IMPERO

HORACE

Horace Warfield was a 2nd Lieutenant hellion under the command of General Sargeras, one of the most respected officers of the 9th Special Reconnaissance Division, and well-known for his unconventional tactics and the high morale of the men under his command. He considered it a point of pride that he had never been defeated, despite several dozen pitched battles to his name.

And he had no idea where he was.

“Feeling better?” his father asked.

He looked up and saw... someone. It wasn't his father. The build wasn't right... or was it? His head. Something was wrong with his head.

“Good,” the person purred. Its voice was changing. It wasn't his father's any more. It was his first girlfriend's, the one who dumped him when he got his horns. “I want you to have a clear mind for this.”

“What... what are you?”

The shape before him flickered like a shadow. It had a tail, but bigger than anything the toy maker could produce. Then the tail disappeared like smoke. “Well, not a completely clear mind. I want to gloat, but I still have to be somewhat smart. What would happen if you escaped and told everyone who I was? Then I'd have to kill you and everyone you've ever met. That would be...” The voice, so much like his old drill instructor's, paused, as though savoring the thought. Was it licking its lips? “So... terrible.”

“What's going on?” Horace tried reaching out to touch the shadow, only to find he couldn't move. His arms and legs were bound to some sort of examination table, angled to give him a better view of the room. The manacles were... stone?

“It's been so long since I had a chance to properly gloat,” the voice said. “So much secrecy. And for what? So a couple more mud-apes can live out their dreary little lives? Pah. Worthless.”

“You're...” Dammit, what was wrong with his head?

A claw gripped his chin and forced him to look into his captor's glowing red eyes. Except it wasn't a claw and the eyes weren't red. Every time he tried to look at the... thing talking to him, his brain seemed to shy away from the subject.

“I am the Composer,” the shadow said in a clear female voice. It was beautiful, like carefully tuned bells. “I am the one who is going to burn this city to the ground.”

It let him go. Horace tried to look around the room in the hopes of actually discerning his location, but he didn't have much luck. It looked like a small maintenance room for the sewers, judging by the large pipes running throughout the chamber. There were only two entrances he could see, one to his left and one to his right, but he couldn't see any light coming from either of them. That didn't help much.

“Stop that,” a voice much like his mother's ordered, and he felt the manacles twist and tighten. But when he looked down, nothing was touching them. They were just moving on their own. “Don't bother trying to figure out where you are.”

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

“You're a screamer,” Horace whispered in horror.

The Composer rolled its eyes, and for a brief moment, he saw the face of a beautiful woman with red skin. Was it real? It felt real, but so did the rest. “No, I'm a composer. I have more than just one power. I have three different types of kinesis—stone, fire, and electricity—two types of fragma—shields and blades—a basic sapizo power, one of the better forms of tachytita, two types of anakalypsi, a very minor allagi power, and most importantly, hypnotism.”

Horace blinked. “Was I supposed to understand any of that?”

The shadow clicked its tongue in disappointment. “Actually, yes. You should have stayed in school longer.” Another pause. “Of course, I destroyed most of my schools, so I'm not one to talk.”

“What do you want with me?”

“Two things,” a high-pitched child's voice explained. “First, I want you to just stay a while and listen. I need to get all this gloating off my chest or else I'll end up actually telling it to someone important, like the Paladins.

“Second, I need you to disrupt the alliance.”

Horace frowned. “What alliance?”

The Composer sighed. “Butler finally managed to get his act together, and is forcing a truce between all the cultures and gangs. All to hunt down little old me.” Horace saw a flash of gleaming white teeth as it grinned, but it disappeared quickly. “I can't have that. It would be best to just make Butler break the treaty himself, but he's too well-protected. There's no way I can get to him.”

A treaty with Necessarius was perfect. It was exactly what the General had been looking for. Yes, the hellions had prejudices of their own, but Horace knew they would be able to put them aside for the greater good. Hopefully, the other subcultures would feel the same.

But something his captor had said was nagging at his mind. “Wait, how are you going to break the treaty? You're not a part of it...” He felt a surge of horror. He still had no idea who this person was, but it couldn't be that bad. “...right?”

The shadow laughed again, the sound of bells returning. “Oh, that would make things far too easy! No, I'm not a part of your silly little games. No, I'm going to make you do it.”

Horace marshaled his will and tried to sound more confident than he felt. “There's nothing you can do that will make me betray the General and his cause. If he wants this treaty, I will hold to it.”

The Composer laughed. Bells again. Why was it always bells? “Silly little hellion. Were you even paying attention?” Those gleaming white teeth returned. “Why do you think you can't identify me? Why do you think you can't remember how you got here?”

Horace closed his eyes for a moment, shutting out that confusing, shifting visage, and his wits returned to him. “You drugged me.”

“Not drugged,” it said cheerfully. “Hypnotized. So much more useful. Harder to detect. Harder to defend against.”

“You can't hypnotize me if I don't want you to,” Horace said.

It just chuckled. “Not that kind of hypnotism.” It leaned forward and brought its hand in front of his face, moving its fingers in a pattern he couldn't identify. It was riveting nonetheless. “Here's what you're going to do...”

Right before his mind fled completely, whatever previous hypnotism placed on him wore off, or perhaps was overwritten by the new one. Regardless of the cause, Horace could suddenly see the Composer in all its glory.

He couldn't tell if it was male or female, young or old; it was too brief a glimpse for that. He only identified one thing.

Earlier, he had thought the creature had red skin, which would probably mark it as a troll or goblin. But it turned out he was incorrect. The Composer's skin wasn't red.

It was just completely drenched in blood.