Every form of society has had conspiracies and secret societies, and they always will. They are daemons formed by the intermingling needs of humans to have companionship and belonging, but also a distrust of those around them. Secrets bind and bindings give a man foundation from which to view the world. Of course, most of these cabals are impotent, short lived, or insane. Just as they form from men seeking their own advantage, they splinter apart as their constituents realize that such organizations are detrimental to their advantage.
But, as some apprentices in a lowly smith shop might work to oust a competitor they find odious, so too does the pattern occur among those of the political class. The management of these swirling motes of potential is perhaps the least respected art of politics throughout all of history with the exception of the microcosm. The social fist an old mother can wield over her family, particularly when she has control over the family estate, is what most kings can only aspire to achieve with their political class.
For many years, King Charles von Arandall did just that, with the support of Acheliah. His death at the feast I cannot even call a miscalculation, for there was no reason that he should think poison would even be a true assassin’s weapon. Any apothecary with an education knew that the royal family was blessed by the protection of the angel. A popular tale is of the king’s father, who had a habit of eating exotic fish raw with those he had difficult negotiations. More than once a venom sac was cut wrong and both parties were in danger of losing their lives before Acheliah’s intervention. Most famously, King Charles’ great grandmother, Junea vi Arandall II, intentionally drank a drought of poppy’s heart(1) in an attempt to commune with the goddess of death, and was revived after seven days.(2)
As such, the king’s key concern was more bodily in nature, having steel thrust through his heart or head. Poison was not a death threat in his mind, but perhaps a danger that his judgment might be subtly impaired before needing to make decisions, the effect slight enough that Acheliah wouldn’t take notice.
That Corpse Rot(3) would be used against him was unthinkable because it hadn’t been used for hundreds of years. So long that its very existence had been cast into doubt. Only a most ancient text might conceivably explain how to pull the very idea of death itself from the remains of a human and smother a healthy man’s soul with it, and to produce such a poison without killing one’s self would require not just a master’s skill but a great deal of luck.
But, as was deduced by his sons in the aftermath, it was the very introduction of such a cheat that the skulking societies of half-virtuous, half-wealthy revolutionaries sprang to action. Like a whale’s corpse bloating upon a beach, had they been left to their own devices they would have drank until they each had gout and nagging children and had fought among themselves for business deals so much that all their energy did nothing more than leave them gray haired and dissatisfied with life, just as a whale’s corpse would eventually be nothing more than fertilizer for the ocean. A disturbed carcass can be quite a surprise however.
A sharp prod through the putrefying blubber and such a torrent of noxious gasses and foul humors can come spewing out that a grown man can be launched off his feet.
Corpse Rot poison was that sharp stick, and the malcontent writings of certain philosophers had drummed up the usual issues of class division, ultimately spewing death across the feast hall.
There was of course another issue the would-be revolutionaries faced, but which they had been led to believe would be taken care of on their behalf. So, they fearlessly avenged grudges with the blood of the aristocracy. They stabbed and grappled. They cut short lives and were thrown to the ground by guards. Turncoats appeared among the soldiery but still swords were brought to bear in the name of the king. In moments, it was nearly impossible to tell who was friend and who was foe as tables were knocked aside and men tumbled.
Into this chaos, Lucius stood back up, with eyes fixed upon the Ashe family table. With a choked roar, he spat blood from his throat and expunged the poison with the power of his stigmata, sucking in the storming life forces. Rotting humors coursed through his body, twisting worm-like bruises beneath his skin as his heart beat hard and true.
The first weapon he set his eyes upon was nothing but a bread knife which he slammed down through the back of the neck of a serving boy. The lad had crushed the skull of a guard with a wine amphora and stood in shock as blood squirted across his face. Lucius threw him to the ground to convulse and die, then snatched up the guard’s blade.
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Orders were being shouted, contending with the dwindling revolutionary war cries and both being overwhelmed by the wailing fear of the victims. A press of vagabonds made a rush for the prince and Lucius took a sliding hack through one man’s head, sending him spinning to the floor. Four more got past him, which he left for Gabriel to contend with. Protecting the prince was an honorable prize, but the boy fought for himself, not for Vassermark.
While Lupa had been taken by surprise, she wasn’t the only fighter attending to the Ashe girls. The Montisferro boy had interceded with his own body, getting cut open across his chest but still he stood. Ribbons of blood stained his clothes as one of the revolutionaries attempted to stab a carving knife through his throat. Lupa broke a chair over his back, sending him reeling.
Lucius ran him through, getting a gasp of surprise from the scarred soldier who had turned upon the nobility. It’s possible he was one of the soldiers who had fought for Lucius during the campaign against Rodrick, but no one was ever able to sort the bodies accurately afterward. Two more men called out that the Gambling Lion had turned. One with a concealed blade and the other with a fire poker, they attacked him together.
Lucius took the knife stab as he removed the other’s arm. Then, with a twisting flourish, he plunged the sword back and through the knifeman’s chest. He leapt up on the table, motioning for the girls to press themselves against the wall behind him. He declared, “Anyone who wants to die may come!” His boast stalled other assailants for a moment as his stigmata closed up the wound in his chest and as the Montisferro boy slumped to the ground.
Two more blood spattered killers rushed him. The larger of the two booted the table he stood upon, but he leapt down and cleaved the man’s skull in two. A poor slash of a sword, swung by a veteran at least ten years past his military service, lacerated his back and drove the boy to his knees.
Lupa leapt to his aid, having scrounged the iron fire poker with its beaked hook. She nearly smote it through the swordsman’s head, but merely drove him back a step. The reprieve let Lucius free his sword from the corpse and in three moves opened the man’s wrist. Another slash knocked the stolen sword away and then Lupa did drive the poker through his temple.
“Who else?” Lucius roared, circling quick around the table, keeping his back to Aisha and the Ashe sisters. Having seen the melee, Aria wasted no time in dragging Felicia to the safety he offered.
The fighting continued, but the main doors of the hall were blasted open. The hasty barricade proved nothing more than a hindrance to the brute might of Acheliah. The tone of the shouts changed as she spread her wings, but she did nothing to stop the fighting. As Lucius killed more of the panicked men, she glided across the room, her feet just above the heads of the nobles. She didn’t spare a glance for any of the killers save the one still battling Prince Gabriel.
Her arrival made the man spin about and the prince’s doppelganger cut him down on the spot. The angel didn’t bat an eye at the man’s death, her gaze was only for the king as she knelt down and cradled his head upon her lap. Those about her saw pure grief, but she was not a weeping maiden. She attacked the problem of his death intellectually, though in a way only perceptible to herself.
Only when she realized she was too late did the tears flow. The grief ridden sobs of an angel were as fear inducing as a pack of wolves. The word to flee fast and flee far had reached everyone in the hall as Acheliah stood back up and spread her wings. Declaring them all heretical vermin, she declared every man in the room to be dead.
She used her magic to harden her feathers to razors and then launched them in every direction. Given a life of their own, they flew like diving hawks and sank into the flesh of everyone, innocent and guilty. All were cut down except for the prince. She was a thing of beautiful wrath and all who witnessed her that day would remember it for the rest of their lives.
Not the least of which reason was because, for most of them, it was the last time they would ever see the angel of Vassermark.
Of course, one other man suffered her wounds and stood.
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1. The method of concocting the poison has been lost to time and I won’t describe it here. The only thing of importance is the deathlike trance it leaves the victim in as the parasitic creature excretes in their stomach until removed.
2. Reportedly, she did speak with Shepherd, only to be told not to make such an attempt again. The goddess of death knew perfectly well the protection Acheliah offered, but the words left the angel in a depressed mood for years after.
3. For the most famous use of Corpse Rot, also known as Juliet’s Blade, one must look to the climax of the schism war, which gave Rackvidd its independence in the year 107, before rejoining Vassermark in the year 132. A most tragic tale of ill-fated lovers.