Achlos rubbed at the stubs where his massive antlers used to be. He had foreseen the necessity of needing to dispose of them, as was the custom in most militaries, yet he’d kept the forlorn hope that he’d be able to keep them after spying several cervine constables on patrol helmetless with their antlers unperturbed. Then again, he was not a street bobby. His role was closer to a trench raider than a copper, and he had to be able to fit a helmet, gas mask and protective faceplate.
Not to mention that during training, his antlers had caused him to get hung up on a doorframe designed for smaller class mammals more than once. A humorous occurrence on the training field, a potentially fatal hiccup when the bullets were flying. He’d thought of arguing that his antlers had been useful to him during his time in Nyter, both as a last-ditch offensive weapon and as a quick way to get through thick brush characteristic of the Southern Isles swamps. However, he knew it would be futile.
Tyras Maloko was an amiable sort, yet in that context, he was not Achlos’s friend or roommate, but his superior. And orders from superiors are to be executed, not argued. They’d have shed on their own in a few months’ time anyway. He’d just have to continue to stifle any future growth.
He sawed them off and polished the stubs himself. As for the antlers, he decided to hang them up above the door in his room. It would serve as a reminder every morning of the promise he took; of the new life he was now undertaking. He felt some sorrow knowing that those were likely his last rack, at least until retirement. Dinner with the Malokos was rather awkward that evening, young Cyprian in particular looking quite disappointed at Achlos’s lack of proud adornments.
Next morning, however, Sabina presented him with a top hat. It was of good quality, silk with a ribbon-edged trim, dark-brown in color which matched his natural pelt.
“I don’t imagine you have a hat,” the antelope governess said rather sheepishly as he looked the quality garment over. “and I thought I’d spare you the hassle. It’s improper for a gentleman to walk around with an uncovered head.”
Achlos was flabbergasted by the unexpected gift, especially since he didn’t imagine such a quality article had been cheap, and insisted he paid for it.
She simply smiled and asked “When is your birthday, Mr. Dribas?”
“Uh… two months later.” He replied.
“Then consider it an early birthday gift.” She said and left before he could make any further protests.
Now, here he stood in a theater’s gallery, awaiting the curtain to be lifted. The training in the last two weeks had been grueling, with them practicing boarding a real airship which belonged to the Air Guard. The aforementioned constables also played the part of pirates, armed with low-pressure air rifles loaded with paint capsules instead of bullets. The air coppers were quite a bit more capable than their ground counterparts, and they were well used to combat in an airship, which was exactly what Tyras was going for.
The first raid, Achlos was struck rather painfully in the forehead by a crafty air copper who’d hidden in an alcove. It took quite a bit of scrubbing to get the bright red paint out of his fur. The second time Tyras’s team managed to take out all opposition with no casualties, but the final “air pirate” shot three hostages (represented by department store mannequins) as one final retaliation before his own simulated demise.
The third and final time so far, things had gone swimmingly, yet it had involved borrowing three dragons, riding above the stationary airship, dropping down on the gas bladder with grappling hooks and rappelling down to the maintenance shafts and crawling from there to the main gondola, which had thoroughly knackered him. Ex Mountain Hunter or not, it had been an ordeal, an ordeal which one of the air constables, a massive bull, decided to add to by engaging Achlos in hand-to-hand combat. The moose had bested him, but not before receiving several painful blows to the ribs himself.
Therefore, Tyras had proposed his team a two-day break, during which he also invited them to attend his performance at a charity opera. They all agreed.
Tyras and his family normally went out, dressed rather formally, as soon as he came back from training. Achlos assumed it was to go to rehearsals. The rest of his downtime, Tyras spent with various domestic duties or by simply walking out alone and missing for the rest of the day and night, appearing at the police academy for training the next day. Apparently, it was not uncommon for him, for neither his wife nor son expressed any concern.
When questioned about his expeditions, Tyras merely said that he “wanted to see the city”. Achlos assumed it wasn’t visiting Ignisdava’s famed Light Temples or opera houses. He’d once arrived for training early and caught Tyras in the changing room, cleaning off make-up that made him resemble a jaguar, a shabby coat and flat cap discarded nearby. To add to the disguise, his missing eye was covered with a convincing contact lens, the scar masked by make-up and grease. Achlos smartly decided not to question it.
Well… that was not all he’d done. Tyras also had the habit of sitting in his armchair for long stretches of time. While not unusual by any means, what made this habit queer was that he often did it without book, newspaper or cigar. Instead, he sat down and closed his one eye. He didn’t fall asleep, for he took deep, deliberate breaths, and his body was rigid and erect. Sometimes, he thought he saw him muttering or intertwining his fingers like gripping a fictional musical instrument. Rhodika simply smiled and explained “he does that”.
Achlos supposed there were queerer, and indeed more violent methods veterans coped with trauma. Who was he to judge? He was afraid of bloody whistles.
The four-mammal team stood in the fifth row, as well as Sabina who stood to Achlos’s left. The show was organized by Books for All, a charity dedicated to the schooling of less fortunate children, as well as adults who hadn’t had the opportunity for a proper education growing up and wished to expand their horizons. Tickets had been distributed to their members randomly, the remaining were to attend another such show at a later date.
The audience was indeed modestly dressed, yet it was obvious it was their best clothing. They were well-ironed and clearly recently laundered. They were also quiet, save for the odd muttering or cough. Achlos doubted any of them had ever been at such a performance before, yet they seemed to instinctively know by the building’s exquisite marble architecture and velvet cushions, not to mention the graveyard silence, that this was a place to be respected.
“Gotta say,” Rafil said, the dire wolf chewing on some peanuts he’d secreted in his coat despite the ‘no food’ sign plastered at every entrance. “Boss is fulla’ surprises. I mean, Scout Raider, acclaimed inspector and a bloody tenor? He’s got a good shoutin’ voice on the field, we’ll see how that translates to something more pleasant!” He chuckled, chewing on a large pawful of nuts.
Kiah looked at him disapprovingly. “I would appreciate it if you ceased eating in such premises, Mr. Caloris.” She said rather peeved. Rafil struggled not to laugh with his mouth full.
“Whaaaat? I dunno if you noticed, but the audience tonight ain’t exactly toffs who care about this sorta stuff. They don’t mind! Besides, show ain’t started yet, once the curtain lifts, I’ll put these away and-“ He was cut off by a lightning-fast paw ripping the paper packet out away from him.
Eldar Dolnayu glared at his fellow canine. Rafil’s face twitched and he looked at the borzoi. The dire wolf was a good head taller, not to mention bulkier, yet the lanky hound was unfazed.
“You were bothering her,” Eldar said. “and the lieutenant invited us here in good faith. Cease.”
Achlos expected the wolf to argue back, perhaps even get physical, yet instead he seemed to calm down beneath his teammate’s berating and looked down.
“Sorry. I just… assumed this would be a more carousing event. It’s what I am used to from other commanders I’ve had. Forgive me.”
Eldar and Kiah smiled warmly.
“Quite a brutish sort,” Sabina whispered to Achlos. “then again, that’s most soldiers, present company and master Tyras excepted, of course.”
He blushed at these words and looked back at her, returning the warm smile. She was quite easy on the eyes, not particularly gorgeous, but there was a sureness of self and contentment which made her a joy to be around. Her deep blue eyes were mesmerizing, especially when she smiled, yet everything else about her was thoroughly unremarkable. The sum of her parts however, made her beautiful.
Achlos shook his head and distracted himself via small talk with the other team members, something he recognized he hadn’t done enough of.
“So, Mr. Caloris,” He whispered to the Dire Wolf.
“Please, just Rafil.” He waved a paw. “We’re a team, I see no reason for such formalities.”
“Yes, Rafil. You were in the Squire’s Guard, right?” Achlos asked.
“Sure was,” The canine said with no small degree of pride. “Certainly was the proudest position I’ve ever held, guarding the foremost minister of our Lady. It’s not for everyone. Other than the obvious ironclad discipline, one has to be almost monk-like in their day to day and observe the Holy Texts and Strictures… well, religiously.”
Achlos frowned.
“Please excuse my… bluntness, but you certainly do not strike as very monk-like at all.”
Rafil chuckled.
“Oh, don’t I?” He put his hands to his chest in mock-hurt. Achlos smirked.
“As a matter of fact, I’d say you have quite the roguish streak.” The moose said.
Rafil stifled a burst of laughter, earning a few shushes from the row in front of him. He quickly regained his composure and straightened up.
“The War was an awful affair. The most tragic event in Bestia Sapiens history, at least in terms of sheer death and destruction. Yet for me, it was an opportunity for self-discovery. No one cares about whether or not you pray before every meal or allow sufficient light in your room or even if you don’t refrain from courting ladies of ill repute in the trenches.
Solvegira soldiers love their chants, prayers and rituals, but when it came to soldierly carousing, we were as eager as any other trooper to take a load off. So, among the mud, gas, blood and screams did I realize the life I had chosen was not for me. Akin to a feral that had lived its entire life in a zoo, fattened by all the food it could eat, sleeping on beds of hay and gleefully playing with rubber balls, much to the joy of spectating children.
Yet, it is perpetually in a cage, its days composed of identical routine and ritual. And should you present this animal with the prospect of freedom, it will bolt into the wilds. No guaranteed food, no warm hay beds, no rubber balls to play with, and the constant threat of bloodthirsty predators. However, that is what it shall choose, for that is its nature. For me, I realized that living my life as a Squire’s Guard, as honorable a life as it was, was a life that to me was dull and restrictive.
I still consider myself pious, yet I enjoy a good glass of whiskey, a wager at the racetrack and the sheer ability to live without a master to chide me like a misbehaving schoolboy for forgetting this prayer or that or that my silver allow pin was unclean, despite polishing it the hour before. You may say that I lacked faith, and you may be right, yet I am what I am, and I cannot pretend to be anything else.”
Achlos grasped for words, yet he settled for a respectful, understanding nod.
He supposed he’d joined Tyras’s unit out of a similar, yet somehow opposite desire. His life had never lacked freedom. Being mercenaries by trade, not tied down to any culture or faith, his parents had set few to no strictures, save that he learned to fight and joined them on their expeditions once he was of age. His father had first taken him to a brothel when he was merely fifteen, a fact which now made him feel no end of disgust and violation whenever he thought of it.
He’d fled from this boundless freedom, its fruits ripe and colorful, yet bitter and poisonous. He’d joined the Osnyan Legion searching for the order to his life that his upbringing had denied him.
For him, as terrible as it was, joining the war had been like he’d been wandering through a forest aimlessly all his life, then suddenly he came across a settlement. A settlement with rules, expectations and constantly under attack by outside forces, but one with a common cause and an end goal, one that he’d helped them in achieving.
For Rafil on the other hand, it must have felt like escaping from a prison. An ivory prison, yet a prison nonetheless.
As he was ruminating in his thoughts, the electric lights dimmed. What little chatter remained instantly vanished. For a minute, nothing happened, increasing the anticipation.
Then, the unseen band within the orchestra pit began playing an allegro marching tune as the curtains slowly lifted.
Five lionesses who may as well have been quintuplets from how much they resembled each other were dancing in tune with the music. Judging by their thin sandy pelt meant more to reflect sunlight than provide warmth, they were likely Riguri in origin rather than Osnyan natives.
They displayed impressive acrobatics despite their fully dressed attire, their long flowing dresses doing little to interfere with their leg sweeps, cartwheels and backflips. Nothing about it struck Achlos as indecent, one could hardly glance a hint of stocking, especially compared with how scandalous cabaret shows in Nyter could get, but he could see a few mothers putting their palms over their sons’ eyes.
The acrobatic dances concluded with the five felines forming a pyramid, three forming the base, two climbing their shoulders and the last standing at the very top, blowing a kiss to the audience with her free paws as the orchestra played its finale and the curtains closed. The energetic display did a good job of firing up the audience, the audience applauding with gusto, a few whistles from the men joining the fray.
After the applause died down, another few minutes of nothingness drew on, a few of the audience beginning to debate in whispers of what would come next. Only Achlos and the rest of the newly formed team knew for sure.
Sabina seemed giddy, her leg bouncing up and down. She seemed quite eager to see her employer take to the stage.
As before, the orchestra began playing. Achlos instantly recognized it, having heard it so many times played by officers on gramophones before mass attacks: The anthem of the Imperium Of Osnya. The triumphant drums and trumpets boomed throughout the wide hall. A few of the audience even put their hands on their chests.
Then, as the curtain lifted, it suddenly stopped. Or rather, it continued as a shadow of its former self. What had been a dozen violins was now only one and the trumpets were traded for a somber piano.
As the curtain lifted, three figures were revealed. Tyras, long and lean, a long flowing gown over his opera suit, his waistcoat and tie as crimson as fresh blood. His wife sat at a piano and his son, small yet glowing with pride in a white suit with a white blue waistcoat holding a violin on his shoulder.
"Darkness enveloped our hallowed ground,
Steel and smoke, sun's caress veil,
Like green saplings, my comrades downed,
'gainst fire and lead, flesh does not prevail"
His mournful, yet powerful voice echoed across the hall, carried by the specially built walls to the rearmost stalls. It was completely different from the practice sessions in his apartment. The acoustics of the building and his passion demanded attention from all present.
Rhodika began playing the piano, the notes sharp and spaced out like the teardrops of a solemn griever. Cyprian began playing his little violin as well, its wails like a moan of pain.
Achlos was amazed that the boy not only was able to perform for such a heavy piece, but also seemed to understand the gravity of the lyrics and adjusted his instrument accordingly.
"Do not lose heart, o brave Legio,
Better you than your little brother,
For your blood sings this oratorio,
The sun you did not let them smother."
“Better me than my little brother.” How many fellow soldiers had he heard say those exact words? How many had repeated those words in their mind over and over as shells battered their hiding places, as they watched their friends drown under an ocean of mustard gas as they failed to put their masks on in time?
" 'Burning Light' our battle cry,
Tongues of flame, our deadly blades,
Accursed Lune, your warriors today die,
Affix bayonets, throw your grenades,
Through the Lunist trench, a cry emerges,
Brave lads in starry white, in terror they keel,
'Run, retreat, it's the Masks Of Steel!' "
Achlos frowned slightly. He now recognized the song as an anthem taken up by fellow Osnyan soldiers, yet heavily modified. The first stanza was almost completely different, setting a tone of hopelessness and futility that no officer would have accepted hearing his soldiers sing.
The refrain he’d just sung was practically the same, save for calling the Lunist Soldiers ‘brave lads’. While he’d heard a few fellow soldiers grudgingly respecting their adversaries, it never was something to acknowledge in military songs, which were always, for better or worse, propaganda. It was much easier to convince someone to drive a bayonet through the neck of the other young man on the opposite side of no man’s land if you called them ‘barbarian’, ‘merciless invader’ or ‘servant of the dark’ instead of ‘brave lad’.
The song continued, his cadence rising in allegro, like downtrodden soldiers spurred on to perform daring counterattacks after crushing defeats. The final stanza, rather than a victorious shout, was a mournful repetition of the refrain. A victorious soldier gazing upon the body-strewn battlefield, artillery still echoing in their ears, adrenaline fading, replaced by the acknowledgement of what they had done.
As soon as the final note left Tyras’s lips, as Rhodika’s hands strayed away from the piano’s keys and Cyprian let the bow fall away from the violin, applause erupted.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
The audience clapped furiously, a few cheered and whistled, while others were wiping tears from their eyes. One man, a stout donkey, was struggling to dry his eyes with a rigid hand. His wife did it for him with her handkerchief. After a second, Achlos saw that both of the equidae’s hands were lifeless wooden mockups.
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Tyras allowed himself a deep breath as the sound of crashing applause reverberated and echoed around the gilded hall. Several of the audience had tears in their eyes, and some of the children still looked at him mesmerized. He smiled softly. He’d planted a seed. These children had experienced the power of true song perhaps for the first time. Perhaps they’d ask their teachers from Books For All if they had music lessons. Perhaps that would be their ticket out of the slums of the Working Quarter. Or at the very least… the sweet melody they learned to produce would offer their squalid lifestyle the tiniest ray of light.
He sighed deeply. This was all he could do. Those children would return to their dingy apartments and their “child-safe” jobs, yet at the back of their minds, the singing soldier who chanted of valor, fear, misery and hope would be there, promising them a world beyond the violent grimy streets and the dangerous backbreaking work of the factories and docks. He just hoped it would be a promise that could be upheld…
Rhodika got up from the piano’s stool and went to his side, gripping his paw. Cyprian did likewise. The three of them bowed deeply before the still applauding audience.
As he bowed, however, he noticed a man who stood out. He was an unusually tall timberwolf, his fur as black as the night sky, smiling softly yet meaningfully at Tyras as he gave the slow, polite clap of a gentleman, as opposed to the mob’s frantic slamming of one palm against another.
He was dressed as modestly as anyone else, yet he was no worker. The suit was cheap, but brand new and meticulously cleaned and ironed. He used his Forte to look at the man’s paws. Well-manicured claws in the Lunist style, cut short to be near useless in combat, and pawpads that lacked any callusing save for a small mark on thumb and forefinger from a pen. His green eyes twinkled strangely at him and he felt a piercing gaze behind them. Contact lenses. Whether it was out due to genuine myopia or a desire for subterfuge, he wasn’t sure. Their eyes met, and the wolf’s smile widened.
Tyras felt a chill down his spine he’d only even felt when faced with an adversary in the trenches he was unsure he could best. He began focusing his Forte to look deeper at the man, perhaps his insides had-
“Darling? Is anything wrong?” Rhodika whispered with concern. He turned around to look at her. He looked back towards where the strange wolf had been. His seat was empty.
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Hiram Grainger sipped at his Maneluc, observing the rays of the Moon reflecting through the clear, greyish liquor. The Stargazer Hotel was one of the few places in Ignisdava one could find the traditional Lunist alcoholic beverage, which was why Hiram Grainger had chosen it. Well, that and the fact that the owner, a staunchly faithful Lunist, was the only one in the city to know of his true identity. Not just of the fact that he was the Speaker, but what the Speaker truly was, beyond the carefully fostered South Nyteri accent and the cretinous antics.
He thought of Tyras Maloko’s performance. Music was far from Hiram’s favorite artistic expression. It was useful for emotional manipulation, certainly, somber music with long, low, insistent notes getting a funeral’s attendees to tear up even if they didn’t much care for the deceased, and fast, aggressive, triumphant anthems persuading young men to crawl over mud and barbed wire into the awaiting jaws of machine guns and mortars.
Yet even he could appreciate a talented musician when he heard one. He lacked the cadence and timbre of professional tenors, but it was clear that he was singing from his soul, not his lungs. When the band began playing the familiar tunes of Osnyan marches, he expected some typical patriotic Fakonan tripe of horrible, savage Lunist soldiers come to take their land and murder their children, and the stalwart defenders fending them off, not retreating an inch.
It was the infamous anthem of the Scout Raiders, nicknamed “the Masks of Steel” by their Lunist foes, thanks to their simple, yet unnerving ballistic masks they often wore to protect from light shrapnel and melee strikes, or sometimes just sheer intimidation. However, Maloko had made some subtle, yet meaningful changes to the lyrics.
The first four verses were the most altered. Where before they praised the unmoving Osnyan defenders, the song now acknowledged their horrid casualties and crushing early defeats. And the description of the Eclipsian soldiers as “brave lads” was even more confusing. No military propaganda song ever acknowledges the enemy as valorous. They are avatars of malevolence to either be trampled on or stopped in their tracks at all costs. The mere utterance of the word “lads” acknowledged their sentience.
And the mere fact that he had performed at a charity opera in the first, while doubtlessly swamped with work forming his new team, spoke volumes of the man.
Clearly he was a patriot, yet he also was a deeply moral person.
And aside from his unquestionable combat capabilities, he was exceptionally intelligent and resourceful, if the ease with which he found the location of the assassin Hiram had hired and got him of the hook, as well as persuaded the Constabulary’s Superintendent to approve his team were anything to go by.
The electric lights flickered slightly, momentarily casting the luxurious suite into darkness. It wasn’t out of any electrical fault, the bulbs were still bright, faint stars on a newly darkened canvas, it was more as if a curtain that absorbed and denied their very light had fallen over them. Shadows blacker than the night itself crept from the darkest recesses of the room, coalescing before him to form the well-known kneeling form of Paloma.
“I have returned, Radiance.” The red-furred wolf said.
“I hadn’t noticed. I was about to call the reception desk and give them an earful about their faulty lights.” Hiram replied, prompting a smile from the Magisa. “What have you for me?”
She got up, reaching into her black leather knapsack. She spread a few freshly developed pictures on the coffee table before Hiram. They all depicted bodies of rough-looking mammals who clearly hadn’t breathed their last out of natural causes. Grainy as the black and white slates were, there were few gory details left to the imagination. A thin fox whose muzzle had practically been flattened into his pulped face. An immense black Angus bull who’d been garroted to death, slumped over a desk, where his right hand was also pinned by a knife. A group of wolves crumpled and twisted on old cracked pavement, their numerous neat little round wounds suggesting that they’d all been rounded up then perforated by one or several submachine guns.
He recognized all of them. Lieutenants, if not outright gang leaders, of the various splinter factions vying for control of the Dark Zone after the untimely death of Hintoz “Stiletto” Risuldis, the self-appointed “Dark Zone King”.
“The Dark Zone Gang War is continuing at a steady rate.” She reported. “Initially, some of Stiletto’s top lieutenants managed to maintain some semblance of control even as gang after gang splintered off. However, that has long since waned.”
Hiram nodded, already having known that this would occur.
There were three types of outlaws: The desperate, the depraved and the anarchist.
The former, undoubtedly the most common, was pushed into a life of crime by circumstances of appalling life conditions or an upbringing into a family or community of crooks. For those poor wretches, the choice was between backbreaking work beneath the heel of a tyrannical magnate, or taking from those whom they saw as better off than them. No choice at all, as far as they were concerned.
The depraved were those who brought evil upon others simply because they could. Because it made them richer than a banal factory or office job, because they found life constantly on the run thrilling, or even because they enjoyed being feared by civilized society. To them, newspaper headlines calling them the vilest of titles for their horrid crimes were higher praise than an actor receiving a standing ovation. For those, the only possible reformation was the headsman’s blade.
Then, there was the anarchist. The rarest, yet most powerful subspecies of outlaw. The anarchist did not rob, kill, traffic or swindle out of necessity, monetary gain or twisted desire. They did these things out of a true contempt for the status quo. Perhaps they despise all forms of government, or perhaps like the newly formed Cooperativists, sought a radical alternative to monarchies or republics, which they found oppressive and abhorrent. Either way, the end result was the same: every robbery, every airship hijacking, every assassination, chipped away at the titan of evil they saw the state as.
The latter ones were the most useful. The despairing, the opportunistic and the wicked were useful in their own right, but they were fleeting, having no real allegiance but to themselves. The anarchist, however, was an ideological animal. Ideology by itself instils a desire for strong leadership and an end goal.
And the Dark Zones roughs whom he’d determined were of the latter persuasion were protected, manipulated and even supplied with a heavily redacted version of Hiram’s plan.
“I estimate that the violence within the Dark Zone shall spread out into the greater city within two weeks.” Hiram said, finishing off his drink with a pleased sigh and swapping it for his pipe, stuffing it with rough tobacco. Paloma wordlessly approached, scraped away the excess tobacco and lit it for him. He smiled. Even after all these years, she still felt the need to coddle him.
“The increased rates of violence both on the ground and in the skies, and the ensuing panic from the populace, will provide the perfect backdrop in which to press for a joint training exercise between the Ignisdava Garisson and Eclipsian Air Raiders.” He commented between strings of bluish, pungent smoke.
The idea of a joint operation between Fakonan and Lunist forces had been a seed carefully planted by Hiram in the minds of adherents of both faiths. Not by him, naturally. The Hiram Grainger the world knew was an accidentally rich country bumpkin and (alleged) former outlaw incapable of such deep thoughts. Instead, diplomats, ministers and generals from both sides secretly serving his interests had dropped the idea. A chat at the gentleman’s club between whiskey and cigars here, a line in a speech there…
It was still a long way off. Politicians and gazettes could profess the “enduring peace between the Sun and the Lune” all they wanted, Fakonans and Lunists still hated each other’s guts. Fakonans for the eight years of devastation and death the Lunists had inflicted upon their lands, Lunists for the humiliating defeat and worse still peace treaty.
It had been eight years of peace, such as it was. But emotions could not be put into a test tube. There was not a single person on either side who hadn’t lost a parent, son, daughter, brother or sister in the war. Such injuries of the soul were not easily healed. And that was only what the current generation had been through.
However, desperation pushed mammals to search for allies in the most unlikely of places. And nothing despairs a nation barely recovered from war than the promise of more bloodshed on their homeland.
He looked outside at the gilded streets of the archenemy’s capital. It was nearly midnight, yet the streets were practically glowing. Not only were there more streetlamps than in most cities, but each place of worship had a fire bowl, which blazed at its fullest capacity during the night. And every other building was at least partially constructed of some reflective material, spreading both natural and artificial lights far and wide.
It hadn’t always been this garish in its lighting, he knew. Partly it was from the ecstasy of victory, yet Hiram suspected there was also something else. After the war was over, the Lunist world was in crisis. It had all but bankrupted itself in its attempt to defeat the Barbarians Of Light once and for all, and the Treaty Of New Barca further strangled it, Alexandrios being particularly targeted.
As such, the prospect of starvation outweighed pride and many Lunists found themselves obliged to move to Fakonan-majority countries, particularly the now economically booming Imperium Of Osnya. It was then that the carnival-like light show really was established. For many Lunists, who were mostly active during the night, it hurt their eyes and sense of direction. It was a petty way of rubbing their noses in it:
“You tried to destroy the Light. You failed. We beat you. Now gaze upon our superiority every day, and especially every night.”
Well… not the entire city was like this, of course. The Dark Zone loomed in the distance surrounded by light on all sides, like a black hole in the center of a galaxy. It had once been the city’s industrial sector, heavily bombed by Lunist airships in the War, yet nowhere near what Nyxpoli had been. 80% of the Eclipse Empire’s capital had been destroyed… and yet, despite their immense financial crisis, they had done an admirable job at rebuilding, much of the city brought back to its former glory.
What did the victors do? The workers who had labored and died in munitions factories as bombs collapsed roofs over their heads were left to their own devices, and when the district inevitably became a hotbed of crime and discontentment, they cut it off completely, making it a no-go zone. That was the sort of gratitude one could expect from the Light Barbarians when they outlived their usefulness…
“I have also been keeping tabs on our mutual friend, Lieutenant Tyras Maloko, and his new team.” Paloma brought him out of his dark thoughts. He realized he’d been gripping his empty shot glass dangerously tight.
“His training focuses mostly on airship counter-raids, foiling kidnapping or robbery attempts and infiltrating barricaded criminal compounds.” She summarized.
“So, exactly what the Scout Raiders did during the War.” Hiram shrugged.
Paloma gave him a meaningful look. For a dumb moment, he thought she was about to tell him he found the vegetables he’d pretended to eat in the waste basket.
“Going to see him was… risky, Hiram.” She said. Her using his first name rather than his exalted title made him fight the urge to look down. All these years later, and she still held such matronly dominance over him. “You know of his powers, and how attentive he is. What if he’d noticed you?”
“And what if he had? I was unaware the Speaker was not allowed to attend an opera.” His attempt at sarcasm hadn’t phased her one bit. This time, he did look down.
“Either way,” Paloma said, her chiding tone gone. “I did some more digging into Maloko’s military service. He was…” She seemed to grope for words. “, effective.”
For a Scout Raider, that meant unrivaled savagery.
“His unit, the 15th Raiders, are directly attributed to dozens of sabotages, assaults, infiltrations and assassinations. All successful.”
Another picture joined the ones on the table. This one displayed bloodshed which put the other pictures to shame. It was far older, the quality leaving much to be desired and frayed at the edges, yet what it displayed was unmistakable. Dozens of Lunist soldiers sprawled dead inside a concrete bunker. Those that had been shot were the lucky ones.
One had both eyes gouged out by claws. One had a massive bite mark where his jugular had once been. One was pinned to the wall with a combat knife like a grim portrait. Despite the grainy image, the look of abject terror forever frozen on many of the soldiers’ faces was evident.
“Fort Bacher.” Hiram instantly recognized it. “Manned by 100 soldiers, holding back an entire Alliance battalion for three days at the very gates of our homeland.”
Paloma nodded.
“Until an elite Scout Raider squad, only ten strong, infiltrated the compound.” She gestured at the photographed butchery. “No prisoners.”
Hiram was silent. Ten men against a hundred battle hardened soldiers… He didn’t have to ask whose Scout Raider unit it had been.
“Savages,” he growled.
“Eventually, our Intelligence deemed the 15th Raiders a high enough threat to target them specifically.” She continued, ignoring his comment. “All attempts failed… except when they were suddenly wiped out at the tail end of the War, all but Maloko of course, right before Wellspring Crossroads. I’m afraid I couldn’t find much on that. There is one last detail…” Her gold eyes twinkled with concern.
“Military Intelligence called Maloko by the codename ‘Caedo’, short for Caedoxis.”
Hiram frowned. The name carried a weight of malice in his memory, yet it escaped him why. He vaguely remembered the name from stories Paloma had regaled to him as a child.
“He was… a pre-Augustan god of war, right?” He asked tentatively. Paloma smiled indulgently.
“Come now, Hiram. Your memory’s failing you in your old age.” The woman said playfully. Hiram couldn’t stifle a rare chuckle.
“Caedoxis wasn’t quite a god of war.” She explained. “He’s called that because he encouraged warfare, yet that wasn’t really his end goal. A more accurate descriptor would be the God Of Hatred. He didn’t encourage warfare because he believed it furthered the advancement of his people. He encouraged greed, envy, hatred of the other, anything that may cause conflict. Because he thrived and grew off of deaths inflicted out of hatred. It’s not enough for one to slay their enemy for him to be satisfied. One must kill their foe in a murderous rage for him to grow.
His worshippers believed that since warfare and hatred of the other is so deeply rooted in the nature of Bestia Sapiens, his supremacy was inevitable, so, they strived to accelerate it to gain his favor. The tribes that worshipped him sought terror and bloodshed throughout Carnelia, until the Augustan Imperium wiped them out, as well as most traces of the god’s existence.”
Hiram pondered this. Information about Caedoxis was rare indeed if he hadn’t picked up on his existence throughout his extensive research into various subjects spanning decades. The Augustans had been thorough.
“How do you know all this?” He asked. Paloma grinned mischievously.
“I was one of the Magisa tasked with wiping out the last of his worshippers… some four centuries ago.”
Hiram was silent for a few moments. He leaned back into his plush armchair, fingers interlocked thoughtfully.
“Does he… exist? The real Caedoxis, I mean.” He asked eventually.
Paloma shrugged. “We don’t know. Since the vast majority of lore surrounding him was destroyed, little more than legend and folk tales remain. He could have been the invention of a mad king looking for an excuse for conquest. Yet his worship was too spread out for that to be feasible.”
Hiram had only known of the existence of this deity for five minutes, yet he felt the fur on the back of his head stand up ever so slightly. Like his subconscious knew of its evil, like how even a babe knows to stay away from the fire. A malevolent deity that grows in power every time someone kills in hatred…
“Well… if that abomination truly exists,” he said grimly. “Then the War gave him a gluttonous feast the likes of which he’s never had.”
Paloma said nothing, yet he could almost feel her nodding behind him.
“And furthermore…” He added. “What did Maloko do to be named after such a monster?”