Chapter Ninety-One
Corruption
The rain seemed to fall slower now, but very few noticed or cared as it soaked through their clothes.
Inside Oliver, a rage so deep and mournful burned while the thunder echoed far overhead. His tired face ran with rainwater. They all believed it was him. He, who’d spent countless nights in the crop-fields when there was a shortage of farmhands. Who’d trained younger Legacies on the sword stage and in the Arena. Who’d followed Michael into the depths of Enthall. Who’d rescued every single one of his friends from prisons of stone. Who’d been slashed open by the talons of monsters to buy his friends time. Who’d loved every moment of it…
Oliver stared at the cold iron cuffs biting into his wrists as water clinked on the chains. The worst part was that he knew if the table was turned, he’d be down there, one of them would be in his place, and he’d have no reason to think differently.
Amekot counted the hands, seeing many familiar faces among them, such as Kresta, Dolores, Royston, the assistant harvester, and Avery, alongside hundreds of others, the consensus was clear. “And all opposed!” he said, strictly for the formality.
The sea of formerly raised hands fell and Amekot looked smugly over the silent crowd. Those whom hadn’t raised their hand at all, namely Flinn, Sidney, Karmine, Lain, and Willem, didn’t do so here either. Marken and Kirkley were also among the abstained, as well as Syon the harvest-commander, Sylvia the bartender, and Lillian the Witchdoctor, each looking physically incapable of doing so.
Amekot waited for anyone to raise their hands in Oliver’s defence, but no one did. He turned to Oliver and patted him on the back, unwilling and unable to keep his broad smile from his face. Amekot turned back to the crowd and gave a deeply satisfied sigh until a hand was raised near the front of the steps.
It was Nichole’s. She looked at Amekot, unblinking.
Amekot walked down the steps slowly, combing back his rain-sodden hair. “This level of obstinance is bordering on treason, itself, Miss Huntress. I hope you’re aware of that.”
Nichole replied loudly for those near to hear, “Call it what you want. I don’t think he deserves to die… I don’t know if anyone deserves that.”
Aroha raised her hand. As did Sarah and James. Then before Amekot could speak further to it, Archie the black smith raised his hand, followed by Flinn, Sidney, Karmine, and about a dozen others. Amekot swallowed bitterly and stalked back to the top of the steps.
“Seventeen votes against. Four uncounted. And two-hundred and eighty-six votes in favour!” He turned to face Oliver plainly and said, “Archangel Jacobs, I hereby sentence-”
“Eighteen,” Magnus yelled in the rain, his hood pulled over his pale face.
Amekot’s eyes flashed with blue spell-craft and his vocals erupted across the fortress, “Silence! Jacobs, I sentence you to die by hanging before Rising’s End on the Sixteenth of Bronzing. Paladin Selene, are relieved of your command as Captain of the Quick Response Unit.”
The crowd rumbled with disbelief but Sidney looked unsurprised. Flinn went to shout but Sidney put a hand on him and shook her head.
“Francis, you will be assuming her command. Please return the convict to his cell to await his execution. Everyone return to your duties. Dismissed.”
Francis, a woman of perhaps eighteen cycles, lean and strong like a leopard, with a hunger in her face, grabbed up her spear and shield and looked across the crowd to Sidney. Sidney held her gaze for a moment. The surrounding Legacies went quiet.
Sidney called out, “Hope you’re thinking this through, Lieutenant.”
Francis huffed a jet of steam from her nose and shouted, “Squad, on me!”
Amekot turned and walked back into the keep, trudging through the puddles as the crowd of Legacies dissipated in muffled silence. Their anger and rage which had been so loud and upfront before, seemingly snuffed out by the reality of their choice.
Oliver stood in choked silence as everyone moved passed him, like he was a forgotten rock in a cold river. It was only when a body stopped in front of him that Oliver was able to cast half a glance up and see Archie standing there, nervously twisting his fingers.
The blacksmith looked at him and bashfully glanced away before saying, “Th-the day we met was one of the worst days of my life, you know.” More tears fell from Archie’s eyes as the rain roared around them. “I was fourteen, like you, and I th-think it was your f-first week here. Do you remember?”
Oliver wanted to nod, wanted to take the young man in his hands and say Yes, but the fogginess returned the moment he tried to enact it, and his head merely bowed in an unfocused haze.
Archie watched Oliver lull over and smiled as tears came to the edges of his eyes. “I destroyed half of the Forges on accident because I wanted my f-first project to be incr-incred...” Archie stopped and took a breath.
Oliver instinctively reached out to touch his arm, but before he could, the sickness swamped him, and the swordsman had to force his eyes shut just to stop from blacking out.
Francis and her Quick Response unit of armoured Legacies marched toward to the two young men, trying to push through the crowd.
“Incredible. I wanted it to be great. But I f-fucked it up. And Amekot wanted to punish me, to b-ban me from the Forges. But you were there. And you stood up for me. And d-do you remember what happened?”
Oliver felt the coil of emotion tearing inside him, unable to show the barest hint of pain he felt as he thought, Amekot promised to banish us both, if you ever messed up like that again. He said if I stood with you, then our fates were bound. And I said, ‘I’d have it no other way.’ Oliver thought it so loudly he was screaming in his mind, praying that Archie might hear him.
Archie stood staring at the young man as he stayed silent and sighed. “Maybe you don’t. But I always will.” The blacksmith wiped his face and turned and walked away, as Francis took Oliver by his chains.
*****
Amekot pushed open the door to his office, holding the stack of parchment and whistling an upbeat tune before he saw Jack, sitting on his rich mahogany desk. His face descended into an irritated scowl as he said, “That desk costs more than your costume-armour, McKennedy, I have chairs for a reason.”
Jack bit back the thought of revealing everything about just how real his armour was, just to spite the asshole, but didn’t, and instead stood up straight.
“I have new information regarding Oliver. Michael seems to believe that he may have been mind-coaxed. Bewitched by some form of Dark Tongue Arcancy.”
Amekot turned stiffly on the other side of the desk for the space of a moment, before straightening himself out and sighing. “He wasn’t enchanted, Jack. You know this game, Williams is just trying to save the boy’s hide.”
Jack leant onto the desk and said, “This is not up for debate. Michael is who gave us the main evidence against the boy. If he feels unsure, we can’t rely on it.”
Amekot quietly leaned back. “We’re not. We found the stolen documents in his possession too.”
Jack raised his brow at him, incredulously. “I could put the same documents in your desk, but somehow I don’t think we’d end up hanging you.”
“Jacobs’ wardrobe- like yours, mine, and everyone’s, was magically sealed.” Amekot said with an amused huff. “We had to use a book of Farganon to break it open it. He stole those documents.”
“And he could’ve done that under enchantment, Hillborn!”
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“Listen, Jack. Jacobs was a good lad. Clearly, something has changed, but it’s nothing mystical. No one in Fort Guardian is Dark Tongued, and I would know. Check the General Archives, if you want, if its anywhere, it’ll be there, but I’m telling you, the only person who knows why Jacobs did it, is Jacobs, and he’s not going to talk.”
Jack bit his tongue to restrain his anger for the man’s obstinacy and muttered, “What if you’re wrong?”
Amekot looked up at the younger man. “I’m not. He’ll be hung before the sunrise tomorrow. Come. Don’t come. I don’t care.”
Jack seethed but fought it down when a question irked him. “Why are you waiting?”
Amekot shrugged. “We haven’t had cause to hang someone here in a hundred years. We don’t have a gallows. One’s being built.”
Jack laughed darkly. “Only you would care about murdering a boy the right way.”
Amekot stood up from his desk and levelled a finger at Jack. “Watch yourself.”
The doors of the office were pushed open and Klaryah walked in. She half froze as she saw the two men caught in their bitter confrontation. Her bow was slung over her strong shoulders as she wrung water out from her hair. “You wanted to see me?”
Jack turned and left, slamming the door behind him.
As soon as he knew his footsteps wouldn’t be heard, Jack bolted down the main corridor, avoiding concerned Legacies as he ran, and broke out into the thundering storm outside. The forum had cleared as the wind picked up and he tore around the edge of the keep toward the Arena, only to find Francis’ guard posted outside of the main gate.
As Jack walked closer, Francis stepped politely toward him, planting her spare in the mud between Jack and the gate. The motion was clear.
“Evening, Jack,” she called in her raspy voice, her green eyes glittering through the slits in her helmet.
Jack slowed his walk as she continued toward him and looked over the seven or so soldiers behind her. Every single one of them watched him cautiously. “Is Jacobs in there?” he gestured to the Murk below the Arena.
Francis nodded, glancing to the mace on his hip as casually as she could.
Jack felt a bitter smile come over his face and nodded, understandingly. “Hillborn has you here. What does he think we’re going to do?”
Francis tried to brush off the remark, but Jack casually set his hand on the head of his mace and entire squadron went silent with tension. Lightning crackled high above and light reflected in the scars upon his face.
Jack knew in his prime that eight iron-suits wasn’t a problem. But eight Legacies was a different story altogether. More than anything, he doubted Sidney would ever forgive him, even if Francis did stab her in the back. He drew his hand away and shook his head at the pack of them. “How much did it cost Hillborn to buy you? Or was the thrill of being a bootlicker payment enough?”
Francis pulled her spear out of the mud and stepped toward him. “You want to go? Let’s go.”
The thunder finally rumbled, rolling across the hills like the purr of a sleeping titan.
Jack’s breath steamed through the air. “I wouldn’t lose sleep over burying you, Francis. But I value Sidney’s opinion of me. Tonight… it saved your life.”
Jack turned and left, and Francis let out the breath she’d been holding for nearly a full minute.
*****
Michael tore through the Priority Archives almost as violently as Oliver had, scanning the documents under Legacy Profiles to find which Arcancy belonged to which Guardian. Jack had been convinced he might be able to persuade Amekot, but Michael wasn’t hanging around to find out. If there was something in the fortress which would tell him who had an Arcancy as dark as the one he thought, he knew there’d be no conceivable way it would be on public viewing in the General Archives.
One by one he made his way through the different scrolls, slightly confused by the fact that none of his friend’s names were among the shelf but kept searching. He was shortly horrified by the same discoveries Sarah had made earlier but pressed on, holding his revulsion between his teeth as the scanned document after document.
It was only when his eyes touched a label which read Magnus Proditor, that he stopped his high-speed search. Michael found himself acutely aware that he had no real suspicion of the pale menace anymore. It was a strange realisation to discover. Regardless of that, his curiosity beckoned. He unravelled the scroll, searching down its list of details.
Name/Title: Paladin Magnus Andevār
Chamber: Harmonia
Arcancy Status: Confirmed Legacy – Dark Arcancy - Reaper’s Touch
Age: Eighteen
Nationality: Dark Lander: Half-Creation, Half-Draendican.
Notes:
~ Experiences flashes of Alovār behaviour in the presence of Legacies heavy Arcancy usage, like most Alovār Creations. His aggression is even triggered by his own Arcancy uses.
~ Due to half-blood nature, Andevār doesn’t age like a Creation, but rather like a Draendican. Where most monsters will reach a certain age and lose their feral characteristics, his seem unevenly bound to his Draendican life.
~ After much testing, I’ve discerned he has the internal structure of a Setheen, which is to say alloyed bones and nearly impenetrable skin, though the only indicators of this visually seem to be his eyes.
~ Despite being half-Creation, I suspect he is mortal.
Safeguards
~ Like any Setheen, he was susceptible to drowning, other forms of suffocation, or burning, wherein his superior strength becomes a non-factor.
~ His scythe is made from enchanted volcanic glass and may be brittle under heavy contact with other weaponry.
Michael blinked as he read the page and felt baffled. Magnus may have a Dark Arcancy but Michael knew it wasn’t the one he was looking for.
Michael stuffed the scroll back into place and he skimmed through the names he didn’t recognise, seeing nothing resembling Dark Tongue in the small descriptions of their power. He read all the way to the last document and there was nothing.
Michael cursed and swore as he tore his hair. He was missing something. He glanced around the other bookshelves and nothing made sense as a place to hide some dark secret when that was the function of the whole damn room. He glanced at the central table and idly went through a handful of scrolls there, racking his brain trying to remember why Dark Tongue and mind coaxing sounded so familiar.
And then it came to him, like a breath to his lungs, he remembered.
The night they’d realised Nikereus was bewitching their army. The night they went to the Conjurement.
Michael hardly had to try and his eyes engulfed into white starlight. Michael staggered under the pain for a moment and he felt himself shift back into his body on that night.
Michael raised his head and found himself looking up at Amekot from the floor of the Conjurement, as Jack spoke in stressed tones.
“I don’t know. There’s no form of magic that I know of which can enchant so many people to such a degree. Even Arcancy wouldn’t be able to manage it.”
Amekot glanced at him and shrugged, speaking mostly to himself. “Depends on the Legacy.”
Michael summoned all his magical understanding and felt the pain roar in his veins as he halted the moment, freezing the world under his thumb.
The light-maker felt blood trickling from his eyes as he forced himself to stand in the moment of past, breaking free of the reality and becoming separate from his former self. Every movement was like being cast into a pit of burning coals and every breath he took beyond his past-form was like swallowing molten metal, but he screamed out as he moved toward Amekot and looked him sharply in the face, no more than a foot away, like a ghost watching the living from beyond the grave.
Michael felt the moment around him and immersed himself in his pain as he forced time to inch backwards. He watched Amekot’s movements reverse and his words fall back into his throat until finally Michael let go again, and the Fortmaster said once more, “Depends on the Legacy.”
Michael watched his face as he spoke.
Amekot was speaking almost entirely to Jack. But a piece of him was save for himself. And for the slightest hint of a moment, a glimmer of smugness warmed his eyes as Amekot rolled out his fingers.
The past world fell away like golden rain and reality wrapped back around Michael as he collapsed onto the table, coughing blood into his hands, pale with realisation. Only two types of men could ever know what Dark Arcancy was capable of. Jack had been hesitant to think it could control one person when Michael asked him, because it’d never been used on him, and he’d never used it. But Amekot, long before he knew about the Heart Stone, thought the right Legacy could bewitch thousands.
“Because he’d already bewitched one,” Michael muttered to himself.
He felt the bellows of his anger pluming inside him. The implications cascaded in his mind. He cursed Oliver. Then he framed him. And now wanted to kill him to cover it up. He even tried to use Michael to do it. No. He did use Michael to do it.
Michael snarled in the back of his mind. He did not think lightly of murder. But in his mind, Michael imagined every torturous, rageful way he could ever kill a man. He imagined skinning him over a fire or throwing him in the Murk, naked and bound. He imagined beating him to death with his bare hands. Michael saw it all so vividly he could scarcely see the real world in front of him.
Michael turned in his fit of rage, only to find Klaryah standing at the door with her bow out in front of her and an arrow drawn back on its string.
Michael couldn’t so much as form a reply as he stared at her unblinking eyes. Her beautiful, sand-swirled brown irises, clouded over with a thick, dense fog. He couldn’t move.
After a hauntingly long moment, he finally managed to say, “Amekot did this to you?” knowing she may not have the explicit instructions to say.
Klaryah raised the longbow elegantly and Michael felt a breath leave him in terror as he flattened himself against the wall.
The bewitched assassin opened her mouth and a voice which was not her own, spilled out, “Seems like you already know.”
Michael felt a tear leak from his eye as he had trouble breathing. His own bow was over his shoulder, but even so much as reaching for it would be the death of him, he knew. The voice was thick and smug, and as familiar as any other. All it was missing was-
Klaryah let her mind-coaxed face widen into a long, performative smile and Michael couldn’t stop himself from mumbling, “Yeah, that’s about right.”
And then she shot him through the chest.