The Bud • The Bogs • Alzabar

In the glory of Soloman’s Keep, along the high top of the Bud, where the gold towers were brightest and where the dawn of the sun had begun its warm rise, across shining buttresses and sleek balconies, somewhere in that holy place, a conversation was taking place. Something austere, and quiet, a silent cancerous conversation amongst the gold stems, the murals, the statues of the holy place.

There, on one such tower, past two doors that St. Paul guarded with a painted, stern face. A young man came up from his satin bed, purple covers to match his purple eyes. Propped up on one side of his bed rested a little mirror. A black shard that enabled that low and shushed conversation.

“They’re back, like you said.” The young man said. His curly blonde hair laid flat on his smooth pillow. His body resting on its side. A modern roman man.

"Friends of the Hyena," The voice said. "Terrible, terrible. They won't like what we do, they'll stop what we do. Me knows, me knows."

"What should we do, how should we get rid of them? Are they even trouble?"

"Trouble? Trouble!” The voice rose, the man had to put the mirror under a sheet. Footsteps clacked from outside his bedroom. The voice was brief, high-pitched and nasally. “How can anyone say? Only the soothsayers know of trouble! Hah! And there aren’t any soothsayers left, no, no child. I can’t tell of what trouble will happen but I can imagine it, fantasize about it. Oh, yes, yes. There are more terrible things that exist in this world than you could ever imagine, oh yes. They must die. Or be gone, any which way, however convenient. Me knows."

"What should I do?" The Royal asked.

"Do? Eh? Eh? What do you mean do? All you need is speak, your voice is strong. Your word is law here."

"They’re part of that queer thing, the Smog lands. Order of the Rose, stupid name for such a dull and grey breed." The royal said. “No matter how lowly they are though, even my accusations will require evidence. Especially when I’m accusing someone of a different sect.”

"Evidence? Aha.” The voice said.

“Human constructs are funny, aren’t they?" The Royal said. "Especially when they’re made to play pretend-God.”

“The old days were better. Back when you were all still half-apes. Monkeys who hit each other with bones over trivial things! Trivial things, the only things to war about. Me thinks.” The mirror flashed a yellow eye for a second, demon-kin.

“You never needed evidence then, why not now? Me needs to know."

“It would not be politically correct for me to condemn two men to death, sorry. We're a more civil breed for better or worse.” The Royal said. His voice bemused almost. “And if you’re going to keep suggesting terrible ideas, then I’d rather speak to our master.”

“Oh, no, no, no. He’s grumpy today. Don’t do that. He’d kill Patches. Oh yes, he’d kill Patches.”

“Then Patches should suggest something else.” The Royal said.

The mirror stuttered, flashes of color and of golden eyes and jagged teeth appeared in random sequence until it settled, again, to a dark screen.

“A rumor, Patches thinks.”

“A rumor?”

“A rumor about the truth of course!” Patches said. “Master says the Vicars of the Bogs have gone insane! Master says he's seen it in the birds. The men on the roof who scream like monkeys. Why not use him? Me thinks he's useful.”

“Hmm, a rumor." The Royal rubbed his soft chin. "I could do that. I know some people, I can pay them off perhaps to tell my truth, yes. A letter..."

He stood nude and began reciting.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

"Apollo and Dion have gone to Hell, test them, test them for they are marked men. Test them for they are traitors for Hell.” He repeated the line in his head. Each time, it became clearer, louder, more imaginative. As if he could see the pitchforks and the fires and the bladed weapons and guns of Vicars charging through to kill them. It became clear, that image, in his sleep-hazy mind.

"What would happen if I let them live?" He paused. The cold air brushed against him.

"Patches thinks you'll find them, for you follow different masters." He said.

"Mmm, I don't like violence. It's a tool for fools."

"Yes, monkeys!" Patches said, jovial almost.

"Alright, I'll do it then." He flung the transmitter to the bed.

The mirror went silent and in that darkness of the room with the thick blinds, it seemed to blend with the shadow, into a dark homogenous abyss.

All for master, he thought, all for a dream.

He waited in that hostile darkness, cigarette in hand, nicotine filling the air with a thin veil of smoke. He threw his matchstick down, it made a trivial noise against the marble tile and he began writing with his smoothest pen.

A letter sent, by owl, to an officer. With no name to it, with nothing but some money and some tokens and a promise for more, should the letter be opened and spread, it instructed.

This man, this officer of the third order of the Rose was a frequent customer to the Royal, who had never asked questions, who had never been curious. An unsavory, desperate type who in the tavern of a Vicar village (known only by its province name, Alzabar) looking at his slop of food, had convinced himself that perhaps taking the money and reading the damn thing was a good idea.

The letter went like this,

"There are forces out there that forbid me from speaking out. Forces that would destroy us all, and yet I can not remain in calm." The officer read, sweat falling from his greasy scalp in his little grey brick tavern, with the poor radio static playing in the background, with a television set being struck, with shields and arms decorating the walls like an unfashionable medieval schizophrenic nightmare. He sat reading the letter, the table wobbling and his white slop of oatmeal spilling on it.

"There are two injured Vicars, two wanderers who have come back bloody and ill-intent, they have gone to Hell and back and with them bring forth a legion from the very the depths of all that is wrong. Their names are...their names…”

The man stretched the letter out and flattened. His twirling spoon stood still. He looked below, the money was pinned to the letter. Some instructions, no signature and of course, only two names; the accused.

Apollo and Dion.

And he breathed deeply, for he remembered having heard their names and of their coming back, having heard that they (the pair) looked like wandering zombies across the lower, drab towns of the Smogs. He stuffed the letter in his pocket. He left a coin, exiting before it could even stop spinning on the table. He copied it at home, by hand, by press, whichever ways old and young, he copied his letter.

He handed them out, to the few neighbors he had. He received a hefty sum of gold, in a little pouch. The next week, he threw the pages out of balconies and wandered the lands like a crier.

He got another pouch. A carrot dangling on its stick.

By the third week even he believed it.

Then after a while, more people began to believe it. And questioned it. And asked things like, wasn’t Apollo always a bit of a loner?

Wasn’t Dion a bit strange in the head, naive?

Didn’t they come back bloody and foul?

So on and so on, it did not take long for the lower lofts to take hold of this information. It did not take long for Daedalus to hear of it. Two weeks, two weeks and the Smog lands had digested the hostile letter until it was part of the lands, like the white mist itself.

And the Royal watched, from his balcony, buying word of news from sullen types. His lazy days spent on that tower on the Bud were comforted with the stories, of Daedalus marching with his band of new-age, old-thinking traditionalists.

There was a knock on the door. The Royal stood up, he dressed himself with black pants and fixed some black leather shoes. He opened the door, it was the only direction of which light showed through and he pushed his face through the brightness, into the Hall where two Vicars, with purple shawls, waited for him.

“Holy Scion, the dinner is soon.” One of them said.

“Don’t be late again, please Joseph.” The other finished.

“What’s the topic of discussion?”

“The Knights want better medical treatment, the Hospitallers want more material.”

“Drab things.” Joseph yawned.

“These, too, are part of your duties, like they were to your father before you,”

“Yes, and my father was a boring man.”

“Please show up on time. Rapport is incredibly important.” One of the Vicars said, head shaking behind her leopard spotted black and white mask. “Punctuality is good manners. And good manners is cleanliness and cleanliness is -”

And Joseph smiled, extended a palm out.

“Yes, I understand. I won’t keep them waiting then.”