The monks of the Silent Tower are the guardians of the Cycle of Rebirth. To be born a monk is the greatest position in this world and can only be achieved through many lifetimes of exceeding virtue. Their authority and wisdom are unquestionable.

* The Grand Cycle.

Because your tongue will be cut out before you finish your question

* Scribbled in the margin by persons unknown.

Lukas rode at the head of a group of Lhintish soldiers, sending up a plume of superheated air every so often to unleash the build-up inside him. He could see his breath before him and while the air around him was chill, even more so than the rest of the cold northern land he rode through, Lukas felt like he held fire within. He wore trousers but left his chest bare, and on his lips was a smile of righteous satisfaction. They were going to recover a holy relic and lay waste to those who had taken it. He was the Tower’s instrument of vengeance and he would burn all those who stood against him. All was as it should be in the world.

Almost.

While Lukas was well aware of the usefulness of the Hunters, and it was only right that the Tower unleashed their most terrifying weapons against those who had stolen the Dagger, it didn’t mean he liked travelling with them.

Lukas was a pious man, and he didn’t doubt the ability of the Tower monks to control the Hunters. But it is a fool who doesn’t fear the Hunters, and Lukas was no fool. His men looked uneasy about being close to the creatures, and he couldn’t say that he blamed them. Lukas himself had to ride well ahead of them. Since the monks had given him his new power, he found he couldn’t get within fifty feet of them without them pulling on his soul.

He shot a look back at the Hunters and felt a chill run down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold, northern air.

The procession passed through a farmstead and Lukas gave the hand sign to let the Hunters loose to feed. They had to eat to maintain their tireless pursuit, and the farm provided a convenient meal. Of course, the corn the farm grew was not the most efficient thing for them to eat.

That would be the farmers.

Lukas kept his eyes on the road ahead. He was far enough ahead of the column that he wouldn’t catch the latrine-smell of the freshly slaughtered but, as he rode, screams of unrestrained terror carried to him on the wind. The Hunters would be tearing hunks of flesh free from the farmers’ bodies and stuffing them into their mouths. The farmers would run, fight, try to protect their children. None of it would matter to the implacable Hunters.

A lesser man would have felt sick. Lukas felt only determined.

Lukas returned to considering what a useful tool in the hand of the Tower he would be. He would help bring the Cycle to the world and send the heathens onto their next life with fire. He would do such great works that his next life was bound to be one of grand reward. Perhaps he would be born into the nobility, or even born as a monk of the Tower.

He tried to imagine that. Him, a monk. Born with all the knowledge of the Cycle and its grand design. Charged by the cosmos itself with protecting the truth and speeding the wicked and the heretical to their just desserts.

Next to that, his inability to sleep for more than an hour without waking up wracked with pain was insignificant. He knew the gifts the monks had given him would kill him one day, but he was determined that, until that day came, they would not break him. He would be strong.

The screams of the farmers fell silent, and the procession marched on.

*******************************************************************************

Lord Bermont threw a chicken wing at Ferrous’s head. It hit him right in the face and bounced off, leaving a greasy smear behind.

“This is dry, idiot,” the noble said. “Take it back and get it right.”

“Of course sir,” Ferrous said, taking the chicken away. Nothing in his face suggested he was displeased with this. Never mind that the food he was about to throw away would be worth nearly a day’s wages. Never mind that he could still feel the grease on his face. Never mind that he hadn’t even cooked the twice-damned chicken in the first place.

He never let any of this show on his face. He would like to say it was down to years of training and self-control. But the truth was he cheated. When shape-shifting into the man he was pretending to be, he hadn’t hooked up his facial muscles to be able to express disgust or displeasure. So, while his brain was sending the signals to grimace at his shabby treatment, his face was interpreting this as complete passivity.

“Our lord was displeased with his chicken,” Ferrous told the cook. “He would prefer another that is moister.”

“Moister!” Lancel, the cook said, waving his hands in the air in exasperation. “Perhaps he should like me to give it a good licking before serving next time. His lordship barely has a functional kitchen here. It’s only through tremendous skill and ingenuity that I get the chicken cooked enough not to poison him without burning it.”

“Perhaps employ a bit less of that skill next time,” Ferrous muttered.

“Ha!” Lancel said. “That’ll be the day. Luckily, I had already started cooking another chicken in case of just such a tantrum. Tell his lordship it will be done shortly.”

“Yes sir,” Ferrous said, showing proper deference to Lancel as befitted his station. Lancel wasn’t the sort to care about formality but Mika, the man Ferrous was pretending to be, was.

“Oh, and Mika,” Lancel said as Ferrous was turning to go. “Bring him some of these quail pies in the meantime.”

“Of course sir.” Ferrous took the pies and left the kitchen. Ferrous liked Lancel, he made him laugh. He didn’t deserve to be punished for the murder Ferrous was planning if things went badly. That ruled out poison then.

Though as he set the quail pies in front of Lord Bermont’s quivering mass, he was sorely tempted. He had a vial of aconite hidden in a pouch he had grown in his thigh. It wouldn’t take all that much.

Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

“What are you standing there for?” Bermont said. “Fetch me my pipe and then get back to work.”

Ferrous had been standing by the table for maybe two seconds after explaining the chicken situation, and didn’t have any work to be getting on with.

He really didn’t like posing as a servant. It involved a lot more getting yelled at and running around after other people than he preferred. Being a bouncer at the Snake Pit had been better. Throwing a few drunks out was fairly easy work and the women there had been quite nice to look at. Also, Carrus treated his employees well and didn’t throw food at them. Which, Ferrous supposed, is why he was here, in a roundabout sort of way.

Ferrous fetched the pipe, bowed and left the room in a hurry. He went straight to Lord Bermont’s bed chambers, which were about as opulent as Bermont could afford. There were high-quality silk sheets, a wardrobe full of fine clothes, and even a full-length mirror imported from Inveritus. Ferrous hid under the bed.

It was several hours later when Bermont retired to bed. Ferrous woke up his left side, which had been sleeping using a trick he had picked up studying birdlife in the del, as the bed above him sagged from Bermont’s substantial weight. Ferrous waited until the fat lord had put out the candle by his bed, rolled out from underneath, and drew a long knife from a sheath grown into his arm.

“What­—” Bermont managed before Ferrous drove the knife through his eye socket.

In the morning, Ferrous woke from his, slightly bloodstained, bed to his valet entering the room.

“Would your lordship like to wear the Lhintish silk today for your meeting with Lady Esmeralda.”

“Obviously,” Ferrous said, affecting Bermont’s particular brand of annoyed haughtiness. He heaved his substantial bulk out of bed and the valet, Ferrous thought his name was Smythe, fetched an obviously expensive, but even more obviously ugly, outfit of yellow silk and began helping him out of his bedclothes. Ferrous cringed internally at wearing the thing, but he supposed he was already wearing Bermont’s disgusting body, so this wasn’t much worse.

Not literally of course. Bermont’s remains were in the night soil outside. Or, what was left of him was anyway. Ferrous had had to eat quite a lot of him to put on the requisite bulk to convincingly be Bermont. That had been truly revolting.

Before the fall of the Cutsonian empire there was a Cutso philosopher who said that half the world’s evils were done from ignorance, and half of what was left came down to akrasia, or weakness of will. Ferrous might sometimes be ignorant, but he could never be accused of being weak-willed.

With a huge amount of ugly silk doing its best to hide his huge amount of ugly belly, Ferrous plodded his way downstairs. Moving around this much mass was a real chore, and Ferrous had needed to reinforce his legs and back just to avoid hurting himself. Smythe walked with him to the dining table where the real Mika was already laying out eggs, toasted bread, ham and fresh fruit.

“Where’s the roasted quail?” Ferrous roared. “You know I like roasted quail in the morning!” As far as Ferrous knew, this was an entirely invented preference, but that was exactly the kind of nonsense Bermont did regularly, so it was perfectly in character.

It was also in character, if Bermont’s waistline was any indication, to eat far too much at every meal. So, despite the fact that Ferrous felt about as much like eating as he did hacking off his own nose with a wood axe, he stuffed his fat face with a disgusting amount of food.

“Would your lordship like to relieve himself before calling upon Lady Esmeralda.” Smythe asked.

Ferrous agreed to that before he realized that a man of Bermont’s rank and girth would probably have someone to help him clean himself up after visiting the privy. He couldn’t think of a way to change his mind that wouldn’t seem odd though, so he had to suffer through another servant, whose name he didn’t know, wiping his arse for him.

The things people do with their money. Honestly.

With that out of the way, he was accompanied by his valet to a horse and carriage and brought to meet Lady Esmeralda. Smythe reminded him of all the details along the way, which was good because Ferrous had no idea who Esmeralda was. She was from quite a new noble family in the east and she was here trying to secure a marriage with Lord Bermont to improve their station. Also, through some unfortunate combination of mix-ups and confusions her official name was Esmeralda Esmeralda. Apparently, it was better not to ask about it.

The carriage stopped outside the Golden Apple, the most expensive inn in town situated in the nicest and least practical of the orchards. It was where all the nobility stayed when they came to Cadersville. Ferrous navigated his bulk out of the carriage and into the inn. Just that short walk made him feel a little out of breath. He had never been this enormous before and he wasn’t used to moving this much mass around. He would need to do further research on how to best mitigate that since he was going to be playing Bermont for a while.

Lady Esmeralda was waiting for him in what would have been the taproom in most inns, but at the Golden Apple was a tea-room. She was plain and her dress had far too many ruffles for Ferrous’s liking, but she was far too pretty for Lord Bermont. He felt a little like he had done her a favour by killing Bermont, before he realized that if she was desperate enough to seek a match with him, her other prospects might be even worse. At that he experienced a pang of guilt. But he had already murdered a man and eaten his corpse, so harming Esmeralda’s marriage prospects didn’t add much in the scheme of things.

Ferrous settled himself into the chair opposite Esmeralda while Smythe took up a position a polite distance away in case he was needed. No sooner was Ferrous sat down than he snatched a cream cake from a stack that was waiting at the table. He was full fit to bursting at this point, but Bermont hadn’t gotten the size he was through moderation so Ferrous figured he should keep eating to maintain his cover.

“Good morning my Lord,” she said timidly.

‘Morning,” Ferrous said around a mouthful of cake. He looked Esmeralda up and down. “You’re a slight little thing aren’t you.”

Esmeralda winced a little at that and Ferrous winced internally. He didn’t want to be rude to the poor woman, but his cover seemed to demand it. Besides, he didn’t want this meeting to go well and have to deal with a suitor.

“I am a little slight. ‘Tis the fashion in the west. I could try to fill out more if my Lord wishes.” Esmeralda looked up at him with a pitiable expression and Ferrous felt another surge of guilt. He pushed though it and continued being awful to the girl. He insulted her shoes, grunted in response to her questions, and generally tried to be as loutish and boorish as possible. At one point he even snatched food out of her hand and ate it. It was quite the assured performance.

He hated every minute of it, but he hated the system that Bermont had been a part of even more. So, he played his part to perfection and in just over an hour Esmeralda was making her excuses and reconsidering Bermont as a potential match.

The ride back to Bermont’s estate was made in silence. Ferrous thought that Smythe was surprised by the level of his unpleasantness. Nothing he did was necessarily out of character, but even Bermont wouldn’t have been quite that awful to a potential wife quite so immediately.

Either way, Smythe excused himself to see to his duties shortly after they got in and left in a hurry.

Ferrous watched him go through narrowed eyes.

Later that day Smythe was in a small room adjoining the wine cellar, far away from prying eyes and ears. He had gone to great lengths to ensure he wasn’t followed but his eyes darted around the room all the same, as though even the shadows might conspire against him. A servant boy met him there. Raised up from slavery by Smythe himself, this boy would sooner break his own neck than a promise to the valet.

“You weren’t followed?” Smythe asked, his voice a harsh whisper.

The boy shook his head, fear evident on his face.

Smythe handed a boy a small pouch of coin and a letter sealed with Lord Bermont’s personal seal.

“Take a carriage to Enslow and deliver this letter straight to Lord Haversu. This is for his eyes only, let no one else read it. Do you understand?”

The servant boy nodded and turned to go.

Ferrous stepped into the doorway, blocking the exit.

“What gave me away?” he asked, annoyed.

To his credit, Smythe took a step to place himself in front of the child and faced Ferrous without flinching. “Lord Bermont is allergic to strawberries. Almost died last time he ate one. But you were eating strawberry preserves at lunch. Which means you aren’t my master, you’re a skard imposter. What have you done with Lord Bermont?”

Ferrous sighed. He had liked this plan because the only person he had to murder was a top-shelf arsehole. He really didn’t want to have to kill any of Bermont’s servants, especially the kid.

But he knew what needed to be done.

Ferrous stepped into the room and the shape of Lord Bermont shifted and flowed into something altogether inhuman.

And then the screaming started.