Livid Steel
written by Jordan Baugher
Copyright 2011 Jordan Baugher
Chapter 1
The old man sits on the beach, cradling a lute in his lap. His gnarled fingers dance on the strings, producing melodies which attract the attention of the local wildlife. Seagulls swoop down from the sunset and step-step-step across the sand to witness the spectacle. A makeshift campfire sends a friendly plume of smoke upwards, and a few crabs sidestep their way up from the water’s edge.
The old man’s swift hands drop the instrument and close around the necks of the two nearest birds before they can produce a squawk of protest, and the last thing they see is a metal lid sealing them inside a dented pot of boiling seawater. Witnessing this sudden turnabout, the crabs attempt to sidestep away, but they don’t make it far before being snatched up and tossed into the same pot.
Strewn around the campfire are the contents of the old man’s backsack: a half-dozen socks, a half-empty bottle of Good-tyme Tonick, a frayed, green suit jacket with leather patches on the elbows, a few rusted daggers, a pair of spectacles, and a thick, ancient book.
On the edge of the horizon, far out above the sea, the old man can just barely make out the outline of a skyship plying its way toward land. The long, trailing banners mark the ship as a Trinese vessel, an uncommon sight for anyone living on the continent of Upper Kleighton.
The old man ponders the implications of the ship’s arrival as he begins plucking the feathers from the freshly-boiled birds, a small pile of quills forming on the sand next to him for a fleeting moment before being dispersed by the slight breeze.
His eyes follow the craft’s movement, and he tries to guess the skyship’s destination from its heading, but he can’t be sure if its bow is pointed toward Dahlworth or Claustria.
The old man’s gaze is attracted by movement further on down the beach, a wisp-like figure plodding along at a slow, steady gait.
“King Hamdraggle,” he whispers to himself, “cursed by Thanos to walk the outermost boundaries of your long-forgotten kingdom for the rest of time.”
The apparition continues his trek, walking through the campfire unfazed, paying no attention to Varello before continuing onward along the sandy shore until the sun dips below the horizon and his ephemeral form fades from sight.
A man stands on the deck of the skyship, staring at something in the distance. His pristine white robes give him the look of an ascetic, but the sheathed longknife slung across his back makes it clear he’s no monk. One of the ship’s hands approaches him.
“Sir?” he asks.
“Not now,” is the man’s terse response.
“It’s just, uh, the captain asked me to notify you that we’ll be landing soon.”
“Thanks.”
The deckhand scurries away, and Zanther betrays no break in the continuity of his concentration. He gazes at a small point on the horizon, past the shoreline, a castle turret. He thinks back to his training, part of which was to gaze upon fixed objects for bellchimes on end in order to achieve mental clarity, and he not only finds the habit hard to break, he enjoys the effect his new demeanor has on those around him.
“Ready or not, here I come,” he says softly, to no one in particular.
The skyship drops its hook, the deck wobbling for a few ticks before the hook finally catches on a ringpole. Zanther turns in order to keep the distant, tiny speck of a castle spire housing Queen Madra’s chamber in his gaze. Though it lies far ahead in the distance, Claustria is illuminated in every direction by the light of one-and-a-half moons. Deckhands are running around Zanther, pulling levers and winding cranks to pull in the winch in preparation for landing. Their destination is not Claustria, but a neighboring land, a place called Dahlworth.
“So a librarian sold me this book, it explains how to win every time at casino games,” one deckhand says to another.
“Yeah, well, I’m more interested in the girls. I hear they have shows there where the girls dance and take it all off, and I hear that the ladies there have a thing for Trinese men. I’m sure it’s that rumor about the size of our--”
“Are you gentlemen finished?” the commandant asks.
“Yes, sir,” one of them mumbles as they run off.
The commandant is the leader of a small task force assembled by the Trinese Emperor for the task at hand. He approaches Zanther and hands him a piece of paper.
“I’m not sure we’re going to be able to find him with this alone.”
Zanther inspects it closely. “No? I think it’s a stunning likeness.”
“Really?”
“In any case, it doesn’t matter--I’ve seen this man. I know what he looks like.”
“What makes you so sure he’ll be here?”
“The last skyship to leave Trinese skies was headed here. I have it on good authority that he stowed away on that ship.”
The commandant sighs. “Seems like a lot of trouble to go through for one guy.”
Zanther raises an eyebrow. “You’d question the wishes of the Emperor?”
“I--no, never. You know how I got this job? The town magistwraith caught me stealing an artifact from the museum and I was slated for execution. Just as I was being lowered into a boiling pot of lard in the town square, the Emperor’s delegation rode in and he ordered my release and appointed me to this position.”
“That’s quite a story,” Zanther says.
“He said to me, ‘I have done you a small kindness. My cabinet is full of snakes and liars. I need someone I can trust to protect me, and as I have spared your life, I believe I can place my faith in you. Is this true?’ And of course it was true.”
“He’s wise beyond his sunspins, that’s for sure.”
“Zanther, may I ask how you got on his good graces?”
“You can certainly ask, but I find myself disinclined to answer.”
He’s young and handsome, and his fluffed silk shirt gives the (false) impression that he’s a man of substance, a man of wealth. Rogehn stands in front of the table, the pile of dodeckas in front of him receding proportionally to the growth of the pile in front of the dealer.
“Is it...seven?”
“Ah, so close. It was eight.”
“Damn.”
This pattern repeats for nearly an entire bell.
“Is it...four?”
“Yes! Now, according to house rules, you must now go double-or-nothing for your next guess.”
“Well, okay. Is it...six?”
“Sorry, it was three.
“Damn...well, here’s the last of my money.”
“That’s not going to be enough. If you recall, the bet was double-twelve-times your last bet.”
“I don’t have it.”
The dealer nods toward a bald, spectacled man standing by the door, and it isn’t long before six men in dark coats are closing in on Rogehn. He bends down as if to tie his shoe and crawls under the table, momentarily lost from the sightlines of his pursuers as he slinks out from under the other side and makes a break for the door.
The Knot, the monolithic, sprawling series of towers and hallways which comprises the heart of Arcania and could only be called a ‘building’ by the loosest standards, gives an outward appearance of being asleep. A few of its windows shine with light, but an onlooker would guess this is a byproduct of the cleaning staff or a bureaucrat or two working late. However, this is not strictly the case.
Deep in the central tangle of the Knot, gathered around a thick table in a small room with a low ceiling, sits the Wizard’s Council, a collection of the best and brightest--and oldest--magickal résumés Arcania has to offer.
A covert operative stands in front of the group, giving the report which is the impetus for summoning this particular group at this particu
lar bellchime.
“A package is en route to the Darrinian Capitol, and though we do not know its origin, we have it on good authority that it has been registered, posted, and labeled to make it appear as though it was sent from Arcania. Once it reaches its destination and causes whatever destruction it has been rigged to cause, we can be sure the Darrinians will retaliate with a grand show of force.”
“It’s implausible!” shouts a short woman with tall hair.
“Not only is it plausible, it’s possible. And if something is possible, over a long enough timeline it becomes probable. From there it’s only a short leap to inevitability,” says a tall man with bushy eyebrows. The eyes of the other ten people sitting at the table focus on him.
“I don’t recognize you,” the tall-haired woman says to the bushy eyebrows, and the other wizards start to murmur and nod in agreement, “and the way you speak sounds a little...philosophical.”
The man with the bushy eyebrows stands and shakes his wiry hair. Flowing auburn locks spill out of his hair and his eyebrows recede, revealing an attractive, well-endowed wizardess. The council members try to react, but with a snap of her fingers, she causes their staves to become planted in the floor like short trees. The operative leaps onto the table in an attempt to charge at the interloper, but the woman runs her palm across the fingers on her other hand and the agent’s eyes pop out of his head--literally--splattering blood all over the table as he drops to his knees, screaming. Another gesture sends him flying into the corner of the room, where he falls, limp. The wizardess clears her throat.
“Now that I have your attention,” she says with a smile, “you should know that the information you just received from our little, uh, friend in the corner there was privileged. I’m afraid none of you can leave this room alive. If you favor a particular deity, now might be a good time to start praying, though I have it on pretty good authority that it won’t make much of a difference.”
The room becomes a chorus of screams and a flurry of activity as the aged council members struggle to free their staves. The wizardess walks through the door, unchallenged, and the door locks behind her with a heavy thud. A few eyeblinks later, there is a grating sound, like the teeth of heavy gears enmeshing. The ceiling of the room falls a fingerwidth, then another fingerwidth. The wizards dash for the door, only to find it immovable. The ceiling falls another fingerwidth, then another fingerwidth, in a rhythmic and deadly display of artificial gravity. As it hovers a few fingerwidths above the thick table, a few of the crouching wizards attempt to take shelter underneath said table, but the ceiling continues its fall, unperturbed, breaking all four of the table’s legs at once and the hiding wizards are crushed under its massive bulk with a noise combining a crunch and a splat--a kersplat.
The remaining wizards try desperately to hold up the ceiling, tapping it to find that it’s comprised of thick, unyielding steel. The screams continue as the world within the walls gets smaller and smaller and more and more hostile until the voices are silenced in a series of kersplats.