Chapter Eighty-Seven

Fifteen Cycles Before

Nearly fifteen cycles before that exact day a young Jack erupted through enormous, silver doors twice his height and more ornate than church windows. In his hand swung his dark mace and strapped to his arm was a shield, painted with notches and thick with broken arrowheads. His armour crunched as he ran into a bright, ceremonious hall. A wide grin was strapped to his young face. It was a face barren of scars. It was a face light with laughter. It was the face of a young man named Jack whom the world proclaimed, The Merc of the North, the Man With No Name, and the Mace of Mhairia.

“Come on out, Ardic!” he shouted, laughing as a crowd of young women, men, and nobles blew through the palace doors, cheering and shouting alongside him.

He was sixteen, but as tall any of them. His arms were thick and his chest was broad. His eyes, both blue and bright like a cloudless, Riniglacian sky.

Jack ran halfway down the room, his armour bright as starlight and came to a gentle stop. “Grimhold! Come out, it’s over! Don’t make me drag you out!”

The throne at the end of the grand hall was empty, and all down the sides of the chamber were polished suits of armour poised on stands.

Jack sighed and called to his comrades, “Brothers, sisters, siblings, come! Search the palace! Find out where that rat is hiding.”

The crowd of rag-dressed rebels, wielding stolen weapons, and red-dyed cloth cheered and stormed through the many hallways like a tide of crimson.

Jack looked about the enormous chamber and whistled lowly before turning to see Harlan, standing and looking at him quietly, pride so full in his eyes that he was having trouble keeping still.

Harlan was half a head shorter than Jack, and his skin was the colour of roasted coffee. His eyes were so bright brown that they were practically amber, and he stood like he was worried someone might catch him slouching.

“Look at where we are...” his voice spoke, smiling so widely that he couldn’t keep himself from giggling.

Jack gave a loud laugh to hear it echo off the walls and walked over to one of the many palace-guard armour-sets. “Not a fan of the interior design, personally,” and kicked it over with a resounding clutter of steel.

Harlan rolled his eyes but grabbed Jack and kissed the back of his head before nodding to the throne, a seat of pure silver, polished granite, and veins of sapphire. “You think we could break that down and sell it?”

Jack snickered and ran up to it, only to see a small bound scroll, no bigger than his finger, lying on the armrest. He frowned, pulled off a neat ribbon keeping it bound and unravelled the parchment.

This letter is addressed to the Man With No Name,

Jack’s face grew pale and he looked to Harlan. Harlan’s soft disposition grew tight with concern.

“Jack, what is that?”

Jack looked back to the words.

I was put in charge of Emperor Ardic the Second’s personal safety. He has allowed me to command as many troops as I needed to ensure this responsibility. And as you can probably guess, I would not rely on the two thousand soldiers you just defeated to defend a city as grand and important as Arcavelot, nor of course, the emperor, himself.

Well, I suppose you not being able to guess was part of the hope.

Sorry to ruin the fun.

As you are reading this, you’ll likely come to understand the unfortunate situation you’ve fallen upon. Though, admittedly, I do wonder if you were ever confused as to how you managed to besiege three impregnable cities in a single spell. Did you truly believe it was by your skill as a commander? How embarrassing.

As you know, the emperor has a standing army of twenty-thousand infantry and five-thousand armoured cavalry. As you read this, you will likely hear ten thousand of those soldiers emerging from the sewers. I really have enjoyed this while it lasted. I’d love to know what song they might sing of this day. Of you and your foolishness. Me and my inevitable victory.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

I fear it will be a rather sad song.

Sincerely,

Captain Amekot Hillborn of the Authorised Imperial Army,

Commander of the Royal Security Division.

Jack turned just in time to hear the screaming start. He barrelled to the door, ripping his mace free and bellowed, “Ambush!”

Harlan sprinted to his side. Through the open doors, Jack and Harlan saw thousands upon thousands of military iron-suits flooding into the main forum and massacring the thousand or so rebels who’d stayed outside.

Jack barrelled toward the mayhem as a dozen or more allied forces piled inside, but before he could make through the panicking crowds, the doors were forced shut.

“Open the doors! Rally! Rally! What are you doing? We need to get out there!”

Harlan and two others pulled the palace door bolt into place and locked it just as they heard bodies slam against from the outside, screaming and crying as swords were heard falling like a storm upon flesh.

“It’s too late!” Harlan grabbed Jack and pulled him back from the door.

The hundred or so rebels began shouting in panic as they massed in the hall and the doors of the palace shuddered, though whether it was under the hands of the dying rebels or the swords of imperials, they couldn’t know.

The screams filled the room and the blows on the door became far angrier, ringing out like cracked church-bells with each jaw-shaking boom!

“What do we do!”

“Mace!”

“They’re dying out there!”

“Jack!”

The maceman didn’t know whose voice belonged to who. The world around him felt fuzzy and surreal, like he’d fallen into a dream cycles ago and he’d finally awoken. He looked around at the soldiers screaming his name. So many of them were crying. Behind them others ran, running down the corridors to find another way out.

There were none, but they wouldn’t find out until it was too late.

Harlan took Jack by the head and held him tight, and although so much fear filled the room with screams, his soft voice cut through, and Jack heard him speak, “You’re our commander. What are you orders?”

And just like that, it was as though the maceman’s head was ripped above water. The noise was jarring and loud and the bar on the door was already bent and on the verge of cracking. The world was trying to swallow him, but Harlan was there. So, it couldn’t.

“Form ranks!” Jack roared about the noise. “Form ranks! Shields at the front!”

The terrified soldiers heard the sound of his voice and the screaming dulled as they ran into place, scarcely able to clutch their weapons.

Jack pushed through the crowd and pulled his helmet on, covering the tears running down his face as he saw Harlan take his place in the vanguard.

A catastrophic crash sounded behind him, and the lock-bar spilt down the middle, hanging on by only an internal rod of steel, bent and cracked, and the moment the doors gave even slightly, the roar of the outside world poured into the chamber. Thousands of iron-suits could be seen butchering the remaining rebels and amassing for one final charge against the door.

Jack turned to his soldiers and drew his bright mace. “Voe armoni!” he shouted, in Old Crekaen, a war-shout known in every culture. From Death… it meant.

“Ka Aey!” the horde of rebels replied, shouting at the height of their lungs, crying, screaming and raising their weapons high. …Comes Life.

Jack screamed those words three times, and three times they were shouted back to him as he raised his shield and turned to face the doors.

The imperials came roaring against the door and the crash was monumental, like the sound of a star falling to Draendica.

But it didn’t give. Instead, the world took a breath as the imperials reared to charge again. And Jack never saw it happen, but Harlan saw the moment as the miracle it was, ran up behind the maceman, and cracked him in the low of his helmet with the pommel of his sword, sending Jack to ground like an armoured sack of bricks. Those around him screamed in confusion, but as soon as they saw Harlan dragging Jack’s limp body toward the armoured suits lining the room, they understood.

Together they broke their lines and began toppling armour suits. Among them, Jack looked like just another buried display.

Harlan ripped off Jack’s plumed helmet and picked up a palace-guard helm. He stroked Jack’s young face and kissed him as he wept.

Above the roar of the barrelling imperials, the cries of the rebels, and the screams of the dying, Harlan whispered, tears upon his face, “Goodbye, my love. Be brave for me. Maybe in another life we had coffee in the mornings. I only liked it when you made it.” He pushed the imperial helmet onto Jack’s head, and pulled the Javen-helm upon his own as the ambushers broke in.

Harlan died in that hall.

And Jack, too deep in Dead-Rest, never heard his goodbye, but sometimes he dreamt it, and awoke with the taste of burnt coffee in his mouth.

*****

“Jack?” Klaryah asked, watching the man as he put a hand against the wall to steady himself.

“Are you okay, McKennedy?” asked Amekot, though his voice was stiff with irritation rather than concern.

Jack spent a long moment looking into the empty depths of the shadows on the walls. Ros… Roslyn….Roslynia… Eicenia. V… Valancia. Hilyria. Renorom. Zanssien. Äarkaam.

Jack turned his hard gaze up to Amekot, wondering purely and simply if he could kill the Fortmaster with his bare hands before Klaryah could stop him.

“So, we can’t leave. We have to stay. We have to fight. That means we need to know our numbers” Jack said, still musing as he flexed his hands idly.

Amekot tidied his papers and stowed them away again. “Yes, we need a headcount… is there something on your mind, Paladin?”

Jack stared at Amekot until his snide demeanour faded. What good would it do? You’d still be here. Just more tired. The taste left his mouth and finally he shook his head and turned to leave. “A headcount, it is.”