CHAPTER 1
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Alaric Sampson
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Mayos, 926 Purist Calendar
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One could argue that incompetence ruled supreme within the High Chamber, with men and women representing personal goals as much as those of the masses. Progress crawled from the chambers every so often, yes, but for the most part, the world seldom saw the changes they were promised come to fruition. The Superiors who called the High Chamber home were not oblivious to this, but cogs jam sometimes and it takes a force greater than themselves to free them from their standstill. Alaric believed he could be that force. But not alone. He had searched far and wide for the appropriate accomplice in his work, but for one reason or another, every candidate fell by the wayside. Until one man stumbled into his life seeking something only Alaric could provide.
Alaric spread the butter across his twice-baked bread and leaned back in his chair, staring at the man across from him with sinister arrogance. He took a sniff of the butter then a modest nibble off the edge of the bread and chewed politely, wiping the corners of his mouth with his napkin.
Lieutenant Camdrie was an up-and-comer in the mercenary group known as The Hounds of Haldar. The Hounds were nothing short of the three devils embodied. They treated the rules of war as though there were no rules at all, marching into zones of peace with ill intent, slashing age-old pacts, treating civilians like soldiers, using them as pawns for negotiations; anything to send the message that they would not be ruled, that they did the ruling. All leaders across the five realms – and perhaps the world, for that matter – knew if you were not in some way bound to The Hounds, you were at a disadvantage.
This young, brash monster that sat across from Alaric had defied the odds in two ways. First, he was a commoner with authority in a group led by a handful of mighty Purists. Second, he’d gained that authority at an alarming rate. Sadly, for the commoner, he’d climbed as high as he could on his own merit. Or whatever it was he was using to attain his significance. The rest of his unprecedented surge through the ranks would take skills only Purists possessed, and more accurately, the magic in Alaric’s chest. The situation was obvious to the lieutenant. That much was shown in his wrinkled nose. He stayed composed though, leaning forward to poke a sausage with his knife and saying calmly, “It appears both our hands are tied.” Juices shot outward as he bit into the meat and chewed like a man full of secrets.
Feeling outsmarted by a commoner was on Alaric’s long list of things that infuriated him these days. His skin tingled with annoyance. He stood, walking toward his desk. Whatever this conversation would bring, Alaric was sure he needed a candy to deal with it rationally. “I make a concerted effort to never have my hands tied, lieutenant. Forgive me if I don’t feel as restrained as you may think.”
Rhyne turned in his chair as he took another chunk out of the sausage and chewed with his mouth open. The amount of confidence on his face made Alaric stop just before pulling open his drawer to retrieve his beloved hard candies. He stood up straight. This was not meant to be a two-sided affair. He turned to his guard, Beh’def, and nodded. The large brute stepped outside the chamber, closing the door with remarkable delicacy for his size.
Alaric closed the drawer and headed back toward the table, standing at the window nearby. The streets below were busy with merchants setting up for a day of haggling and the street urchins who would spend the morning trying to swipe anything they could from the carts. His fingers curled on the windowsill, stopping a young urchin boy with his eyes on a fruit stand in his tracks. The grip on the boy’s muscles was that of a firm father telling his son he better behave; more than enough to send a message. When he had control of himself again, the boy stood straight and stepped away from the stand, looking at it as though some magic barrier had assaulted him. By chance, he glanced up at Alaric’s window. The exchange they shared – silent and motionless as it was – would surely haunt the boy for years.
As the boy hustled down the alley, Alaric turned to his much more formidable foe and said, “I suggest you make a compelling argument. I do not appreciate having sneaky leverage thrown in my face. And in my own office, no less.”
The lieutenant sat his knife, still impaling the sausage, down on the plate with a clank and crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “And you think I do appreciate being bent over a barrel?”
“I did not create your circumstances. Your ambition and that alone has put you at odds with your comrades.”
“One comrade,” Rhyne said sternly. “But let us not get lost in the details. I have something you want. For fuck’s sake, I’d say there’s nothing you want more.”
“Unlikely.” His life used to be pulled in a hundred different directions each day. With tasks varying from simple signatures on death notes to heated negotiations with rooms full of haughty Purists, to sitting through painful lectures from The Voice of the High Chamber every time he cut a corner to get things done; something The Voice should have praised, not punished. Now, there was but one thing on Alaric’s mind. Constantly. Scratching at his mind like a distant memory that refused to reveal itself. He would not give up though. He would find Ceralline’s killer. And he would make them pay.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
When Alaric was met with silence, he turned. Rhyne was strumming his fingers quietly atop a folded piece of parchment on the table. “Your confidence is never-ending,” Alaric said.
The lieutenant considered this point behind his grizzly beard and scratched at a scar beneath his eye. “Confidence is easy to come by when you have hounds at your heel. Still, I must admit, I’ve been sleeping with Lady Luck for some time now. I’d have nothing to bring to this affair if not for her.”
“Any man like you that still draws breath possesses a fair amount of luck, I’d say. But just as my magic will dry up someday, so too will your luck.” No stranger to being hated, Rhyne picked up on all the underlying tones in Alaric’s words. It made Alaric’s blood boil to see the mercenary dismiss them with a sly grin before he spit on the floor at his own feet.
“That rug could pay your entire outfit’s monthly wages.”
All Rhyne did was smile as if the claim was more outrageous for being true. “What’s it like, Alaric? To be given everything… To never have to earn anything through blood and sweat…”
“The Creator gives her magic to those who are worthy. Do not let your jealousy blur that truth.”
Rhyne’s tongue ran across the front of his teeth beneath his upper lip. “You truly believe you’re worthy of such power, don’t you?”
“There’s no one more worthy, I’ll say that much.” Alaric turned back around to look out the window. The reflection in the window pane showed a very different face than the one he expected to see during this encounter. “You’re not making a compelling argument, lieutenant. Speak with purpose now. Or leave.”
“I know who killed your daughter”
All energy in the room evaporated in that instance. The world outside blurred, the sun dimmed. “You’re lying.”
“Lady Luck.” There was a pause during which Alaric watched the mercenary in the glass as he leaned forward for his knife, plucking the rest of the sausage off with his dirty fingers and shoving it into his mouth. He spoke as he chewed. “A single murderer struggles to keep their work a secret. Add a witness and it’s all but guaranteed word will travel. What would people think of me if I didn’t have my men hunt down the couple who killed my brother’s wife?”
Everyone from Captain Meldar to The Voice to the commoners that lived near Walendar’s Tower claimed Ceralline’s death was an accident; that she fell. But, Alaric refused to believe his pride and joy could make such a horrible mistake. Hearing this, hearing that someone had taken responsibility for her murder… It filled him with hope as much as rage. He turned, trying to keep himself as even keeled as he could but even still, the corners of Rhyne’s mouth rose slightly, his eyes softened under a coat of satisfaction.
“Tell me what you know,” Alaric said.
Rhyne wagged a thick finger at him. “No. No. No. It doesn’t work like that, Alaric.” He slid to the edge of his seat. “You want revenge, Alaric. Not information. I’ve seen this in many men. They lose something. A friend. Money. A game. It damages their ego. Hurts them in a way they don’t know how to deal with. And from that confusion comes hatred no words could rid them of. Telling you what I know won’t do you any good.” He leaned away. “But handing the witness over to you… that, my friend… that is worth something.”
“And what is it worth?”
Rhyne’s yellow teeth appeared, accented by the black gaps between them. “Kill General Derroh and you’ll have your revenge.”
“That wasn’t the agreement.”
“It is now.” Rhyne’s glare made it clear there were no other options on the table.
With lightning speed, Alaric lurched forward, slamming his hand on the table. Silverware clanged as he said, “We are family, dammit! She was your brother’s wife! You choose to use me to kill a man with more resources than kings rather than let me have the satisfaction of killing the son of a bitch that turned your brother into a shell of himself?!”
Rhyne didn’t flinch. Not at the sudden movement, not at the weight of Alaric’s words. “Did you not bring me here to do the very same thing? You know how badly I want my superiors dead and you were going to make me work for that rather than simply clench your first and make my troubles disappear.”
Alaric put a second hand on the table and let his head sag. “We are family, Rhyne.” He paused, whispered his next words. “Please.”
A long silence brought Alaric’s head up. When he did this, Rhyne said, “Family is blood. We do not share blood. My brother was fucking your daughter. I don’t see how that bonds me to you.” Rhyne raised a finger when Alaric’s fingers began to curl. “Kill me and my men will make sure you never find your daughter's murderer.”
“Your death may have to satisfy my thirst for revenge,” Alaric said.
“You think so?”
Another moment of silence passed during which the two men held each other’s gaze tight. “So, what? You just expect me to walk into Haldar and kill Derroh with no concerns for my own safety?”
“Of course not. I will deliver him to you on a silver platter.”
“There is no denying when my hand is the hand to take a man’s life. How do I know your brethren will not seek revenge?”
“Because if any one of them could do this task, they would.” Rhyne stood, sensing he’d won. “Sadly, the only man who can kill Derroh sits behind a desk in the High Chamber, fighting wars with quill and ink rather than sword and shield.”
“I trust you will handle the aftermath. Silence the echoes of my actions… I do not have the time or patience to deal with a campaign aimed to tarnish my reputation any more than it’s already suffered.”
“Mercenaries fight and die. Derroh’s glorious death will be written about in the annals of the company. And I can assure you, your name will be nowhere to be found.”
Alaric turned around. “I want two days' notice.”
“Derroh and I will return to Locke next month. Our arrival will be preceded by a small group of Hounds led by a man named Diedro Pyvelle. Don’t seek him. He’ll find you.” The lieutenant snatched another sausage, tipping it toward Alaric as a goodbye, and headed for the door.