Don Carlos Gabriel Lopes de Santa Guadalupe stood on the open terrace at the rear of his old-world style hacienda of wood and stone, nodding a false smile to his guests. The equatorial sun had not quite reached high enough in the sky to become too oppressive, and Don Carlos had decided to wear a nice black vest to complement his finest sword belt and his finest leather boots, made from the hide of a black pantera. Like most of the other hildagos, he was tall, but unlike many of the others, he had not yet become fat. He actually trained with his sword rather than simply wearing it as an ornament as was becoming more and more common, and it kept him fit and not too paunchy as he approached his fortieth year.
Don Carlos and his guests looked out from beneath pinkish stone arches at Don Carlos's grand lands while an earthy scent wafted in on a gentle breeze. Don Carlos positioned the guests here intentionally so that he could show off his wealth and power, the acres of green cropland claimed from the purple tide of the Vastedad Morada, the dozens of workers in their white coveralls and straw hats working the land. An estate of a true nobleman and one of the noblest families on all of Nuevo.
His family had owned the estate for several generations. His father had even claimed that the estate had been in their family even before the arrival of the Ashokas, though Don Carlos harbored some private doubts to those claims. The Colonistas did, in fact, come to Nuevo long before the Ashokas, long before the Fall of Man, seeking a simpler, less technological way of life, but Don Carlos doubted that his family had really maintained the same estate for the whole time. In past wars, the estates of the hildagos, the noblemen, had frequently bore the brunt of Ashoka treachery and brutality. Publicly, of course, Don Carlos said nothing to dispute the legend that his family had stood their ground all these centuries against the Ashoka invasion.
It seemed every generation or two, the despised Ashokas would ferment unrest among the peasants. That was one reason Don Carlos was currently meeting with his guests.
Unfortunately, it appeared that his enthusiasm to strike back at the Ashokas had led him a little astray today. The conversation with his guests had just taken an unfortunate turn. A somewhat insane one. In one quick masterful stroke, Carlos drew his rapier and severed the madman's throat all the way to the bone. Don Carlos, master of the ancient art of Destresa, had heard enough of his madness. The hildagos did not need any assistance from madmen to resist Ashoka's tyranny.
The madman, he who called himself Paco, tumbled to the floor, his open throat gurgling in between spurts of arterial spray that splattered against the stone tiles.
Don Carlos felt a twinge of regret that he chose to wear such finery today as he noticed a few droplets of crimson speckling his white sleeve. He supposed it would prove a reminder to never again entertain alliances outside of the hildagos. Peasants either couldn’t be trusted, or they proved insane.
Flicking the blood off his rapier, Don Carlos raised his eyes from the deceased to look upon the other guest and sighed. "I suppose you're mad as well? Tales of brujas and mensajeros and that sort of thing?"
Don Carlos's own father had died in the last troubles with the Ashokas a couple of decades earlier, and Carlos had no patience for amateurs and madmen. The struggle against Ashoka required a chess match. Amateurs ruined the game and got noble men killed. Madmen brought disaster upon everyone and everything around them. The longer they hovered around, the more likely the destruction.
The other madman, he who called himself Jon, had taken a couple of steps away during the swordplay but now calmly stood his ground a few paces away from his dispatched colleague's bloody remains. Jon had been the older of the two, his dark brown hair graying at the temples and his tan, weathered face showing the track marks of age. He had not seemed so much a peasant as had Paco, more dignified and better dressed, his attire matching the current fashions. Someone who might appear noble had he the dark blue eyes that all noblemen had. Someone worth speaking to at least.
Yet now Don Carlos berated himself for being taken in by appearances.
"My young colleague was a little overly optimistic in hoping to unite our causes," said Jon. "But what he said is fundamentally correct. The Meddlers have released the nine artifacts, and intend to wage war against the Lords Triumphant once again."
"That is all well and good. You may give my complements to El Diablo when you join him," said Don Carlos as he swept his sword up in mock salute to the madman and his nonsense. At least they revealed their insanity before he had introduced them to the rest of the hildagos. Don Carlos would have become a laughingstock had he brought these two into the inner circles.
Jon sighed and then in a quick motion, grabbed the golden buckle at his waist and yanked off his belt. Hundreds of black fibers, each several centimeters long, erupted from the belt, making it look something like a giant millipede suspended from Jon’s hand, but the black tendrils began to transform, becoming more rigid and angular, a mismatched assortment of insect-like appendages - articulated legs, pincers, claws, stingers.
Don Carlos took a step back. He couldn't believe his eyes. Maybe their insanity had spread.
An undulation rippled through the insect parts as the former belt seemed to come alive and wrap itself around Jon’s arm.
A part of Don Carlos’ mind screamed at him. Strike now! The belt was a weapon, disguised so that these madmen could sneak it into this meeting.
Yet seeing all those pincers and claws and stingers writhing over Jon's arm held him in check. A part of his mind just wanted to see what the hell was going on with that damn belt and all those creepy insect parts. A part of his mind still held a little bit of hope that all those stingers and claws would attack Jon's arm.
Don Carlos pulled his eyes off the spectacle for a moment to glance at Jon’s face, to see how the man was reacting to the writhing, squirming insect mass engulfing his arm. The man seemed rather nonplussed.
Even when many of those insect appendages began piercing his flesh.
Don Carlos watched in disbelief as some of those pincers and stingers burrowed through the flesh of Jon’s arm and appeared to come out the other side, even larger than they were before. He looked again at Jon’s face, and them man showed no signs of pain or horror.
Jon noticed Don Carlos’ shift in attention, and he smiled. “As you can see, we are well armed.”
Don Carlos steadied his breathing and shifted his stance. He didn’t know what the hell that thing was, but he knew he had to strike soon.
Jon said, "To be honest, you and your pathetic friends are quite unworthy of the new gods. The only reason we had approached you is because time is running short. We have infiltrated the security forces here quite effectively, but we still seek to secure a few more pieces. Despite all your tragic incompetence, you have managed to acquire some valuable intelligence sources within House Ashoka.”
Don Carlos leveled his sword, assuming an aggressive stance. His shock had turned. The madman had called him pathetic and tragically incompetent. Don Carlos felt a certain eagerness slice off chunks of his flesh.
In response, Jon leveled the writhing mass of insect appendages that once had been his right arm. He seemed to point it at Don Carlos. “Time is running short. The Umpala will arrive soon.”
The mention of the Umpala irked Don Carlos even more. The Umpala had been Ashoka’s boogieman for centuries, keeping the Colonistas frightened and in need of protection. The damn Umpala didn’t even touch Nuevo during the war. There was nothing here to interest them. The Colonistas had come here to found a low-technology society. There was no reason for the Umpala to come then, and there was no reason for them to come now. Yet this madman repeated the same damn lies as the Ashokas.
Don Carlos stepped forward and slashed his blade at Jon’s wreathing arm, more of a probe than a true strike. He wanted to see what that damn thing was supposed to do, to see how it reacted to cold steel.
It reacted by shooting out a red spark, a small lightning bolt that sizzled across the air and slammed into Don Carlos’s sword
, wrenching it from his grip and sending it clattering across the stone tiles.
The sting still pulsed in Don Carlos’s hand, while a tingle ran up his forearm. He glared at Jon and his writhing arm. A damn energy weapon -- a weapon of a dishonorable coward.
Jon smiled and gave his shoulders a slight shrug. “Don’t bring a sword to a gunfight.”
Don Carlos looked down at Paco’s carcass, the pool of blood next to his severed throat. “Tell that to your friend.”
A dozen stingers, like those on scorpions, shot out from the swarm around Jon's arm, faster than Don Carlos could react, impacting against Don Carlos' neck and chest, biting into the flesh and hooking on. Don Carlos clenched his teeth against the pain and then screamed in agony as they yanked him forward towards Jon.
Don Carlos stumbled to his knees before the madman with the monstrous arm, and dozens of more stingers darted out to bite into his face and head. Don Carlos screamed again and tried to grab at these tendrils, but his arms no longer worked.
Jon looked down at him and rubbed his chin with his free hand, the one lacking thousands of those horrific insect stingers and claws. "I doubt you personally have the information I need, but it will be interesting to find out what you know."
Don Carlos felt hundreds of tendrils squirm under his skin, working their way under the flesh of his neck and cheeks, wiggling and writhing under his jaw and through eye sockets and sinuses as they worked their way into his skull. He wanted to scream at the disgusting indignity, at the violation. But he no longer controlled even his mouth, it hanging open and dry. Odd visions, memories, flashed before his eyes. A bottle of tequila spilled ceremoniously over the open grave of Don Javier in a private cemetery as the hildagos stood dourly by. His father dispatching a peasant with his sword. An ancient bottle of red wine shared with a Niyatian nobleman. The images flowed in a chaotic stream, seeming random in time and space, yet he couldn’t help but feel there was some pattern there that he just couldn’t grasp.
The visions cleared for a moment, and Don Carlos saw that someone else had come, here on the terrace. A large man in white coveralls stood next to Jon. Though dressed as a peasant, his handsome, dark-haired visage looked more a nobleman. His dark cunning eyes, the way Jon deferred to him, revealed a powerful evil about him that Don Carlos could feel in his bones.
He seemed to notice Don Carlos’ attention, and he looked down at Don Carlos with his evil eyes. “No peeking, senor,” said the man as he pressed his thumbs into Don Carlos’ eyes. The right eye popped first, Don Carlos feeling the burst, and then liquid running down his cheek. The left eye gave way shortly after.
Under the control of the tendrils squirming under his skull, not much pain shot through him. But yet again, his mind wanted to scream at the grotesqueness of it. At the violation.
Don Carlos wanted so badly to hurry up and die, wanted to end this indignity now.
A wicked laugh murmured through his mind. The evil man said, "The Lords Triumphant teach us that defeat should not be so easy so that victory shall be more cherished. I tell you, my friend, I cherish victory like no one you have ever met."
Pain like burning coals erupted in Don Carlos’ eyes sockets, the tendrils easing back their control. Don Carlos screamed, his mouth finally working, but it brought no relief. Don Carlos knew with absolute certainty that things were just going to keep getting worse.