Dwarf of Bronze (ZnT/AU)

The first responders to the clash outside of the Capital arrived to a scene of total devastation. Massive chunks of the forest had been uprooted and apparently smashed together, then crushed down into a stone ball. When an Earth Mage finally cracked the thing open they found no traces of anything inside.

Only one body was found. Viscount Wardes found himself standing over it the next morning with a grave expression on his face. When the undertaker had seen the look in his eyes they’d stepped out in order to ‘give him a moment’. As if he was going to start crying or something.

There would be no tears shed for Miss Longueville, also known as Matilda de Saxe Gotha, colloquially referred to as Fouquet of the Crumbling Earth. Nobody would even know she was dead. He pulled her eyes open and shone light in them from the tip of his wand then carefully checked for pulse and breathing. When he found none of those he charged a quiet spell and pressed the tip of his wand to her chest.

Her body jerked for a moment as electricity surged through her body. There was a faint smell of burning that he waved away with one hand as he eyed the corpse. If she’d been faking her death somehow then she was definitely not now. That jolt had earthed itself into the table below her and passed right through her heart on the way.

“Tch. Couldn’t even take the bastard with you. Useless wench.” He didn’t spit on her but for his tone he might as well have. Even so, he slipped the man a few ecu on the way out and asked that he have her cremated at his earliest convenience. As an afterthought, he added a couple more coins and suggested that he might like to have one of his assistants sprinkle the ashes somewhere pretty.

The old man seemed plenty pleased to do both of these things; likely assuming she’d been some lover of his or some similar rot. That was perfectly fine by him. The less anyone questioned it the better. Who she really was, why she’d been there and her status as a powerful Earth Mage were all things that would fade into obscurity without any leads. He wasn’t intending to provide any; which was why he’d thought ahead, and come in disguise.

He left town on foot and trudge for perhaps half an hour before veering off the path to search for the copse he’d left his Griffon in. Even though he’d been reassigned to the Undine Knights they’d let him keep his mount; partially because it wasn’t like anyone else would be able to ride it. Once aboard he’d be back at the chapter house in no more than another hour and a half or so, if even that.

Wardes had never known much about Matilda, or Fouquet. Why she was a thief, where she’d come from… all he knew was that Saxe-Gotha was in Albion, but while she certainly wasn’t a Loyalist she also didn’t seem to be Reconquista either. Nor had he been particularly close to her in any way. When the order to clean house had come down from on high he hadn’t questioned it.

He knew that, should his usefulness wear out, he would be swept away just as easily as her. It was something he’d known for a long time. Even so, it had never bothered him before. Wardes had never really felt he had anything much to live for anyway. All he had were his ambitions and he knew with certainty that those would be fulfilled by his masters one way or another, in the long run. They’d listened to him.

Now, though… he felt uneasy. As the chapter house rose into view in the distance he could see the crowd of children training in the main courtyard. Not really children, save by comparison, but he couldn’t help but think of them that way. He’d only ever had grown men under his command. Training hadn’t been his purview. It was very… it was quite… it was rather… well, different.

As he pulled in for a landing he carefully put together the proper mask. Grandmaster Wardes; fatherly, patient and wise. They crowded around as always, ever excited by his mount, and the beast began preening in undisguised glee at the attention. Guiche wasn’t there; perhaps he’d stayed the night up at the Academy. Well, it wasn’t like a day of rest would hurt his progress any. He would make a fine Knight either way.

Wardes didn’t wonder why that thought hurt so very much.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -​

A carriage pulled up to the Vallière’s estate and just as soon as it had stopped a young woman with an imperious gait practically launched herself out of it. The servants smiled and chuckled to themselves; for all of her comportment it seemed Éléonore was excited to be home.

“It has been a long journey and I am simply exhausted; please inform Mother that I shall be in my room.” That, however, was quite unusual. The head butler stepped forward but she moved past him before he could even finish greeting her. He frowned; not from insult, but rather from almost paternal concern.

All of the servants of the Vallière’s were quite fond of their charges and knew them well; if Lady Éléonore was being so rude as this then she must be rather unwell. He pulled one of the maids over and bid her to ask the kitchens to brew a pot of the young lady’s favourite blend and send it up at once. That ought to improve her mood some.

He then went forthwith to inform his mistress that her eldest daughter had arrived home. One of the girls would inform Lady Cattleya as well. It had been some time since so many of the family were together; now all they needed was little Louise to stop by for a visit and it would be like a proper reunion. Alas, she was busy with her schooling.

When Karin was informed that Éléonore was home, and seemed to be unwell, she immediately put aside her writings to go see her daughter. The notes on troop detachments and supply chains were very important, of course, but not so important that they couldn’t wait a few hours while she checked on one of her children.

Éléonore had drawn the blinds and crawled straight into bed. Quite literally, in fact. Karin could see that she still had her shoes on and the covers were piled up on top of her like she was five years old again. Well, not that such habits had faded until well after she’d turned nine. It was always hard not to forget that they weren’t just little girls anymore.

“Éléonore?” She called out softly as she moved to the side of the bed. There was no response from the bundle. Then she rolled her eyes a little and pulled at one edge of the covers to reveal the girl’s face. Well, the Duchess could see just what Édouard had been talking about. Her daughter’s eyes were half closed and she scarcely seemed to recognise that her mother was there.

Karin checked the girl’s forehead. Slightly warm, but not feverish. Then she noticed her lips were moving. Frowning, she leaned in and turned her head just enough to be able to hear what the girl was mumbling to herself; for, indeed, it seemed she was actually speaking out albeit quietly.

“It has been a long journey... and I am simply exhausted... please inform Mother... that I shall be in my room.” When she turned back to look at Éléonore it was with an expression of great concern. The girl seemed to be totally and completely out of it. Then her nostrils flared and she caught a strange scent in the air just as her daughter’s eyes suddenly seemed to focus on her face.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -​

“I’m decent.”

The door opened and Jessica poked her head into the small room; smiling as soon as she caught sight of Saito seated at the tiny corner desk with the books laid out before him. They were the account books for the business and, since he had little else to do at the moment, he’d offered to look over them. The proprietor had been well pleased with him.

“The healer is back again, to check up on you.” He sighed and nodded to her with great resignation as she went down to show them up. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the thoughtfulness of the gesture on Louise’s part; it was just a little frustrating. As soon as the door was closed he pulled himself to his feet, walked around to the bed and perched on the side; taking a moment to make sure that the splint on his leg was still aligned properly.

Saito laid his leg out in front of him and clenched his teeth as he eyed the offending appendage. Then he clenched his teeth and drew one of his daggers out from under the pillow of the bed. Without his gloves on the glow of the runes on his right hand was plainly visible. He gauged the appropriate amount of force and then calmly struck with his free hand.

The crack as his leg broke was barely audible; he’d judged it just right, it seemed. As he heard footsteps from down the hall he put the blade away and waited calmly for the door to open. When it did a slightly plump but kind faced woman came through, wand in hand, beaming at him all the way.

“Good morning, good morning Mister Saito! Well, for a little while longer anyway. Terribly sorry I’m late, but we had a young man fall off his horse this morning and his arm was in a frightful state. Shall we get cracking?” They carefully rolled up his pant leg and ran the tip of their wand up and down. He could feel the blood shifting as they delicately palpated the internal musculature.

Whenever they passed over a broken part he made sure to visibly wince. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel the pain but, rather, that he’d never quite understood why other people found it so debilitating. Better to show willing, however, as such things tended to unnerve more typical individuals; such as this woman.

“Oh, very good. You heal fast, young man! I think you’ll be able to put weight on it within a week or so, and have full function again before the month is out. How I wish that all of my patients were as hale and hearty as you.” She smiled, smoothing down his trouser leg again, and then began making sure the splint was aligned properly. It was, of course; he made sure of that. The less time she spent here the better.

“I think we only have your expertise to thank for that, madame, and your excellent apothecary work.” Even if it was blatant flattery he delivered it with sufficient sincerity that she flushed just a little bit. Speaking of medicine seemed to remind her, however, and she handed over that day’s potion; just another little trick he’d picked up for making meetings smoother.

“You’re too kind. I’m sure you remember, but make sure to take it after a meal and drink the whole thing if you want to be back on your feet as fast as possible. Well, it’s not like I need to remind you. More than anything I just wish all of my patients were so obedient! You’re a credit to your employer, young man.” He didn’t dissuade her from patting him on the cheek in a grandmotherly fashion as it seemed to bring her some measure of indefinable comfort. Even if he couldn’t grasp why he could certainly humour her.

As soon as she was gone he pulled his pant’s leg up again and pressed his fingers to either side. His left shoulder tingled as golden light gathered around his fingertips and seeped into the bone. A moment later he began carefully untying the splint before standing. The knife was retrieved so that he had enough grip strength to pull the nails out of the floorboards with his bare hands and, from beneath, he began to retrieve his things.

A set of oil-blacked leather armour. Sturdy boots. A second cloak; slightly older, slightly more faded and just a touch more worn than his own. Plague mask. They were laid out on the bed as he stripped down to his underclothes. He held a hand out as his right thigh tingled and a faint brownish glow gradually became visible.

A sphere of white material began to gather in his hand as he carefully stripped the substance from his skin. It used a base of white clay that matched his pale skin tone rather nicely but while it was fine when he was wearing relatively loose-fitting clothes it would rub off and chafe if he left it on while using the armour. One by one various multicoloured tattoos were uncovered as the ball of earth grew larger and larger until he was finally done.

The sphere went back into a small pot, he’d add a bit more water and remix it later when it came time to reapply, and he then put the boards back down. He could press the nails in with one finger, although he had to take care not to push them down too far, and then he put the knife away as well.

There was a moment of static and crackling power in the air around him as he relaxed. First, the untensing of his muscles caused a series of pops from his joints as they loosened up. He gained approximately a centimetre in height from that alone, and another three when he actually stood up straight for a change. The markings on his skin remained clearly visible even as he himself changed; another twenty or so centimetres were gained in the actual transition.

He pulled his armour on and secured the cloak with great care before finally donning the mask. It was always a little awkward fitting it over his muzzle but he made do. This identity was nearly done with anyway; he simply had some last few errands to run before he could allow it to fade away.

As he unlatched the windows there was a sound from behind him. Saito closed his eyes with an expression that would have been a grimace as he turned his head to see the door swing open and a shocked Jessica standing there. He sighed deeply.

”... I really do wish that you had not caught me.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -​

Armand saw the carriage long before it reached the main gates thanks to the placement of his study and desk. He could see across the rolling plains of the Gramont estates from the window in front of him and all the way down to the end of the long, winding road that lead to their ancestral manor. One of his forebears had been a suitably paranoid man.

So it was that he was already in the courtyard when the gates opened and the vehicle trundled over the cobblestones to come to rest in front of the main door. It wasn’t Adrien’s, or Maximilien’s, so that really left only two options and the lack of a particular booming voice certainly gave him a few suspicions.

His theories were confirmed when the door opened and his second-youngest stepped down. As soon as he caught sight of his father Francisque smiled broadly and walked over to offer his hand for a firm, brisk shake. Which is probably why he seemed so surprised when his admittedly emotionally distant father walked right past that and hugged him instead. Truth be told, Armand was a little surprised by himself as well.

“It’s good to see you home, son. We have a great many things to talk about.” He’d likely startled the poor boy something fierce, given how much he’d stiffened up, but if the whole incident with Guiche had taught him anything it was that he ought to make sure his sons knew how much he cared about them. Even if… no, especially if he didn’t quite agree with their life choices. Painter or not, this was still his son.

“Please inform father that I’ve arrived; I shall await him in the study.” The calm phrase from Francisque brought Armand up short. Almost as much as the sudden chill he felt spreading through his lower back. As he loosened his grip and stumbled back a few steps he realised that the boy hadn’t embraced him in return.

Now he was staring at the sky. He could faintly hear screaming; one of the maids? Armand didn’t understand what was going on. His vision was swimming, turning dark, and he couldn’t move his limbs. In the corner of his gaze he could see, in a haze of black, Francisque standing there with a dull-eyed smile on his face and a long-bladed knife in his right hand. Where… what…

Armand closed his eyes.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -​

There was a sudden, sharp sound followed swiftly by another. Two quick bangs in rapid succession. Karin looked down to see a hole torn in the covers and felt the searing heat spreading through her lower stomach. When she pressed a hand there it felt sticky. She was bleeding.

Éléonore didn’t register as she fell backwards. The girl didn’t even seem to know where she was, let alone what she’d done. Karin had been shot before, of course, so she knew what it felt like; but never in the gut like this, nor from so close a range. All of the breath had left her body in an instant and she felt like she was drowning.

The door actually broke off its hinges what felt like only a moment later as her husband kicked it down. She couldn’t help but smile. That fool of a man hadn’t even tried the handle, had he? Such a sweet idiot. When he saw her laying there he was on his knees immediately; cradling her head and blubbering in that way he did. He’d always been softer than her… but that was why she loved him so.

“Pierre…” She reached for his face and curled her fingers so she could wipe away his tears without smearing blood on his face. Then she looked to where Éléonore still was. The girl hadn’t moved. “I’ll… I’ll be fine. This is nothing. Something’s wrong with our daughter. You have… to…” Something was wrong. It was too hot in here. Sweat had soaked through her clothes and her hand was trembling against his face.

Karin looked back at her sobbing husband and smiled at him. “Please… they’re far more important… than an old woman like me… take care of them, okay?” The strength seemed to have left her arm and it went limp. Everything was going dark. Whatever he said back to her seemed to come as if over a great distance. She didn’t worry, though; he was a fine man. Everything would be fine so long as he was still in charge. Slowly, Karin closed her eyes.

She just hoped that Éléonore would be okay.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -​

Jessica frowned and marched into the room; laying the tray laden with food on the small table as Saito pulled his foot from the window sill and did his best to look contrite despite the mask. She closed the door first, and then finally began laying into him.

“I’ll bet you do! You promised me you wouldn’t skip any more meals!” He undid his mask and laid it on the bed as she scowled at him. It seemed that he did vaguely recall saying something to that effect. The sight of his face seemed to speak to something in her, however, and she twitched in place. A moment later she was standing straighter than any knightly novitiate might manage.

“I apologise for my rudeness, sir. It is unbecoming of me to speak to you in such a fashion.” That made him wince as well. He sighed and pulled the chair back so he could sit down to eat. Might as well do it like this given how loose shifting back would make the armour.

“Jessica, while I appreciate the respect you and your father show me it’s really not necessary. You’re all the closest I have to kin in this world. That means that you are allowed to use my name when we’re alone… I wouldn’t have told you it if I didn’t want you to.” She swallowed heavily and looked quite conflicted. Her upbringing said she ought to respect him for what he was while the man himself was saying he wanted to be treated more casually. He could tell that it was quite a clash of ideals.

“Very well, Jeirazh. But you can’t stop me from showing you the respect you deserve.” He grunted and tucked into the food. Having sharper teeth like this made dealing with the tougher meat a bit easier but it was still quite tasty. Well, it wasn’t really all that tough; he was simply used to a rather different cooking style.

“Well, you don’t need to wait on me like this either. I have been taught to fend for myself.” Which he did so anyway. Even if Jessica did her best she had no idea how much food he actually consumed on a daily basis. The inn was profitable enough that they could probably afford it but he would have felt bad accepting that kind of charity from family.

“I know that. But you keep coming back and working all night to clean up after me… I’d feel bad if I didn’t at least feed you.” He didn’t respond to that. There wasn’t anything he could say to contradict her argument in this case. After all, the only reason he’d started doing this was because of her.

Meeting Siesta and finding out that there was support in this backwater world had been a blessing. Even if they didn’t understand the ways they followed the family still cleaved to them like a secret religion. Gathering information and cataloguing any strange occurrences for whatever future Bannermen might stop by.

The information he’d gotten from the bizarre man who owned this place had been invaluable. This peculiar inn’s style certainly seemed to loosen tongues. Then he’d found out that Jessica had taken it upon herself to ‘deal with’ a particularly nasty customer after his behaviour had gone just a bit too far for them to stomach and, worst of all, someone had apparently seen her face.

A threatening letter had arrived during his first nightly visit here; the very day before Louise had brought him down to purchase weaponry. It was only a day’s round trip from the Academy by horseback at a lazy pace and he could easily manage faster than that even on foot, so it hadn’t been too difficult to come by once or twice a week. He suffered a little for the lack of sleep but, then again, he was used to that.

Tracking down the person who’d sent the threats had been his first priority. From there it had just sort of escalated. Playing manservant with Louise was an enjoyable pastime and did let him keep an eye on Flamecutter; Mikôre only knew how the Iron Wolf would react if he got hurt and it would be unfortunate to lose such a quality source of weaponry. However, the lack of worthwhile threats had left him feeling rather bored.

In the end, killing criminals was just a thing to pass the time. However, he was just about done with that. As of late he’d caught the scent of something else. Something far more poisonous lurking just out of sight. The kind of thing he was born and raised to destroy.

“Thank you for the meal, Jessica. I shan’t be out long.” Jeirazh pulled his mask back on and stepped out of the window. Underneath his leather armour his feet tingled as the air solidified beneath them for just long enough that he could push off and flip up to the rooftop. The journey across town was an easy one to make unseen for him and his destination wasn’t all that far away anyhow.

He dangled himself from a second-story window sill by his feet as he carefully picked the lock of the window in front of his face. Once it had popped open he slid right on through and began looking around. The undertaker was found leaning against his desk and easily rendered unconscious with a sharp pressure applied to his neck with two fingers. He slipped the man a small concoction that would keep him out for more than the minute or so he would otherwise while ensuring that he blamed his sudden ‘sleep’ on drowsiness and overwork.

There were a number of bodies laid out in the cool basement, waiting for the furnace above to finish heating before they could finish the day’s work cremating them. Before he located the one he wanted he found the old man’s notes and tore the page off. On the fresh one underneath he began to precisely copy the exact words save for a single line. Then he went to work.

A man of about the right size had been removed from the list of corpses brought over. He’d already been to the Watch and altered the papers on the crime scene from the other day as well. There was no chance of anyone noticing what he’d done; after all, why would anyone want to make a corpse vanish?

He carried the one he’d selected upstairs himself and slid it into the furnace. With any luck the undertaker would think that he’d done it himself and then fallen asleep. No reason for him to question it. After all, he’d been told to do it, and it was done. No bodies would be unaccounted for except the one he’d been planning to burn first, a body had been burned, so logically he’d burned it.

Finally, Jeirazh found himself standing over Matilda’s body. There was a small burn mark on the chest but that wasn’t an issue; Wardes had obviously stopped by to make sure she was dead. Normally this would only work within the hour or so, back home at least, but he’d cooled her body immediately after killing her and she hadn’t warmed up yet. If the Viscount had fried her brain instead of jolting her heart then they might have some issues but, as it stood, he figured it would work.

Golden light poured down his arm and gathered in his hands. He let it build and build and build into a large, shining sphere until, finally, he broke it into two parts and shoved it into her. One part went into her neck and there was a loud ‘click’ as the bones snapped back into place and refused themselves. The remainder surged into her chest and from there suffused her entire body.

Matilda’s eyes snapped open and she shot up with mouth wide. He clasped his hand over it immediately, before she could scream, and forcibly restrained her as she spasmed violently against the searing pain throughout all of her body. Even then he didn’t stop the golden light until he was quite sure all the damage from freezing her had been reversed.

It took her some time to calm, although she was still struggling up until he flicked her sharply on the forehead. Properly focusing on him didn’t actually calm her, persay; more froze her in place with abject terror. Well, either way she was still and quiet.

“Well, I did warn you. Congratulations; as far as the world is concerned you’re dead.” Her eyes widened as she realised what had happened. What he’d done to her… and what he’d done for her. Tears of gratitude began to well up as she tried, and failed, to talk. Being dead for nearly twelve hours would do that to you. He ignored them in favour of helping her to her feet.

“Welcome, Matilda de Saxe-Gotha, to the employ of the true Crimson Banner.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -​

Word came to the chapter house the next day that several very important Tristanian Nobles had been attacked simultaneously in what appeared the Crown was currently suspecting to be an act of warfare from the rebels of Albion. The list of names included most of the ranking Generals as well as the current leaders of the Griffon and Manticore Knights.

In light of a certain strangeness surrounding the events, those responsible were being held in custody until it could be determined if they were truly culpable or not. The culprits had not been named but rumours abounded that they had all been close to the victims.

Both Guiche de Gramont and Louise de la Vallière requested personal leave from their training as soon as the missive arrived. They were granted it immediately.

By the end of the week, Tristain was at war.


Dwarf of Bronze: End of Act Three

 

The King of Gallia stared at the muscles in his forearm as he slowly closed his hand and clenched it into a fist. After a few moments he relaxed it again and presented his open palm to the floor of the empty throne room. He clenched again; watching his flesh shifting in the unearthly green light that was the only source of illumination.

It shone from the armoured figures standing in front of the decorative pillars to either side of him. Tongues of sickly green fire licked out from the eye slit and little breathing holes in the full plate. The joints glowed as well where the phantom flames attempted to leak out of the bodies they were anchored too. Every stray wisp reached in the direction of the throne.

He had one leg over the arm of his seat and the other dangling from the front. It was a thoroughly unkingly position but he wasn’t an especially traditional monarch. Even the Nobles who’d supported him had come to realise that soon enough when he’d had the old throne, an ancient relic comprised partially of Gallian timber and significantly of gold, torn out of its pride of place in his palace.

None of them had been able to comment on what he’d installed in place of it. He liked it, though. After all, he owed a lot to his new throne. It had been found in a cave, one which was clearly not natural, on the Orléans’ ancestral lands along with a number of interesting little items. Their… his father had decided it was an ill omen and sealed the revealed cavern.

Naturally, he had tunnelled his own way in just as soon as he could. It had taken a full, frustrating year of hard labour that could have been circumvented in mere moments if only he could use proper magic instead of the pathetic little bursts of smoke that came out whenever he tried. He’d done it eventually, though, even if it was with a shovel instead of magic.

Upon his return he’d taken to wonder why his father hadn’t just burned the room. It certainly looked like the lair of some… foul, heretical necromancer. Apart from the throne at the rear, sitting ominously and seeming to take up far more space than it ought, there was also a heavy desk and book shelf and part of a stone wall. The floor was paved around the desk but melded into the stone seamlessly.

That was what had drawn him back. He and… when the room was discovered he’d noticed that particular detail. It had stuck in his mind. Like this was just a fragment of a larger room transposed from far away. It put him to mind of a number of stories of great wizards, supposedly of old, moving whole castles across the countryside. This had been part of a larger study or library or some such thing; he was sure of that.

Then there had been the books. Some didn’t survive; all were dry but some had clearly been wet before by how the pages were warped and the writing distorted. Others had become so dry as to begin crumbling to dust at his touch. Yet, strangely, fully half of them were unharmed by the ages or the elements. It took him a while to find one he could read even then. There were six or seven different languages in there and only one bore a tangential similarity to the runic scripts of the Brimiric languages.

He’d learned. Oh, how he’d learned. In reality he snapped his fingers and then, remembering the situation, reached instead for a discreet bell pull. Warmer light flooded the room from a side door as a nervous servant opened it. This room was rather intimidating to everyone that wasn’t him or Zharaqui, it seemed.

“My study. The large black book on the desk. Quickly.” The peasant bowed and scraped on his way out, wasting valuable time in closing the door and allowing Joseph a return to his reverie. He ran a hand along the cool black stone of his throne. Getting it in here had been tricky. It was very heavy, and seemed to resist being moved directly via any sort of Earth magic.

In fact, it seemed to resist a lot of things. Any effort to mark or alter it in any way had proven in vain. The surface refused to even so much as warm up even when bathed in intense flames. Having it made him feel safer. He heard the whispers of the Nobles. That he’d gone mad. They were trying to keep it quiet, of course they were, but he suspected their assassins might be coming any day now.

He welcomed their attempts. With his throne inviolable there was only one direction an attack might come from. Any would-be regicide wouldn’t end well. Particularly if his dear familiar had been around. With what he’d learned from the books she’d been the last piece of the puzzle. The answer to room and its contents; what they were and where they’d come from.

There had been a time when he’d thought that some of the esoteric techniques contained within those tomes were the answer to his problems. He’d followed instructions with care and delicacy, to the letter, for what few recipes or rituals he could complete. Nothing had worked. The ink had failed to adhere as it was supposed to, the glyphs had failed to elicit any changes in their environment and the sacrifices yielded nothing.

To his right the door opened once more and the nervous servant brought the book over, head bowed as they approached. He took it without so much as a second glance at them and they had left the room in a polite backwards scuttle before he’d even bothered to open his prize. There was no concern in letting them handle this one; there were only two individuals in this world who could read it, and the second was utterly beholden to him.

There was no title on the black book. It wasn’t that sort of literature. All that was borne on the cover was a single, rather simple symbol. For all his searching he’d found that it wasn’t one native to these lands. He didn’t look at the Earth Ruby on his hand. There was no point to it; he already knew what he’d see if he gazed into its depths.

“Master.” Unlike his vulgar servants this one didn’t allow any other light to spill into the room as she entered. It was a talent he appreciated; as much as he was capable of appreciating anything. She stood before his throne with her head bowed in contrition. That didn’t mean all that much, though. From the beginning he’d been sure to impress upon her that her flaws were deep and manifold. He didn’t bother to say anything; merely continuing to lounge as he waited for her report.

“I have completed my mission. All agents have hit their targets. In addition, Wardes reports that the loose end has been tied off.” Ah, yes. The ex-Noblewoman from Albion. They’d acquired her service through intimating that they knew where the money she collected through her thievery was being sent and then letting her imagination do the rest. Now that they had the item they wanted she was of no further use. However…

“And yet they haven’t declared war on me. I see.” He frowned, more out of habit than anything. It wasn’t that he was disappointed; more that he had been expecting more out of them. Perhaps that was what disappointment felt like? It had been some time. “I thought I told you not to be subtle about it. Or did that part of my instruction elude you?” She bowed deeper to him and he sighed.

“I apologise, master. However, I was not especially subtle. I made no attempts to conceal my affiliations as I recruited them, nor my appearance. Perhaps they are still too damaged to speak about the events leading up to their indoctrination?” Well, he supposed that was the problem. Joseph stood up and moved away from the black throne to one of the suits of armour. It dropped to one knee as he approached with a clatter of metal and bone.

He reached out and pulled up the visor to stare at the skull wreathed in green flames beneath. They danced and hissed and simultaneously reached toward him and recoiled from his skin. It was a curious thing. After a moment of entertaining himself with that he turned around and the wight rose to its feet once more to act as a light. As far as the rest of his court knew that was all they were.

“Well, I suppose we can let them have their own fun for a while, hm?” The King returned to his throne and started flexing his hand again; staring intently at the muscles under his arm. This diversion entertained him for only a minute or so before he looked up at Zharaqui again. “Of course, this still means you’ve failed me again.”

She nodded slowly. He lowered his arm and leaned into the backrest. “Are you prepared?” The woman nodded again and a thin smile formed on his face. “Zharaqui… as your master, I command you; slit your throat.” Whitish light formed between her fingers and became an icy blade as she raised her hand. He watched silently as it dug into her flesh and blood began to pour down her front.

There was no hesitation. No struggling or attempt to defy him. She just stood there and watched him with expectant silence as blood gushed from the gash on her neck; it was a good cut, from ear to ear. As she bled out he counted silently. There was no trembling in her even though he knew her vision had to be swimming.

When she dropped to one knee he still didn’t say anything. By this point her clothes were stained red. Of course she was certainly tougher than a normal human but by how much? That was the question. Her right arm gave out and she collapsed on to her side. Finally, he raised a hand and gestured.

Weakly, trembling, Zharaqui pushed the fingers of her left arm to the gash on her neck. Golden light burst from her chest and flowed along her arm to seal up the cut. She began to breath smoothly again and tried to pull herself back up to a standing position. It took her several minutes before she could.

“I’m sorry, master. I failed to withstand it.” He allowed himself a smile that was, he assumed, at least somewhat magnanimous. What a fantastic servant she was. Truly perfect. Her display was waved off as he shifted back into his original position once more.

“Perhaps you will do better next time. Go clean yourself up.” Zharaqui bowed deeply again and began to weakly limp away. Before she could get out of the room he raised his voice again. “Oh, and I sent a girl to collect the book from my room earlier. Deal with her.” His familiar nodded. There was no need to elaborate to her. After all, the peasant had seen the image on the cover.

As she left he flexed his arm again, but this time he didn’t look down. Instead he closed his eyes and leaned back; staring into the darkness inside his own head. At his side his hand unclenched.

A few moments later his skin shifted again.

 

Vittorio had always suspected that it would end up being him.

Finding the wielder of the Holy Void was always a little difficult. The rough bloodlines they could be born into were known, to an extent, but the potential for branches and bastards and all sorts of other little genealogical complications made it tricky. Especially since it was easy for the child to be dismissed and consigned to far less proper pursuits.

He often wondered what would have happened had he not been born in such an advantageous position. Would his lack of initial ability have caused him to be dismissed? Cast aside as a failed noble? Were he a woman he might have been sent to a nunnery, for example. Well, there was no point in dwelling on it. Not today.

This was the moment of proof. If he could summon an abnormal familiar and bind it with the runes of the Lifdrasil, thus demonstrating his status as an inheritor of the Void beyond a shadow of a doubt, then he would be elevated to the highest office. Even with his apparent lax magical talents he’d accumulated a great deal of influence within the Church; now, if he passed this test, he’d be one of the youngest Popes that ever lived at a mere seventeen years of age.

Even finding out the name of the familiar had been hard enough. For whatever reason Brimir had not seen fit to entrust knowledge of it to the future generations. His painstaking research had led him to believe that its purpose was to amplify the power of its master in some respect although he couldn’t discover the specifics. Still… with the already legendary strength a Void Mage was said to possess…

“Pentagon of Five Elements I beseech thee; unify around me and cast my message unto the universe!” The circle for the summoning was perfectly inscribed. He had every ritual accoutrement that could be acquired; even though it was likely very little of it did anything at all. If it might make a difference, though, he had it.

“I call to you, O Familiar of the Void! I seek your power and your wisdom! Come forth! Deliver thyself unto me!” There was a crackling in the middle of the circle for a few moments as the air began to distort. Vittorio held in his head the image of what he sought; something great and powerful and mighty. With the legendary Void Familiar his future, his plans, would all be assured.

There was a thunderous detonation and a surge of smoke filled the room. Sharp cracks sounded as the stone floor of the ritual room cracked and shattered. All of the gathered priests ended up coughing heavily until one finally had the presence of mind to cast an Air spell and use it to disperse the smog.

As soon as they had vision the summoned entity was upon him. It had knocked Vittorio down in a moment and had a heavy boot, with metal studs, on his chest along with a sword blade at his throat. The startled priests around them had wands and staves half-raised but had all frozen in place. At first it had simply been that because junior had been clearly taken hostage but, as gears turned in the heads of some of them, the thick worry turned into gut-twisting fear.

It was a man. He looked much like their own crusading knights save a few details; maille he had, certainly, but the tabard was yellow with an asymmetrical symbol on the front in black. It was too rounded to be derived from any sort of Brimiric script; there was one lightly curving line, one that curled back in towards itself and one that started out straight but suddenly hooked back into nearly a full circle.

He would’ve compared it to the writings of the people of Rub’ Al-khali if it weren’t for the man’s appearance. The hair fit; just a dark enough brown to perhaps be confused for black, similar to the eyes, but his features themselves could have been hewn from granite, or perhaps chalk given the complexion. There was a faint golden haze about their back where the light caught the shining threads of their cape.

“Where am I?” They spoke something much like Romalian, although the accent was thick and archaic. The sword didn’t so much as tremble. Part of Vittorio was gleeful and proud while a far saner part had frozen him with terror. “Who is in charge here?” He glared up at the men around him and then looked back down. One of them had, quite involuntarily, stolen a glance down at the young captive.

He had summoned a human. Just like the Void Mages of old. A skillful warrior, no less. If only the Romalian line were the inheritors of the Gandalfr he might be weeping with joy. As it stood he was still in mortal danger. Which was quite a problem for the gathered priests given he had just proven his qualifications for ascendancy to the holy throne.

“That would be I, good sir knight. Pray allow me up; we meant no ill will in bringing you here.” The sword didn’t budge. Once more the calm gaze passed over the assembled priests, looking at various beards and graying hair and finery, then back down to Vittorio in his relatively plain blue robes with one eyebrow raised.

“I see, I see. Well, well. All these distinguished gentlemen and the boy is the leader? What, you their Prince or somesuch? We must be well far from Zunal, then.” Breath was caught in many throats as the man seemed to weigh up his options. Then he retracted the sword and sheathed it. Arming sword sans shield; interesting style, for a knight.

“I am Iulius Caesar Aurelius of the Seventh Golden Legion of Zunal. Since I seem to recall some sort of strangely enticing portal I suspect that the name ‘Kelicho’ would mean nothing to you people?” It was uncanny how much he just felt like one of the high ranking clergy. There was a certain contemptuous, almost sneering, tone that was present simply as a matter of course. Even so, he offered a gloved hand to Vittorio to help him up; the gesture easing the tense situation significantly.

“Indeed; you are in the Holy Romalian Empire on the Ausonian Peninsula of Halkegenia.” Iulius grunted noncommittally and began to rub his face with one hand as he began to take full stock of the surroundings now that nobody was being threatened. Vittorio felt he had a good opening here. “Sir Aurelius, I called you here with a particular purpose in mind. We seek to-” He was quite suddenly, and rudely, cut off mid-sentence by the gruff man.

“The staves, and the little sticks… wands, correct? There was a ritual, so you aren’t entirely bucolic; although with the iconography I do suspect a certain amount of god-bothering.” There was a heavy warmth across Vittorio’s face as he felt distinctly embarrassed by this knight’s poor taste in words. Perhaps he was merely a crusading soldier or mercenary then, and was being given far too much leeway by the newly-minted pope.

Before he could make an attempt to chastise the man he’d summoned, something sorely needed given how his behaviour was causing the old men to start to titter at the clear lack of respect being shown from servant to supposed master, a faint smirk appeared on the uncouth individual’s face. He then followed up with a thoroughly disreputable question. “Tell me, boy; in your culture, what would it mean if one were to perform magic without the little stick, or an appropriate overcompensator?” Vittorio bristled as Iulius jerked his head towards one of the cardinals whose staff was, admittedly, a little on the large side.

“Heresy, most likely.” His response was also a little on the smug side. It was time to reclaim the respect he was owed by this common soldier with a little forcefulness. “Or elvishness. Only such creatures would wield unholy magics of that ilk.” That, thought Vittorio, ought to short-circuit whatever it was the buffoon was thinking. Any confidence he had in the matter, however, didn’t last long at all.

Iulius’ expression immediately turned stormy as he rounded on the young man and loomed. He was quite good at that due to having a good twenty centimetres over Vittorio. The thick soles likely helped. As did the broad shoulders and rather fancy cape. It was only then that the implications of the question really got through to him; he chose to blame the shock of the explosion for it.

“Well. In that case I am going to ask that you kindly do not compare me to degenerate, pointy-eared sub-human filth.” While he spoke Iulius lifted one hand and, on the last word, punctuated it by making a fist. As his fingers came together there was a sudden sharp stench and a thick crackle of electricity formed around the clenched hand. Several of the old men stumbled or even leapt back with shock and fear.

Vittorio didn’t. His eyes were wide; not with fear or awe, but with sheer, unadulterated glee. This was as golden an opportunity as any that could have been afforded him. The reaction from the young man seemed to startled Iulius somewhat when he noticed it; he lowered his hand and took a step back himself upon glancing back down to his summoner.

“I think, Sir Iulius, that you and I have much to discuss.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -​

Three years of bloodshed passed. A figure in a tabard quartered into blue and yellow, with a complex black cross on the blue of the right breast and an odd curving sigil on the yellow of the left, leads a dilapidated train of soldiers and baggage down toward the sea. A number of ships with sails marked by the same cross awaited them there. There were perhaps five times as many ships as would be needed to carry the number of returning soldiers. That was not a coincidence.

On this Crusade the First Divine Legion acting under General Iulius Caesar Aurelius had taken eighty percent casualties. Just under half of those were only injuries; for every walking man there were nearly two that had to be dragged across the sand on litters. A second train was several days behind them; those uninjured enough to walk. There was no need to fear for them. The General spat at the thought as he neared the water and strode out on to it.

Damn Elves were the same no matter where you went. Self-righteous dicks that thought they were just so superior that they could afford to let the retreating troops just limp home in shame. Water stilled beneath his feet, waves becoming smooth as glass for thirty metres in all directions as he strolled over to a hastily lowered gangplank. It too rested firmly on the surface of the sea and, as he stepped on to it, he raised a hand clenched into a fist and held it up until he had stepped over the railing.

As soon as he released his hand the stillness, which had expanded during his ascent to an area nearly two hundred metres across, ended. The bright light that shone from his chest, coincidentally right where the curving sigil had been placed over his heart, ceased at the same time. Subtlety hadn’t been a trait he’d bothered with when it came to magic; not since he’d become Vittorio’s familiar. The fighting had drained him down to ordinary power but he’d topped up again during the walk back to the coast.

He’d swear the runes recharged faster on the mainland. It wouldn’t surprise him if that were the case; just another way the pointy-eared treefuckers could irritate him. Not that there were many forests for them to spend their days mooning over in this accursed desert. He’d be glad to be well rid of it for another couple of years. Their first foray had been even more disastrous than this one and it hadn’t lasted more than a month. It had taken two and a half years for Vittorio to gather the manpower, and goodwill, for this excursion.

In theory these weren’t full on Crusades. They hadn’t called for the full muster of Halkegenia to come and unite under the banner of their oh-so-’holy’ Founder so as to march against the impious monsters. These were simply ‘excursions’. Expeditionary forces. Iulius had learned a number of important lessons from his first failure.

For example, his troops couldn’t keep up with him. That had been a painful lesson to learn. Especially as it had been immediately followed by one just as painful; namely, that these Elves got stronger a lot more quickly as their numbers increased. One Elf he could handle just fine; even the rare ones that used their trump spell of ‘Counter’ quickly went down in the wake of a gout of Starlight. However, fighting two at once was as tiring as fighting three sequentially. Three at once was about as bad as as six sequentially. It only got worse from there.

He’d finally been forced to recognise that, if faced with four Elves fighting together properly, as opposed to fighting adjacently, there was no option for him but to retreat if he was alone. An army at his back helped a lot; it split their focus and let him force them to fight him more or less one at a time. Iulius was confident that nobody on this miserable world could match him in solo combat when he was fully charged.

Next time he’d bring dragons. Getting them over the water between here and Halkegenia proper, the locals referred to it as a sea but he’d long since downgraded it in his mind to a mere strait, wasn’t all that hard. Transporting food was tricky enough. He had no idea what the blasted Elves fed theirs considering the terrain. It had certainly made a difference during their last charge. They’d almost overtaken the fort when the sally had come forth; backed up with aerial fire from the troop of dragons that had arrived with the sunset.

It had been hellish. His mages couldn’t hit the damned things from the ground very easily and although he could shoot them down one at a time with bolts of Starlight it took far too long and far too much focus. They still didn’t have an answer for that elemental combination but he’d been forced to reveal another trick in his arsenal; namely, resurrecting the long-defunct Fire-Earth combo of his homeland to transmute the front layer of their fort wall to lava.

That had thwarted the sally, at least. They’d still taken an infuriating amount of casualties by way of volleys from within the structure and the continued bombardment from above. Most galling of all was the way they’d stopped firing halfway through the retreat. He’d had half a mind to order another charge at that moment but had regretfully allowed his men to continue their escape.

Those still on deck backed away from Iulius as a hissing sound emerged from between his clenched teeth. He held his hand out as light began to shine; white and hot and blindingly bright. Power surged out of the runes over his heart and mixed inside of him for a moment before pouring into the glowing sphere of energy in his hand. It grew and shrank in pulsating motions as the deck began to creak and crackle. Cries of alarm went ignored as the sailors desperately began to splash water over the rapidly drying and blackening deck.

There was no point trying to call out to the General. He was certainly a powerful and inspiring commander, a charismatic and dashing figure back in the Holy City as well as a chief confidant to His Holiness; however, anyone who had served with him knew well how easily such things were cast aside during his legendary rages. Much like this one. Even the Captain of this particular vessel, the flagship of the fleet, could do nothing but summon up his own Willpower to pull water out of the sea to splash it over his ship and crew alike; protecting both from the sweltering heat surging from the outstretched palm of Iulius.

Finally, with a powerful overarm and a crack of thunder, he tossed the globe towards the desert. Thanks to the force imparted by the last burst of his power it sailed over the dunes and past the trailing end of the army before finally touching down. When it hit there was a sudden, terrible blast of heat and light that caused a rising pillar of flaming sand to surge into the air. Around the point of impact there was a bubbling orange pool that, when it cooled, would be a twenty metre wide semi-sphere of glass. Crackling lightning flash-forged the flying sand into bizarre shapes as the chunks sprayed out.

The wind of the detonation carried a wave of grit with it that washed over the soldiers. Some were struck by flying debris; nothing large enough to injure, but some of the shards were sharp as knives and more than a few men were cut by them. By some miracle the number of casualties didn’t increase by more than a single percentage point.

General Iulius inspired awe, respect and absolute terror in equal measures. He was absolutely a talented commander; it just so happened that part of that talent was the simple fact that the vast majority of his soldiers were far more afraid of him than the enemy. Considering who they were fighting that was no small feat.

For his part he felt significantly better now. He’d never been subject to such fits of towering fury before accepting the branding from Vittorio. The power that gathered in his chest seemed to be tied far more heavily to his emotions than the magic he was used to wielding as a Zunali battlemage. While the internal power source meant he didn’t have to fear Burnout as he would at home it did seem to come with its own downsides. Sometimes he just had to use it up so he could calm down.

A snap of his fingers caused a snap-chill that put the crew at ease once more. Then a wave of golden light washed over them and erased the large blisters that had begun to form during his little episode. For all that he was an intimidating commander the men also knew that he wasn’t heartless. At least not so far as humans were concerned.

Without a single word to any of them Iulius left the deck and went to his cabin. He pulled off the fancy breastplate, alchemically reinforced apparently, and dumped it on the floor. It lay there as he struggled to remove the rest of his gear at which point he gave a heavy sigh, picked up the armour and put it properly on the frame in the corner of the room.

Once all his things were in order he sat at the desk and began to painstakingly pen the last few chapters of the campaign document. He didn’t have that long to go; much of it had been completed on the dull nights of the trek back. They’d only been rarely harried by the Elves; simply to make sure they were still heading for the coast, he suspected, considering that they hadn’t seemed to slaughter the second group of wounded trailing well behind the main force.

That arrogance was the reason he’d just converted a rather wide area of the desert beyond to a twisted mass of lightning-fused sand and molten glass. Those sub-human degenerates were looking down on him. Underestimating him. It was as if they were saying he wasn’t worth it. If their roles had been reversed here he’d have harassed the enemy all the way to the sea and made their boarding as unpleasant as he possibly could to boot. Damn it all, with that kind of disparity in troop quality he’d have just wiped them out.

Well, when the time came he would certainly do that. He’d crush their fortresses, burn their villages and eradicate every single one of them; down to the last man, woman and pointy-eared brat. Every plan and platitude and sermon about ‘the Holy Land’ that Vittorio came up with? They meant nothing to him. Iulius would wipe them out for the glory of the Golden King, and the ascendancy of humanity. No more, no less.

That would have to wait. He’d made the final push in response to receiving a missive from his so-called ‘master’; His Holiness, the Pope of Romalia. As if he’d ever take orders from a little shit like that unless it suited him. The boy was lucky that his aims suited Iulius’ whims; something he’d long suspected was known to the both of them. Well, he supposed that so long as there was the appearance of obedience that would work just fine for Vittorio as well.

The letter had half been a command to return to Romalia, and half to inform him that the morons with the gall to try and claim the title of Crimson Banner had finally made their move. Or so it seemed. They’d had control of the island for some time now; essentially acting as an occupying force with the old Royalist faction being more like a rebellion up until the idiot Prince finally got himself killed.

Now, though, something strange had happened. Strange enough that Vittorio was being coy about putting it in writing. That meant it was important. So he’d made a final push against the fort, had his army’s collective backside handed back to him in bloody chunks and ran away with his damn tail tucked firmly between his legs.

He clenched his teeth as he felt the warmth gathering in his chest again. No, there was no need for that. The Elves would get what was coming to them. For now, he’d amuse himself dealing with a few morons who like as not just wouldn’t be able to recognise quite how out-matched they really were.

Slaughtering the Reconquista would be like a pleasant vacation after fighting Elves for six months.