Unaccountable.
A truism made true by the repetition of self terminating cliches. A series of mental stakes penning in preoccupied, occupied people. It is what it is and everything happens for a reason. Untruisms peddled by well positioned placeholders, well paid propagandists, and then repeated by well intentioned puppets. God speaks and you must obey. Obey us! We are wise and you are fools. We have been chosen and you are cattle. We have been given this world and you exist to serve - so bow your head to the earth and grovel. Accept your place and then you'll receive a few crumbs of deliverance from our table. Be grateful for that mercy.
Unaccountable?
Nothing of the sort. They simply haven't yet been held to account.
“Up there!”
The shout from one of the regime's enclosing enforcers bringing me back into the moment. The man's nearby comrades – only a floor and a half below – stopping their ascent to look and the ants scurrying closer toward the bottom interpreting his call of warning as a call to swarm.
“What are you waiting for? Form up! Go!”
The men standing nearest the maw of the meat grinder hesitating - it's easy to give orders from far away, all safe and sound - but then one of the meat chunks yelling, and then another. The time finally arriving where they'd fulfill their fundamental purpose as soldiers. As men. Born to work and to suffer and to fight and to bleed and to die. What glorious purpose. Reaching maturity in order to keep those who are in power, in power. Trained to follow orders and instructed to call anyone who objects a scoundrel, or a subversive, or a traitor, or the lowest sort of scum. Spewing slander even as they throw away their one and only existence to benefit the great array of pretenders lording over them. Pro Deo et Patria, even as their gods were never really God, and their nations can no longer be called a Nation. Clamped, cut and conditioned. Diminished, destroyed, but still expected to shoulder the burden and lay down what remains of their lives.
The group's warcry swelling as they stabilized their ranks, two by two, with shields up front, and march up the stairs ready to meet the inevitable demands of destiny.
It's shame these things are getting in my way. No, not things, men. Unequivocally they are the perfect facsimile of men. Having the discipline to overcome the fear of death, and also being senseless enough to override thier self preservation instincts for the most flimsy of reasons. A grand cause. That is to say, a gilt-edged, dressed up, overvalued, misunderstood, purposefully misexplained, downright fabricated phony slab of baloney - a grand cause. That sort of hallowed hallow is how most earnest, well meaning, idealistic men misapply themselves. They struggle, and they endure, and they devote themselves wholeheartedly, and at the end of it all they die like dogs.
Holding myself back and not unleashing Runic Shield as they come up the stairs. Deliberately avoiding the smart, tactical play. Instead allowing the front ranks to place their feet on the landing specifically to grant them the reward they'd so richly earned.
Knocking the first sword thrust aside with a crackling flash and grabbing the second man's arm midmotion. Ear, nose and throat. The back end of the hatchet ringing a bell, and the front side drawing a deep cleft in the second man's face. Finishing with a backside swing that embeds the links of the metal aventale into a crushed windpipe. Taking a step back and placing a blot. Disjunction. The cleft palate widening as the skin and muscle underneath peel all the way open.
“Keep advancing! There's only the one.”
Orders are orders - it's true - but following them will often keep a man from his pension. The ones directly behind their dying comrades psyching themselves up and trying to charge over their fallen forms. A snap of energy pushing one into the other as they try to navigate their footing, and the weight of their armor and resulting missteps sending both sprawling. The ones behind hurrying to try and save their downed friends. Too far away. Raising my hatchet.
The motion behind and to the side of me more felt than seen. A pressure disturbance, or an odor, or potentially something ephemeral, sending a small, tickling jolt that registers as imminent danger. Jerking my entire body in an attempt to dodge while swinging the axe in a blind backhand. Feeling a slight resistance on my swing followed by a burning ache on my front that spreads to my side - the attack missing my vitals but scraping against a rib and leaving a trench from stomach to side. Unleashing several crackling pulses to deter any immediate followups while taking a second to reorient my stance.
The man, my attacker, wearing a dark jacket with a visible tear on his sword arm. Holding a rapier - a weapon deadly enough, in the right hands, but moreso a gentleman's tool for sporting matches. But managing to sneak up on me with that weapon, and with that outfit, and with no armor, probably means he's-
Knocking the incoming thrust aside and stepping in to hack. My opponent not flinching and stepping in to meet me. Balling his left fist and the two of us trading another set of blows. Trying to block his incoming punch but the attack blowing through the shield and the force sending me back a couple steps. Putting my back to the railing.
Pain radiating outward from my shoulder and joining to meet the ache in my side, and then spreading down my arm. The thing's sword clattering to the floor as it's arm goes limp, and the hatchet wrenched from my grasp and left embedded in it's shoulder, trapped by the collarbone. No blood.
The vampire in a slow, deliberate motion dislodging my weapon and then tossing it over the edge, but not moving in to press the attack. The creature in no particular rush to reengage. Reaching over to realign his shoulder as the group of soldiers that had ascended the staircase prepared to launch a more coordinated assault.
Stupid - short sighted - stupid. This isn't personal, so there's no need to go losing my head. This is a job - only a job - and it remains undone. That thing's hanging back because it'll be at hundred percent in a couple minutes, so it needs to be dealt with soon. Firing off a big spell is risky - it may not work - and that'll leave my limited resources even further depleted with nothing gained. Okay, deal with these ones first, and then that thing.
Willing the chain to extend while keeping an eye on the vampire. Anchoring one side to the railing and using the other end to swat at the soldiers. Nothing focused, nothing precise, a reckless flailing and whipping to force them to keep their distance. Keeping the flurry going while keeping one eye on the vampire. There. Abruptly changing course and flinging the other side to wrap around the monster's neck.
It's attention had been focused on me and the chain - mostly on the chain - but then it had spent a moment readjusting its grip and pulling a little harder on it's shoulder to keep itself together. That's my opportunity. A moment's all it'll take for the chain to change course and-
The thing's hand snapping out and catching the end of the chain before it could wrap around its neck. Showing me it's pointed teeth. Pleased with yourself, huh? Too bad. Got you. Giving the chain now wrapped around its wrist a yank.
Vampire's have all sorts of advantages - strength being only one – and this one's markedly stronger than the Neophyte that had been the Marquis' son. If the creature had been fully prepared, feet planted and arm braced, the chain's yank wouldn't have amounted to much. In a tug of war it probably could've ripped the railing clean off. Flatfooted, however? Come to me.
“Cease.”
The magical command bringing a smile to my lips. Predictable creatures. Oh, wait, it realizes it didn't work.
The vampire dodging my knife thrust aimed at its throat. The feinted knife thrust. The monster dodging nothing and then being hit full force from the side with the shield. Pulling the chain taut and all that momentum sending it tumbling over the railing to plummet several stories below.
Ignoring the dazed soldiers and recovering the chain while running up the stairs to the top floor. My side aching but the earlier pins and needles running down my arm mostly gone. Glancing over the side of the railing while nearing my destination. A good number of soldiers still stuck at the bottleneck created by the vampire's command to cease, but with many more still trying to come up from below. One group on the second level catching my attention due to their distinctive insignia. Officers. Spellcasters. Looking up here, but not at me. Gawking at something. What're they-
Vampires have all sorts of advantages. Strength. Speed. Regeneration. Otherworldly charm. And probably a bunch of others - assuredly a bunch of others – and this one now demonstrating an ability that put my Feather Fall scroll to shame. Flight. Features transformed, and with an arm still hanging limp, the creature revealing its true nature in front of everyone as it streaks upward to intercept my job. It looks so desperate. Very desperate. Desperation coming from a creature like that is a high compliment.
Erase.
Dead nothingness coating its chest and everything below as it enters my range, followed by an icy clap of released pressure. The thing letting out a screech, terrible anger and hatred pouring out as it plummets a second time. A crystallized, blood streaked meteorite making a hard landing on the stone floor far below. Still not dead. Twitching. Driven away and ripped apart, but still refusing to die.
Everything holding still for a moment as the screeching echoes fade, but then the temporary standstill breaking and the great mass of troops resuming their flow up the stairs. Putting my head down and sprinting the final stretch. Pulling open the great double doors to the grand ballroom on the top floor of the castle. There he is, my target, Marquis Vanaan. Still eating dinner, both him and his family – some of the remaining members, at least - sitting there near the window at that oversized table. Glancing over in my direction. Almost bored. He really does think he's untouchable.
One of the nearby help the first to react to my entrance in a most awkward fashion. Using both hands to swing a large metal platter as an improvised weapon. Blasting the tray out of his grasp and sending it sailing across the room. Putting him on his knees with a well placed strike and leaving him struggling to breathe from the hole in his throat. There's some of the panic. Now they seem to understand.
Another running at me. Wide open. Down. Willing the chain to wrap itself around the door handles. No reinforcements getting in anytime soon. There's only ten. Just need to deal with...
The Marquis' eldest daughter finishing her incantation. Pulling her arm back to lob a globe of fire in my direction.
A kindhearted girl: she'd waited to make sure no one else had been near. Taking in some air and covering my face as the sphere strikes the ground nearby and blossoms outward, engulfing me and everything in the vicinity in flames.
Hot. Decidedly hot even with the Elemental Resistance scroll. But hot like an oven, not hot like a blowtorch. They're over that way.
Opening my eyes at the first touch of cooler air. My target is there, on his feet but he hasn't really reacted, holding a steak knife in one hand and a skillet in the other. Only one thig of any note standing in my way, the current eldest son approaching, his foot back and hands up in a fighting stance. Going to knock you aside and then he's mine.
A spray a color from the table – purple, blue, green, yellow, red – sending me reeling, filling my vision with halos and blackness, and leaving me blind and blindly slashing. Dammit, should've been prepared for that - like mother, like daughter - a Mystic, the same as the little girl downstairs. Focus. Relax. This is only another dropped torch underground. There, that shuffle in front of me, he's roughly there. Guesstimating the distance and making a quick move forward. Leading with a crackling pulse followed by an overextended stab. Being rewarded with the sensation of skewering something solid and fleshy, and a woman's scream off to the side. Pumping my arm twice more, hit, miss, and then being overcome with pain. A kick to my leading leg, to the back of the knee, driving my leading leg into the ground, and sending bolts of pure agony up my thigh, spine, and down to my toes. Unable to do anything but fall to the ground and clutch at it with both arms, my entire world nothing but blind pain.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
Broken? Dislocated? It hurts so bad. Hopefully it's just the nerve. Toes. Curl and uncurl the toes. That hurts that hurts. Probably the nerve, probably a fracture. Doesn't matter it's not there. It's not horrendously awful. Keep flexing the foot and the ankle, and be ready to strike.
“Stay where you are.” An indistinct shape in my vision saying.
Gonna be real tough to move right now, but Erase will work if gets close enou... Blinking over and over. Blackness and halos and some shapes. Keep blinking, try to get something back. The knee isn't as bad as- no, it's pretty bad. Flex and unflex. Which one is he? Which one? That's the son, his arm is bent covering his chest, and that sounds like the daughter. That larger shape. That's him. Got to be. My vision is slowly coming back. Just say something to confirm it. Say anything.
The larger, shadowy indistinct figure turning to another shadowy indistinct figure and saying, “Inform Viktor that...” Yes, that's you. “No. Tell Viktor that his presence is urgently required, but say nothing more than that. And someone get some restraints on Macarthy.”
Got you. Got you got you got you. It didn't really work when practicing back in the cell, but there he is. Be there. Go there. He's right there. Right there. Tightening the grip on my knife and concentrating everything on moving over to him. Growling under my breath.
“go. he's right there. move. right there. very close. so close. you're mine. i'll kill you. you're dead dead i'll kill you. this is it. all there is. you're dead dead dead dead dead...”
A quick hop. A single moment. One blink of an eye. Teleport. Appearing just above the Marquis shaped blob and leading with my knife. Putting everything into the strike to jam the blade solidly into his skull. Releasing my grip on the weapon and lashing out with the shield in the direction of the large bay windows. Breaking out of the ring of indistinct shapes, and the Marquis' surprised and distraught servants and family more immediately concerned with potentially saving the already dead man than with catching me.
Shooting pains flaring on every other motion during my half lurch, half crawl, half series of hops across the room. The windowpane exploding outward in a shower of glass that falls directly to the ground, but my scrambling leap carrying me at a feather's soft float over the castle gardens in the direction of Shaker's cottage. The trajectory putting me on course to hit near my earlier exit point at the second story bathroom window. Well, not quite. My destination getting closer and closer, but not gonna hit the window. Not falling downwards very quickly, but still moving horizontally at a decent clip. Shifting my pack and bringing up my arms to brace for impact. Hitting the side of the building with enough force to eject the breath from my body with a sickly croak. Some moments later finding myself laying on the patio pavers with a coppery taste coating my lips.
Get up and get inside. Ugh. Everything hurts. Maybe Shaker has something for that. Doubt it. Doesn't matter, they need to see the head. My word alone will never be enough. After all of that, after everything, someone else has to see it so they know.
Clamping my teeth shut and staggering to my feet. Leaning against the door to prepare to pull it open. Almost overbalancing backwards and then nearly falling inside. The sound of claws clicking on the floor sending my hand to where my knife should've been. Grasping empty air. An animal rounding the corner, grey and indistinct. Realization at his identity making me sag with relief.
“Vesper. What-? Hey. Good to see... you... too.” Doing more leaning on him than petting. His temporary caretaker coming a few steps behind followed by the lady of the house. “Kate, why're...?” He must've tracked me. “I'm glad. But why...?” You shouldn't be here. It's a good thing you're here, but you shouldn't be here.
Wolfe not saying anything, merely taking in the scene. My bloody mess, Vesper pacing back and forth, fur on end, and then the pack clutched tightly within the crook of my arm.
“Oh my God!” says Paula. “Lucy, what happened? Come here. Let me help you.”
Accepting her assistance and returning to the dining room - no longer filled with soldiers, but still containing the remains of their tea. The woman barely hesitating before pulling out a chair and putting me in it.
“This is what happened.” Slinging the pack off my shoulder and pouring out the contents. The severed head rolling onto the embroidered tablecloth and dripping all over. “Vampire.” The snarling features making the resemblance to the former Marquis' former son somewhat questionable, but still close enough. “Kate. I'm sorry. I know you're angry at me but I'm kinda in a bad way. I could really use your help. Please.”
A blank stare. Maybe she's not angry. Maybe she's worried or completely flabbergasted. Her eyes continuing to bore into me. No, more like she's so angry she can't properly articulate it. The girl's hands reaching out and taking hold.
“A vampire...” Paula says, while staring at the head. “This is-”
Shouted orders and the banging of armed and armored troops entering the residence cutting her off. Wolfe tightening her grip – painfully so - but then relaxing. The familiar warmth of healing finally beginning to enter and flow through me.
“There's Macarthy! Don't move!”
Soldier after soldier pouring into the room, knocking over chairs and surrounding us. Paula placing her hands on my shoulder while Wolfe keeps hers where they are.
“Macarthy is secured. Search the rest of the house.”
“What's going on?” Paula says.
“Shut up. Don't move. Stay where you are!”
Spending the next couple minutes not saying much of anything. Paula giving up trying to speak after the third time she'd been told to shut up. Wolfe keeping her hands where they were, allowing my sharp, stabbing pains to somewhat reduce down to more of dull aches. Vesper keeping his chin on my leg and permitting me to scratch his ears. At the center of it all is the vampire's head, slowly turning the entire tablecloth a reddish pink hue, the central point of absolutely everyone's focus which absolutely no one seems in a hurry to acknowledge.
The sound of a woman's voice coming from the foyer giving Paula a start. Removing her hand from my shoulder and taking a couple steps to face the incoming storm. “What is the meaning of this?” Rage and grief amplifying every word.
“There must be some kind of mistake,” Paula says, lamely.
“No mistake. Your, your,” pointing her finger at me, “attacked my son and murdered my husband. I saw it with my own two eyes.”
“That- I can't imagine how you feel. I'm so sorry about that.” Paula not adding another accusing finger pointed in my direction, instead struggling vainly to come up some sort of apology. Two more soldiers coming into the room while propping up a very disoriented looking Shaker. The man struggling to open his eyes and the sounds coming from his mouth more a series of slurs than individual words. “Harold?”
“Lady Vanaan, we have their Director.”
“Good.” Glaring for another moment before turning around. “Harold, your- what's the matter with him?”
“I think he's drunk, ma'am.”
“Drunk? He's drunk?” Shaker trying to explain himself, but doing an awful job of it. The woman's nose wrinkling. “You're right, I can smell it on his breath.”
“Now, hold on a moment.” Paula managing to move a couple steps closer before being stopped once again by brandished weapons. “I'm certain there's an explanation.”
“Of course there's-” The woman turning back to address Paula, but then freezing in place. Finally noticing the leering gargoyle making a mess of the table. Taking a few halting steps in its direction. “That's my son.” Her breath coming out in quiet disbelief, her hands getting a little lost and then her gaze wandering aimlessly as she attempts to process. Turning around - putting her back to the head and shutting it out - and addressing Paula once again. “When you told me what happened I was happy for you. I thought I knew how you felt. I almost lost my son, once, but I got him back. He wasn't the same, but I still loved him. So when I found out you got your daughter back I was happy for you. How couldn't I be? You said she wasn't the same as before, but that's okay. I understand. That happens. And I told you...” The woman's jaw going slack.
Paula making the most critical mistake at the most critical moment: she displays the wrong emotion. She'd been doing well while listening along, giving little nods, radiating sympathy and understanding, but when the grieving widow and mother had said that she'd gotten her daughter back, the underlying emotion those words stirred up couldn't be easily contained. Sympathy and concern changing to a sort of joyous serenity - easily misunderstood as smugness. Mine is back and my world is whole again, and that yours is dead is merely the price of my happiness.
Misplaced motherly instincts on both sides. Only after sacrificing their children, or sacrificing the possibility, do they discover that meaning isn't so easy to find. So the void gets filled with replacements - cheerfully supplied - a whole nestfull of cuckoos and reptiles and red herrings and monkeys clinging to their backs. The hallmarks of a dying society.
“You Outsiders should all hang for this.” The Marquise's voice shaking in fury. “Outsiders.” The word repeated as a curse. Making a sweeping gesture as she issues her first order as the new ruler of the city. “Arrest them. Arrest them all.”
***
At the head of the chain gang is the coward, Harold Shaker. Mouth gagged, wrists bound and hands covered. When the time for decisive action had arrived he'd taken stock of the situation and balked. And then abdicated his position. The man keeping his gaze fixed directly ahead as we are led out of the prison toward our waiting ship in the harbor. The light flurry of snowflakes flutter in the air and melt as they hit the ground.
Next, behind him, is his wife. Similarly gagged and similarly bound. The woman still in a daze, and still very much in denial. Her stumbles at nearly every intersection causing the chains connecting us all together to threaten everyone's balance, but no matter how many times she almost falls her head continues to turn left and right as she searches the scattered gathering of onlookers that had assembled in the early morning to see us on our way. Her husband pausing his progress each time so she can regain her bearings before we resume our walk.
Third, behind them, are both wolves, neither of which are currently speaking with me. One because of how she feels - understandable - and the other because he can't speak. Each time Paula stumbles, and our progress temporarily halts, the girl would dutifully stop while muttering increasingly longer phrases under her breath. The other wolf, on the other hand, not starting up again until he'd received a reassuring pat from me on his hindquarters.
Behind me, bringing up the rear of our shackled procession, is Rudolf Urasu. Before getting gagged yesterday - or maybe it had been the day before - he'd spent a great deal of time proclaiming to anyone who'd listen: “I am innocent!” Few came by to hear and even fewer seemed to care. Likely, fewer still, believed.
Our march finally reaching the harbor where a large multi-masted galleon is moored. At our arrival a few sailors wearing an inordinate amount of emblems disembarking from the vessel in order to formally take custody. Papers displayed, lists checked and oaths sworn. The two groups saluting each other.
Every House had sent representatives to witness our departure and they are currently standing together while cordoned off to the side. Unmistakably under surveillance. Every movement watched, and every innocent gesture noted. Despite that, they generally all seem cheerful. For the most part. Mr. and Mrs. Garland, at least, seem quite cheerful. Lane, too. Parnell, mostly upbeat. And some of the others, as well. Elizabeth Collier, less so; her icy stare making her desire for more extreme retribution obvious. The least cheerful member of the group, scrunching her face and hunching her shoulders, Riley. The girl hadn't been permitted to visit while we'd been in prison for the last cycle - and during this handoff they definitely aren't letting anyone get near. Trying to send a message over to her that everything will be fine, but my meaning clearly not received. Undoubtedly due to the chains and gags and all the soldiers barking orders. The girl displaying a scowl.
An insistent tug on my wrists pulling me across the pier and then up the gangplank. Riley's despondence and disappointment sticking with me the entire way up to the deck of the ship.
No.
Clearing my head and focusing. Teleport, about a foot to the side. Still gagged, but my ankles and wrists now free from the shackles. Staying in line for another two steps and then stepping away. Changing direction and brushing by a couple sailors. Hopping onto the ship's railing and undoing my gag.
“Escape! The prisoner's escaped!”
Keeping my balance and sauntering down the ship's railing toward the vessel's prow. Getting past the forward bulkhead and then turning to address my captivated audience standing on shore, while doing my best to ignore the growing unrest of the soldiers.
“When I get back I'm gonna drag you all out of your nice, warm, comfortable beds and then I'm gonna string you up on the streets. This isn't the end. I'll keep killing you until I get sick of it - I'll kill you a hundred times.” Swatting away the incoming arrow with the shield. And the next. “You're all on borrowed time.” Raising a hand in farewell to Riley, and then lifting up my other in surrender.
Everything's going to be fine. I promise.