The Fifth Star - Chapter 2 (1/2) - Illusions of Loyalty

The last two weeks had been hellishly busy for Darius, burdened with carrying out one endless assignment after another; on this particularly balmy autumn afternoon however, he found himself with some rare free time. Most others would grapple onto the opportunity for some rest and recovery were they in his line of work, but not Darius – instead he found himself looking for answers, though he wasn’t even sure of the question yet. All he had was a suspicion that all was not as well as it seemed in the castle of Lord Harlemont; a seed planted by a confrontation with the lord in question that had grown into a tangled vine of worry in the back of his mind. There was something going on Harlemont did not wish his assassin to know – and of course, that only made it all the more imperative to him that he found out exactly what that was.

It had something to do with that new knight Harlemont had enlisted to his service, of that much he was nearly certain. He knew this because he had gone to his lord, right about the time his workload had escalated, and asked him about the injured soldier Healer Silda had been studiously attending to. He merely wanted to know who he was, what he had done to land himself here, and why the precious time of a skilled magic Healer – both of the body and mind varieties – was being spent on nothing more than a grunt.

Generally, the Empire saw men like Rhinlead as expendable and easily replaceable units, which was the only reason Darius had even bothered to inquire. Harlemont, however, had not seemed the least impressed with Darius’s query, his eyes narrowed and the answer he gave him was sharp: “He saved the life of General Martel – beyond that is need to know basis, and I don’t believe you need to know. I assure you it will not affect you in the slightest.” He’d been dismissed forthright, and then the contracts had begun to pour in, those same damned assignments that had not gotten any easier since his compulsions had been broken six years ago. It couldn’t possibly be coincidental. Darius was sure Harlemont was trying to keep him too busy to look into the situation, maybe even figured he would have forgotten it by now, but that was most certainly not the case, as evidenced by where he was seated at this very moment.

The Black Sage Tavern was a dump in nearly every sense of the word. Located in easily the poorest district of the city, the docks, its faded wooden walls were aged and splintered, destroyed over so many years by the ocean’s salty spray. The interior was no better off; the entire place was in desperate need of repairs its owner would never put the coin into. Constant damp made the inside smell of mildew, and the floor was always coated in a thin layer of straw to provide some small amount of protection from the spongy mud beneath. Despite all this, the Black Sage was the cheapest place in Lothan to procure a drink, and as such it was a popular place for off-duty soldiers to drown themselves until their next mission – in short, a perfect location for Darius to learn the newest gossip, and one he visited often for exactly that reason.

Darius was seated in a dim corner of the bar, nursing the mug of ale he’d ordered if only so the owner did not begrudge him the use of a table. He had wrapped an illusion about himself before entering the tavern – not nearly so demanding as a full invisibility spell, he merely tweaked his appearance, made himself appear bulkier, plainer and more like a soldier one would expect to see in this sort of place. He took especial care to smooth out the long and puckered scar that ran down the right side of his face from his temple to his jawline, as it was a very identifying feature to any present who might know him. Darius kept his head down somewhat, as if merely a man lost in his thoughts, but his ears were most attentive. He’d become quite good over the years at separating the snippets of conversations he overheard, and it wasn’t long before he was rewarded. One group of soldiers at a nearby table were caught up in a discussion about the recent knighting ceremony, and Darius listened acutely.

“-gave him the ol’ taps on the shoulder, but I swear to all o’ ya, I don’t rightly know why the man weren’t hanged for treason instead.”

“What ye mean by that, Prennt?” one asked. Darius peeked out from under his brow to get a look at who was being addressed now that a name had been spoken. The man who responded was heavyset, of middling age with salt and pepper hair and a matching grizzly beard, with many scars on what was visible of his sinewy arms.

“What I mean is, I never seen a man walk away from the likes o’ what he did, in all my years o’ service. Rhin and I was tent-mates on that mission, and he certainly ain’t no hero like the lord be tryin’ to make out.

“Remember what I was tellin’ ye, about Martel orderin’ that village torched? The one chock full o’ rebels? Well, I saw our shinin’ new knight, hightailin’ it outta there with some woman and her child in tow. I told the mage that was with our company – I can’t recall his name – what I saw, and he disappeared. Prolly went after ‘im. Next time I seen the kid, he was laid out on a stretcher, bein’ hauled back with us like a sack o’ grain. Burns all over ‘im. Obvious the mage caught up to ‘im.

“Never heard tell o’ him again till I was guardin’ that ceremony, and ‘ere he was, bein’ hailed like some sorta hero, all dressed up in gold and velvet,” Prennt snorted. “Hero me arse, he’s a damned traitor. He woulda been out of there and ne’er seen again weren’t it for me, and what kinda thanks do I get, I ask ye?”

Roars of agreement erupted from the men, while the speaker took a great swig out of his mug, tilting the bottom high as if his drink was nearly empty. Darius took that cue to wave over the bartender, and he whispered an order to the man for a round for the group on his coin. He nodded and in a few moments, the bartender brought the pitcher over and refilled the mugs of the soldiers.

“Oi! Who bought us the drinks, eh?” one of them yelled, and Darius met his eyes with a nod. “C’mon over here, friend, what are you about?”

A chair was grabbed from a nearby table and the group sidled to give him space to join them. He accepted graciously, and placed himself in the proffered chair, shoulder to shoulder with the men as welcomed – due to the liquor, he was sure – as if he were one of them.

“Pardon me for interrupting,” Darius began, “but I couldn’t help but to overhear your story. Fascinating. Do you know why this Rhin was seemingly pardoned? Our mutual benefactor is most certainly not renowned for his mercy.”

A few eyebrows crinkled in confusion, presumably at Darius’s vocabulary. He berated himself inwardly: You idiot, soldiers don’t speak like that, but after a few hesitant moments the group seemed to get the gist of his question. One spoke up, “I heard he’s rich, bought himself out of it.”

“I heard he’s a spy; that it was all a ruse and he was made to do it,” said another.

“Why would that even make sense, Naith?”

“I never said it made sense, that’s just what I heard.”

One of the men who’d been silent thus far turned to Darius. “So, ‘mutual benefactor’- you work for Lord Harlemont, then? What’s yer name?”

“Aye, I do,” Darius responded, drinking deeply of his own ale to keep pace with the others who were already obviously well into their cups. “My name is Vynn; I’m a soldier, too. Been out on assignment and only just returned.”

That seemed to be enough of a response with the men as inebriated as they were; they did not even think to ask him what regiment he belonged to, or who his commander was, which was a good thing for him as he’d not have had the first clue how to respond convincingly. He did however lose his opportunity to ask more about the village Prennt had mentioned as the men moved onto other topics of discussion.

With no way to bring it back up again now that the conversation had moved on, at least without seeming suspicious, he decided instead that he would get the group of them so blissfully drunk that they’d not even remember him come the next morn. With that resolution, he ordered round after round of drinks for them all, to gracious thanks and raucous cheers with each pitcher the bartender delivered.

Through the stories the men told late into the evening, and Darius’s unusual and excessive consumption of ale that he found loosening even his tightly-controlled tongue, he got to know the soldiers he had stumbled upon. Besides Prennt and Naith, there were three others by the names of Edmund, Altin, and Dwilan – all seemed to be honest men who had been conscripted years ago as per the custom and had stayed on rather than take their proffered Homecomings, as the coin proved too good to leave. Unless he could get the information he needed from one of them before they retired for the night, he knew in good conscience he would not be able to execute his usual methods of extraction on them. These men didn’t deserve any sort of torture.

His window narrowed further when Dwilan and Naith announced with a yawn that they needed to take their leave for they each had early guard duty in the morning. They staggered out shortly after, which in turn prompted the others to take note of the hour. Darius knew he was running out of time. He took a deep breath during a short lull in the conversation, and hoped that the remaining men were indeed too inebriated to think too hard about his question that followed.

“So, Prennt, that village you mentioned before. Do you remember its name?”

Prennt took the inquiry in stride, not batting an eye. “Nah, can’t say I do, mate. It was north o’ here though, not too far from Reivic.”

Reivic was a city about a day’s hard ride from his former home. Darius had a sick feeling in his stomach that he was close to gaining the answer to his unknown question, but that it may not be one he wanted to hear. He provided some names of other nearby villages, hoping that one would catch the man’s attention, “Synta? Jostirn? Libelle?” he asked each in turn, and Prennt thought about each name for a few seconds before denying it.

With a growing sense of dread, Darius threw out the one place he most desperately wished had not fallen prey to the Empire. “Kierton?”

“Aye! Tha’s it. Kierton. Little place, but lots o’ fields around it. Why d’ya ask?”

Blood roared in Darius’s ears so loudly the moment the affirmation had come he missed the man’s return question. He sat utterly still, his gut twisting inside him, his head thundering and his vision swimming red. The news ripped through him like a perfectly aimed blade, honing in on his heart and doing its best to free it from his chest. He couldn’t make out the words that were being spoken to him, as if his head was underwater, but he could make out the tone of the same become worried, felt a hand gently shake his shoulder. He didn’t care. Darius was occupied elsewhere, lost in the sea of pain that threatened to drown him. Kierton… it can’t be. It can’t. My home, Alysse, everyone… just… gone? Every fiber of his being rebelled against the possibility.

Suddenly, the concerned voices he’d blocked out were there no longer. He heard blubbering and confusion, and he struggled to quell the rushing anger inside of him enough to regain control of his senses. The distinct sound of a blade leaving its sheath reached him then, and in a flash he was on his feet, finely tuned reflexes bringing the dagger from his waist to his hand before he even realized he’d touched it, staring down the men he’d thought he’d just befriended. Their weapons were drawn and their faces were a mixture of anger, terror, and confusion.

It took him a moment to realize they no longer recognized him – that his illusion had faltered with his internal distraction and he stood before them in his real skin. Non-magic folk had never seen him change before, and the outcome of such could be devastating if word got around the city that such a thing were even possible. Magi tended to protect their secrets dearly.

If all present were fully sober, Darius knew it would be no impossible task to kill them, even outnumbered as he was. Most footsoldiers had no more finesse than a woodsman hacking apart a tree with his axe, and with Darius’s agility and weapons training they may not even hurt him in return. However, in his current state he wasn’t sure he had the coordination to do so against equally inebriated men even if he wanted to, which he didn’t despite knowing the potential consequences of his magic failing him. Speaking so closely with them before this moment made it personal, and he would not harm any of them if it was not absolutely required.

It seemed that they felt the same way. Even if they did not recognize him, none of them moved against him, and the stare-down between them elongated in silence. Others in the bar had noticed the confrontation, and people backed away lest they be caught in the middle of a fight they had no share in, tables and chairs toppling in their wakes. Darius knew it was only a matter of time before someone decided to act.

Before that could come to pass, he tensed his body and prepared to flee. Glancing purposefully away from where he intended to go, he feigned a roll to his left but at the last moment switched his balance and threw his body to the right. He somersaulted across the floor and felt it squelch wetly beneath him as he bounced back to his feet, albeit not perfectly with so much alcohol sloshing in his belly. His ankle rolled beneath his weight and he gasped with pain as he dashed out the door. Surprised yells floated out the doorway as he escaped, but they would have no chance of catching him now.

Darius ignored the pain in his ankle and ran back to the castle, weaving between alleyways and streets without a second thought, not stopping once until he was safely contained within the grand courtyard. The guards stationed there made no move to stop him once they could discern his face, well used to the odd hours he so frequently kept on his lord’s behalf.

He made his way through the enormous building, and could feel himself breaking inside. The rage spawned by what he had learned this night had subsided, replaced with a truly harrowing feeling of helplessness and devastation, emotions he was most certainly not accustomed to. For what was there he could do? He could not turn back time and keep his village from being destroyed. He could not revive those who had been murdered by the very people he was forced to serve. Worst of all, he could not even openly react, as he was supposed to be so compelled into service that the emotions he felt would be a surefire giveaway to the Empire’s men were anyone to see. It was all he could do to keep himself from screaming with the frustration of it all.

Only once he was within his chambers did he allow himself to let loose. He had the foresight at least to not scream aloud unmuffled, lest the guards hear him and converge on his chambers. He managed to throw himself down on his bed and bury his face in his pillow before yelling as hard as he could, over and over again until his throat was raw and his pillow a sodden mess. His fingers curled like a beast’s claws and he ripped and tore at the fabric until the stuffing within protruded like a man’s innards through a gut wound. He sat up then, gasping for air with the salt wetness burning his skin and he felt no better for it, and instead his mind turned to what could be done.

His instincts demanded bloody revenge for his village, but much like a caged animal, he had no recourse. Sure, he could kill Harlemont easily enough – he had frequent and easy enough access to him in private that it would be no unfeasible task – but beyond the truth being held from him by the lord, he had no other proof of his involvement. And even if he did so regardless of that, which was an admittedly tempting prospect, the political turmoil it would throw the region into would most certainly not make his life any easier, nor that of the other city-dwellers. Who knew what manner of tyrant would follow behind him? Better to suffer the evil known, rather than otherwise.

What he did know was that the moment he was able, he would go to see what had become of Kierton with his own eyes. Given the reputed brutality of the Valterian soldiers, there would doubtless be little left to see, but Darius would never be at peace with the knowledge until he did. He would need an extensive leave to make it to the village and back, however, and the chances of that happening were looking slimmer by the day. He anticipated that Harlemont would not be giving him any contracts anywhere near Reivic for many moons to come, either. And what would he do to keep Sparrow, that woman who was so important to him for breaking his chains but still entirely unaware of his existence… what would he do to keep her safe in his absence? No, he was unable to leave, much as it killed him to sit here now, inaction driving him to fierce guilt.