It had been decades since last Berral had sat in a carriage of such a fine make. The black paint outside- the golden trim to the windows and the soft, leather padding beneath him would have inspired envy in most caravaners... but not him. For despite niceties of the carriage; it had a distinct lack of a soul- of history. Even the horses and the driver out the front were as anonymous as could-be- void of the pride they should be brimming with. No; these were city-folk and -horses. The road was simply not in their blood- not as it was in his.
“I must say; you are not at all what I expected. From the tales my father used to spin, I’d have imagined you an eight-feet-tall monster of a man.” The handsome man seated across from the necromancer’s chauffeur spoke through his smirk. The similarities were obviously there- that flowing, golden hair- those deep, hazel eyes and the wide, staunch chin... but something about the man was distinctly different from his father- Barrel's old colleague.
“Y-yeh... me and him met at the academy, but he was always the better storyteller.” Barrel stared at the familiar, golden cufflinks on the man’s white sleeves. Even his voice sounded the same... the small, round man sighed with the sneaking suspicion that most his old friends had long since passed and given the reins of their earthly businesses to the next generation of tavernkeepers and busienessmen.
The carriage came to a sudden halt, but the man’s stare never broke from his highly esteemed visitor. Barrel pushed the curtains aside to verify that they had arrived at their destination outside the dying party that had originally been Asrael’s wake. Men and women lay slumbering out on the patch of grass in between the welcoming sign and the fine, ancient door, just as they always had on those long-forgotten summer nights where he, Kester senior and Spechler had painted the city red with their pugilist adventures.
Neda was overjoyed to have Asrael back at her side, but far less so as she threw another, rare glance towards the white-robed creature smiling her dreamy gaze towards the grinning, malicious-looking necromancer. The wildling girl’s throat ached with an evening full of shouts to outdeafen the loud crowds to entertain the rusty-haired, beautiful man and his pale, strange-looking, effeminate companion. She had spun tales she imagined would embarrass her come morning, but it had all been worth it if only to see the displeasure on the deceiver’s- the interloper’s intermittent frown, however briefly.
To her dismay; Asrael seemed to ignore her entirely and had instead opted for glaring his vicious stare at the red-haired man with unknown intent, never once breaking from his silence to do anything save nod in agreement with her unheard tales... she was becoming accustomed to his coldness- that wanton cruelty of his, but could not shake the feeling that, as of late... it actually mattered to her. Neda’s lips finally stilled as she looked down into her cup of red, fermented grapejuice with a solemn frown. She did not want to be discarded- not again. For the entire evening, she had held on to the hope that, should she only do well enough in entertaining these people, he might reconsider- he might not pass her onto whoever Barrel would soon be bringing through those doors.
In the silence following her lengthy tales; Asrael leaned forwards on the table and gazed dreamily at the good Duke to ask; ”So, tell me... Duke Sargerrei... your Father and the Emperor must be quite proud of you to have you rule this sector in their place. Would you call yourself... the favored son?”
Neda winced as she heard it. She imagined it difficult for him to sound more sinister if he tried, but the grinning, bemused Titus threw his head back in warm laughter and said; “Oh, I am but one of twelve, good Sir Kerras! But if I allow myself to be emboldened by the wine; I could tell you that I am one of the candidates likely to be elevated to Grand Inquisitor should he retire.”
Asrael could scarcely contain his joy. Twelve of these bastard children- twelve potential beholders of his Magnum Opus. It was almost too good to be true... he chuckled and glanced about the mostly-empty tavern. By now; all who remained were he, Neda, the Duke and his two Purged mutts. The infuriating, lesser, weakly brother was off somewhere in the kitchen- leaving them with ample privacy to strike. He had already learned that his new, undead musculature was strong- perhaps strong enough to launch the harlot’s tankard across the table and pacify him... the question, however, remained... what was this supposed psychomancer’s role? How far would she go to defend her Master? And the other one- the smooth-chinned, effeminate ‘Petrus’-fellow... it would be risky, but damn the risks. Asrael had overcome Death and conquered the Blight and he’d be damned if he let two lesser magi stand in his way- not now. He reached sideways and grabbed the cup from below Neda, but before he could make his move, the damnable bell rung once again.
He almost reflexively chucked the cup at the small, round man in anger. The simple task of retrieving his colleague had taken him the better part of the day and nearly the entire night and when he finally arrived, it was with a man barely older than Neda- a grinning, proud, finely clad, irkingly handsome man whose attention seemed split on the small, round goblin and the interior of the tavern.
Barrel approached the table and wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his dirty shirt with exasperated breaths. “B-boss... so... there’s a problem... Spechler’s ded, but his kid’s taken over the business-” As if just then seeing the golden armor in his peripheral vision; Barrel’s jaw dropped at the sight of the warrior.
Titus, however, quickly stood up to bow at the freshly arrived stranger and greet him as if they were old friends. “Gerathar- old friend! How have you been!?”
The eyesore of a foreign element stepped over towards the good Duke and as the two shook hands; he raised his velvet voice to respond. “Duke Sargerrei- what a surprise! The old man’s finances have kept me busy, but I am soon to be caught up on my work. Tell me; how are things at the Garrison?”
Their awkward handshake continued, as did the good Duke’s grin. “I will have you know, old friend, that the Inquisition has never fared better in Pilta- despite your absence at the Council. Did you get my summons for tomorrow’s Pyre?”
Gerathar nodded and acknowledged the man’s question; “Why, yes- I have already cleared my schedule to partake. I would not miss it for the world.”
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Asrael was outraged to have his plans disrupted- even more so as Bartholomew finally stepped from the kitchen in a brisk pace to immediately make his way for the door with repeated shakes of his head and disorganized mutters. The Duke watched his brother disappear out into the darkness without a second word and raised a curious eyebrow over his shoulder- towards his two, enslaved magi and spoke; “Well, it seems my brother requires my attention. Please; come by the Garrison on the morrow- we must catch up.” After exchanging nods of farewells, the red-haired giant in his golden armor turned towards the fuming necromancer in another low bow and spoke his adieu:
“It was an honor meeting you, good Sir Kerras and mistress Neda. Know that my door will always be open for you two- whatever you wish, you shall have it.” The two Purged stood from their seats to stare at Asrael with opposite expressions- one seemingly televising an unspoken threat, whereas the other dared only look up from her hood to smile a benign, sheepish grin at him and bow her knees.
He was left gawking at their backs as one-by-one; they disappeared out the door and took with them his sought-after, delectable vengeance. The two fools- the small, round man and the harlot had thwarted his plans for the last time and he signaled this displeasure by grabbing Barrel by the throat and sling him atop the table with a deathly glare.
“You imbecile! The both of you- what manner of cosmic crime have I committed to be cursed with your incompetence!?” Barrel struggled against his tight grip as the necromancer turn to shout at the freshest arrival. “And you- you've come to take them away, yes!? I suggest you hurry before I slay them both!” He let go of the grip on the small, fat man’s impressive neck, but did not wait for his recovery. Instead; the long, thin man darted up the stairs- shouting high-brow profanities and insults back down the silent steps. He needed to think about the evening’s happenings in silence- away from these bumbling, lying, tardy fools.
Neda was surprised to see how little the outburst seemed to bother Gerathar whose sole response was to wait for the man to slam the distant door in his wake before approaching the table to seat himself at the still-warm seat of the Duke with a smile and say; “Well, it seems he is every bit as pleasant as you led me to believe, Sir Berral.”
Kester dabbed the cloth on his split lip and took solace in the cool, damp towel on his right, swollen eye. Bartholomew had been merciless in his punishment and although his body ached with fresh bruises; the worse pain by far was that of a much more profound nature. For a decade; he and Maribelle had hidden their girl’s power, but now; it had been discovered by what he had assumed to be the worst, possible person to do so. In between the ringing in his ears; he could still hear the dubious Sargerrei’s promise; “Speak not a word of this, tavernkeeper and neither will I. That little girl deserves better.”
Could he be trusted? The honest-to-God beating said yes, but his suspicious nature said ‘no’. He got up and leaned against the wall- considering his options. The pain resulting from pressing his flat palm against his bruised face helped focus his mind. If this Sargerrei, by some miraculous means, was not a liar; he could go about his business a bit more cautiously than before, but if he should turn out to be more dishonest in his honesty, then... He nearly retched as he imagined Bessie on the pyre.
No... he needed to see him. Sooner, rather than later. He rose to his feet and slid off the apron before heading back out the door, only to come to an immediate halt as he saw none other than the man he had intended to immediately seek out- seated there, by the table. Opposite to him; Neda sat cross-armed and stared stubbornly at the ceiling while the goblin-man sipped at a cup of huddled-together leftover wine. At the sound of the door; Gerathar looked sideways to meet the stumped tavernkeeper’s gawking stare with his commonplace, benign smile.
“What the-… Gerathar? I was just-” The handsome man waved the tavernkeeper over and clapped the chair next to him. Next; he cleared his throat and spoke towards the stubborn beaty opposite to him; “Your associate- Sir Berral, was a friend of my father’s and although I do not claim to be him, I do my best to live up to the standards he set for our work.” Neda spoke not a word, even as the tavernkeeper approached, nor did Barrel.
Surprisingly; Gerathar did not seem disheartened by their stubbornness and continued; “We- the few magi left in Pilta- must take care of one-another. As him before me; I have used his wealth and contacts to bring others like us to safety- an offer I wish to extend to you, as well.” Neda scoffed through her nose and shook her head. “I don’t wanna leave. I’m staying with him.” Kester could scarcely believe his ears... could she be a magus, too?
Gerathar chuckled warmly and nodded his understanding. “I had expected as much. You would not be here if you were not suspicious- survivors like us have to be... but I still wish to take care of you- I owe it to my departed father to try.” He leaned back on his chair and ran a hand through his lavish hair. His attractive exterior did help in softening her up, but handsome features could only go so far. In her mind- in her heart, he would be competing against a man who had saved her life twice and as despicable as the necromancer was... he was all she could put her faith in.
Barrel cleared his throat and glanced between the three seated by the table. His voice had been reduced to little more than a croak through his bruised trachea, yet he spoke; “Well... it ain’t that we don’t trust you, but we don’t knows you. Maybe if you’d gives us sum time, we’d be more trustin’.” Gerathar could see the fairness in that. Why should they entrust all they were to a man neither had ever met before.
The devilishly handsome stranger nodded. “A swell idea. From what Sir Berral tells me, you are a novice when it comes to magic... it seems we’ve a perfect venue to get to know one-another. I am open for a couple of students and should you wish it, we can begin tomorrow.” She still had things to learn from Asrael, amongst other things; how to contain her excitement. A sideways glance and a softening of her frown revealed that she was interested in what he had to say and show her. Next; Gerathar turned towards the tavernkeeper to extend a similar offer; “I am, of course, open for more than one student... Tell me, old friend; how is little Bessie?”
Kester swallowed drily. As much as he wanted to explore his customers’ condition, his mind was still aflame with having had his cover blown. “Bad. That guy- Sargerrei's brother... he saw her magic and now I’m not sure if-” Gerathar remained as calm as ever as he raised a hand to soothe his ‘old friend’.
“Do not worry about Bartholomew. I suspect he can be trusted, but on the off chance he cannot; my house can accommodate her and Maribelle- should you wish it.” As much as Kester disliked the idea of parting with his family, he had hoped the aristocrat would suggest just such a thing. Dreadfully; he breathed a sigh of relief and hated himself for it.
Neda drummed her hands on her elbow. Asrael was a lousy teacher and if this charming man offered to train her in his place; she would leap at the opportunity, if not for the suspicion the necromancer would get the wrong idea. She had no intention of accepting her dismissal from his service- not with that white-haired slut eagerly sizing him up for a bedding at every opportunity. She attempted to carry herself with as much grace as she could muster as she accepted his offer; “Sure. Whatever... I guess we can give it a shot- if... you feed us.”
Gerathar chuckled and nodded. “It would be my honor.”