctuary, through the deep between dark. To home, through fold and failure, to sanctuary, through hatred and heart.”

With a flicker and a flash, the troupe disappeared and left the ruins of market square aflame, crushed, and as a stark reminder of the price of fear run rampant in the minds of those they had, until now, trusted and idolised.

The Royal Palace
The City of Rodham

Queen Adele Rodham stood before her throne in the grand hall of the palace. In a delicate dress of white silk stitched with silver thread, she wore her hair shoulder length and unadorned. She held the crown of Rodham in her left hand, her right pressed against her bosoms as she listened to the armoured man at the foot of the throne.

“Your majesty, you have done magnificently.”

“I remain unconvinced Grand Inquisitor, you asked me to sacrifice so much and with no guarantee of success.” She cocked her head, encouraging her would be ally to try harder.

The man bowed, his armour scraping as plates rubbed against chainmail. Hidden behind a bulwark of steel and a helmet shaped into a lion’s head there was little he could do beyond appear menacing. He pointed to the throne.

“No-one now opposes your coronation. King Sam is dead, Lord Regent has betrayed you, and Hammertongue is of no concern to us now he has been dealt with.”

“Such promises made without evidence, Inquisitor. My son has given no quarter to indicate he is truly the one helping the rebels, and until Gavel’s body is at my feet we cannot assume he is dead.” She had hoped, when the news broke, but after a decade of trying to eliminate Hammertongue and his silver laced words the Queen learnt to rely on evidence, not hearsay to guide her actions.

“We agreed on simple terms.” He rose to the king’s throne and rested a hand on the sculpted arm. One was a whorl of scythes and the other a weave of wheat bushels. “I aid you to become the ruler of this city and rid you of your enemies.” He turned and made to sit. He relished the queen’s expression, a realisation that her dreams realised would cost her dearly. “In exchange for a seat and the fall of your kingdom’s heretics.”

He sat and loosened the straps of his helmet. The Queen relented and joined him, nodding to give her consent for him to unveil himself as Rodham’s new king. He removed the helm and set it down on his lap, ruffling his greying hair lose to arrange it suitable to wear a crown. She set the golden band on his head and sighed.

“The king is dead,” he said with a gruff, unrestrained pride.

“Long live the king,” the queen continued. She crossed her legs and clapped, signalling for the grand doors into the hall to be opened, and the evening petitions to begin.