Tasa

It was the same dream again…he was suffocating. There was no air entering his lungs.

He tried to scream but no sound emitted.

He tried to open his eyes, but could feel nothing.

The feeling continued for what seemed to be an eternity. But he did not die, was only left with that memory of breath, of touch, of human sensation.

Then he felt sudden, overwhelming pain. All of his nerves were on fire. Light came in blazing intensity, and as his sight returned he saw his body stretched out below him. There was no skin; he was a living carpet of red sinew.

Tasa awoke, his breath accelerated. He worked through a series of mental disciplines to reduce his anxiety. Only then did he allow himself to reach out and to touch his forearms, his face. He was real, there was no pain.

“Lights”

The overhead lighting illuminated an opulent apartment. View screens covered the wall to his left, and a woven tapestry hung on the wall to his right. Windows directly in front of him revealed a vast city lit up far below. He realised with sudden certainty that there was someone in his room. No sensor alarms had been triggered; it was pure instinct that drew his gaze back to the tapestry. The air in front of the wall hanging was shimmering slightly. It became opaque, and within the shifting currents of air an outline was drawn. It was the figure of a woman, larger than life, a figure that he recognised.

“The key is found, in the East. Speak to Arlian.”

Tasa caught a glimpse of flowing robes, a face of extreme beauty and then the image was gone. His breath was steaming the air; the room temperature had dropped by several degrees. Reaching to his side cabinet, Tasa pulled out a robe & wrapped it about him as he stood quickly and paced over to the window.

The creature was a Neviar Cyane, and it should not have been able to communicate with him at all.

He knew Arlian; she was the wife of Doras Five, one of the Eastern Barons. It took but a moment to contact her, and to confirm the truth. With trembling hands, he dialled his Commander; Zanek would have one final task to perform for his Emperor.

Zanek

The handles of Zanek’s Transporter slowly ceased vibrating. His hands were cold; he had neglected to wear gloves when he shrugged into his suit that morning. Blinking the sweat out of his eyes, he studied his visor scanner for activity. The violence that had erupted on Main Street earlier that morning had left three dead and several wounded. Incidents like this were rare; violence usually began and ended in the Arena. He guessed that the two men he was chasing had carried their rivalry a little too far. The other two Corsers had also silenced their sirens, the faint panel lights of their Transporters barely visible in the driving rain. He knew one of them by name; Private Farne, and he signalled for the man to take the rear position as Zanek swung his leg over the saddle and turned to face the Storage Depot. It was an old building, covered in rigid grey squares of plastic that thrummed gently under the incessant rain. There were a multitude of exits, but his scanners showed signs of motion within; their targets were still inside. He waved his colleague to the other side of the door and gave a brief verbal command to his suit, setting its twin cannons to maximum stun. The force issue ‘Aware’ barbiturate slid into his bloodstream, enhancing perception, decreasing reaction times. About him the world slowed, fragmenting into a million tears that shone about his head like stars. He brought his wandering thoughts back onto the task at hand and ducked under the narrow side entrance they had chosen. The inside of the facility was dark, but his enhanced vision split the darkness into a thousand shades of grey. Shapes were moving; insects and rats. They scurried across the floor in a myriad of activity lines that confused the scent. With a blinding flash of light, a projectile weapon fired from the far end of the Depot, but Zanek was already moving in response. He traced the slow play of the rocket tail as a ‘burrowing’ missile raced towards the entrance. Above him, a dark grid signified the base of a higher walkway. Zanek leapt up, grabbed the underside of the metal frame and pulled himself up and onto the walkway above. The burrower sped beneath him, making minute changes in course as it sought a target. Zanek’s cannons fired out in an answering surge of white light. His lasers spat out two intermittent ribbons of condensed light that struck the far wall. They outlined two figures struggling over the possession of a rifle. The taller figure struck out and, winning the competition, turned to fire directly at Zanek as he crouched on the dark walkway. With a burst of speed that was enhanced by the servo motors in his suit, Zanek raced along the metal grid way, feeling the impact of laser fire tear the supports away behind him. There was another burst of light as a second burrower was released into the Depot. Zanek cursed and span to confront a sudden movement to his left. A figure was lying in the darkness of a doorway. If they hadn’t moved he would not have detected them at all; his scanners were not registering anyone at that location. As he aimed his cannons at the figure it leant forward into the light. It was a young female ‘Gutti’; a sub-human race that lived in servitude or vagrancy. Zanek ignored the creature and turned to face the figures at the far end of the hall but they were gone, and there were no indications on his scanner of their whereabouts.

It was only his instincts that saved him. The suit’s missile lock alert chimed at the same instant as the burrower sped down to his location. His instinctive roll took him below the flight of the missile, but his close proximity caused the device to explode, sending its many spores out in all directions. There was no time for thought from that point onward, only minute changes of direction; small movements to avoid the deadly spores that could burrow through even the complex armour of his suit.

Then it was quiet. He quickly scanned the far end of the building; there were no human signs within sensor range. Cursing, he thumbed the decelerate and watched time return to normality as the Aware drug leached out of his system. As always, the use left him drained; physically exhausted. The Gutti had been hit by a spore and was suffering as it drilled though her chest. He turned to leave, but the creature’s silent struggle demanded his attention. It was merely a sub-human, his training stressed that these creatures had no rights; but he couldn’t leave. His hands trembled as he changed his weapon setting to lethal and fired once to end the creature’s pain. Zanek shook his head to clear his thoughts. Suddenly his suit seemed claustrophobic and he struggled to raise his visor as a wave of nausea swamped him.

“Commander?”

A voice; insistent, returning him to the safety of his role. His voice shook slightly as he responded.

“Report.”

“Private Farne was struck by two burrower spores, he’s dead sir.”

Zanek walked slowly along the walk way to the next set of stairs, returning to the ground floor and to the staring eyes of the dead Corser. The other survivor of the attack was holding his arm. Zanek guessed from the angle that the arm was broken.

“Get yourself treated, I can finish here.”

The man hesitated, his eyes flicking over to the far end of the hall.

“They escaped; I’m going over to check it out.”

He paused.

“Tell the medics that there’s a dead Gutti up there. It’ll need to be cleared up.”

The man saluted and left the building, while Zanek stepped out onto the dust covered floor of the Storage Depot. Wooden crates were stacked carefully at the far end. They were all covered in a thick layer of grey dust; abandoned by their previous owners.

As he neared the raised loading platform where he had witnessed the two men struggling, Zanek felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. The air felt charged, as if simply breathing could make his body a conduit for the power pervading the room. The sensation reminded him of the Emperor; when he was in the Throne Room Zanek experienced the same sense of hidden power. As if in response to his thoughts, his communication unit blinked, and the unmistakable image of Tasa appeared on the inside of his visor.

“Commander, I have an urgent assignment for you.”

“Yes sir?”

Zanek tried not to display his surprise. A direct communication from the Emperor was extremely rare. In addition, although the Emperor’s face was hidden by the shade, Zanek could see the lower half of his face, and detected an undercurrent of emotion. His curiosity was instantly aroused.

“Bring your Lieutenants. Meet me at the Throne Room.”

The communication ended abruptly, and Zanek took one last look across the platform. There had been something familiar about the taller of the two men. Failing to find any trace of the combatants, he turned and headed back out into the light, reaching down to close the dead Private’s eyes as he passed.

Celeste

The Great House was a unique structure. Evolving over the centuries from a simple walled Keep, its harsh stone exterior had gradually softened. At first, a grand banqueting hall had been added, followed by more comfortable living quarters. On and on, each successive owner added their personal touches, until the structure resembled a collage of stately homes battling for supremacy. Through the ages, its population had slowly grown. Originally serving the needs of one family, important unions and marriages had brought five Great Houses to live under its array of rooftops and towers. In those first halls and stone Keep, the founding House Andahar resided. And at the centre of the keep lay the Grand Hall, which tonight hosted a banquet in honour of Celeste Andahar who turned seventeen that day. Two figures were approaching the hall as they descended a broad stairwell. Darnell Andahar was over six feet tall, with shoulder length mouse brown hair. He conversed quietly with his sister Celeste as they moved slowly down the worn wooden stairs. Celeste was younger and smaller, of slight build. Her long golden hair was gathered back into a pony tail, and her satin dress trailed back on the steps behind her. The doors of the banqueting hall were wide open as guests made their way inside. As Celeste and Darnell moved toward the entrance, a thin man dressed in a heavy brocade robe approached. Bryant was the Head of House Valres; he was weak-willed, of only passing intellect and did not possess anything resembling good looks or charisma. With a smile, he blocked the entrance to the hall.

“Lady Celeste, can you spare a moment?”

She smiled graciously and they both paused to hear him speak. Fortunately he was not given the chance.

“Bryant.”

Coming out of the open doorway, Axis Wrenham was the opposite of his nervous companion. He was dressed in black, his hand never straying far from the duelling sword at his side. Moving with the silent grace of a hunting cat, he gestured for Bryant to enter the hall. His appearance had a startling effect on Bryant, who muttered a hasty apology and scurried off into the room, leaving Celeste and Darnell smiling at his expense.

The Grand Hall was a stunning masterpiece of redwood carving and elaborately tiled floors. The dining table was ten feet across and over thirty feet long. As Celeste entered the room, she shivered and turned to her left. For a moment she had imagined eyes peering out at her from a darkened corner of the room. Looking closely she realised that the corner was empty, the eyes in the dark were merely pictures; portraits of long dead relatives hanging in silent rows on the wall. She quickly forgot the sensation, as inside the room was a riot of sound and colour. The extended families of the five houses were all in attendance and Celeste was welcomed by many of the diners as she moved to the far end of the table. Her mother, Yvonne, smiled as Celeste took her place at the head of the table, and her father Salandre clapped his hands together to get everyone’s attention. The conversation in the room dropped to a dull murmur.

“We are here to celebrate my daughter’s birthday. Celeste is twenty three today. Raise your glasses everyone…to my beautiful Celeste.”

The glass on the table chimed as the whole room thundered its response.

“To Celeste!”

Flushing bright scarlet with embarrassment, she slid into her chair and signalled for everyone to be seated as she took her own seat. With a scraping of chairs the diners sat and the meal began.

There is a constant buzzing in her ears. She feels sick and is far from her home. The Nest is gone, her Children are gone. There is only the compulsion; the child must die. It is the only way that she will regain her family.

“I am sorry.”

She mutters the words under her breath at the same time as she crafts the weapon out of the surrounding air.

The meal was uneventful; Celeste spent some time flirting with a pair of Andahar guardsmen who were sitting opposite her. Even their obvious charms could not help her to relax and enjoy the evening. Ever since she entered the Grand Hall, Celeste had been restless; uncomfortable. Something felt wrong in the room. She couldn’t pinpoint the origins of her discomfort, but it felt as if something was poking away at her senses. There was the strongest feeling that someone was watching her, but she couldn’t pick one face out of the crowded room as the culprit. The younger of the two guards was speaking to her, and she struggled to concentrate on what he was saying. As he stood to embellish his words, the irritation grew to a buzz in her ears; like a swarm of angry bees. She watched in fascinated detachment as the young guard paused. Words froze on his lips, and his expression changed to one of puzzlement. He looked slowly down at his chest, and Celeste’s eyes followed. Together they watched a spread of crimson mark the front of his tunic.

At that point the room exploded into chaos. The steel bolt that had killed the guard in front of her had originated from a creature standing in the shadowed recesses of the hall. Celeste could now see the creature clearly; it had the shape of a Leverin Priest. Senses that she hadn’t realised she possessed were starting to function. They outlined the creature in shifting lines of power that suddenly compressed into a second bolt of steel firing from the shadows. Belatedly she realised that the first bolt had been aiming directly for her. If that young guard had not stood she would have been dead in his place. The second bolt was too fast for the eye to follow as more than a blur and it appeared that she was to die after all. At the last possible instant, a silver plate appeared in front of her, and the impact of the steel bolt made a harsh ringing noise as the two items shot away over her head. Darnell shouted out in pain, and Celeste saw that he had been holding the plate in his left hand, outstretched before her. He ignored the pain and leapt over the table to throw a table knife with his right hand directly at the shadowed assassin. The creature spoke a single word, and Celeste watched bands of power surround the blade. She was fascinated by the motion of the lines of power as they unravelled the physical form of the dagger until there was nothing remaining. Dimly she realised that her mother was pulling her out of her seat, shielding her with her own form as Salandre slid over the table’s surface to join Darnell. He was shouting out but she missed the words, focussing instead on the lines of power that were creating patterns of such artistic complexity that she was held spellbound. She watched the lines of power propel the Leverin past both Darnell and her father who were suddenly frozen in place. Her heartbeat pounded in her chest as the Leverin looked into her eyes, its expression filled with sympathy and pain.

With a sudden shock, the room returned to normal time. She could feel her father shouting in pain, and something was standing between her and the assassin.

“You are Liandra ne Andrass, listen to my voice. This is not our way.”

Another Leverin was in the room, folding its four arms around the assassin’s body. No one but Celeste could see that he was touching the lines of power around the creature; absorbing their malice into the energy that pulsed about his person. The actions appeared to affect him; to make him less confident and more afraid. Celeste wanted to help but her legs refused to move. The columns of shimmering power fused together until she could not differentiate between the two creatures. But then she forgot everything else as a voice resounded throughout the room.

“Rian.”

It was a voice filled with despair. As it spoke, a breeze extinguished every single source of light in the room.

The second Leverin spoke out again, his voice barely audible.

“You are Liandra.”

The Leverin assassin suddenly emerged from the lines of power, moving directly toward Celeste. The female’s mouth was mouthing the words that echoed around her.

“I am returning Rian. You grow weak.”

The Leverin moved so fast that she could barely follow its movements. And yet, somehow, Darnell tracked it, punching a spear through the creature’s back and up and out of its rib cage. It sank to its knees, and Celeste watched the hatred slowly fade from the creature’s eyes. It remained upright for one moment, whispering to her.

“Forgive me.”

Then the Leverin fell to the floor and lay still. The hall didn’t move for one sustained interval, and then sound and motion resumed. Someone was dragging her away, and after a moment Salandre joined her, his expression grim. She was surrounded by guards clad in the Blue livery of House Andahar, but it was her mother who supported her as she felt her whole body grow weak with shock.

Calen

To begin with, the sensation of waking was quite pleasant. There was sunlight caressing his chest, and bird song trilling a wake-up call outside his first floor window. The young girl draped across his middle felt like a band of warm silk and for several precious moments, he held reality at bay and tried to clear his mind. But as always, life came crashing back in with a vengeance. First his back started to strongly complain about the general discomfort of the bed in which he was lying, not helped by the stresses and strains it had had to cope with the night before. Then he remembered how much he had lost in the bar downstairs in the events preceding his rigorous sexual antics; his rent was already well into arrears. Finally, to cap it all, a powerful itch in the area of his groin was testament to the fact that the young angel lying on top of him was not quite the innocent she appeared. He winced as he remembered the cost of the dusting powder he had purchased from Madam Sirlac the last time he had been gifted in a similar manner. But at the back of it all like the ache of a lost limb, was his ever-present mantle of loss. Grunting with distaste at this hint of self-pity, he fastened onto the easier of his problems. He could hide his deeper scars behind the more obvious fact that he was getting old. Calen Sandoran; one time captain of the Queen’s Guard; court lover and court assassin, a very agreeable and profitable partnership; the best of them all, was now a soak. His tastes had turned away from idealism and now all he seemed to do was eat, drink and run up debts. As if in answer, his copious stomach rumbled in anticipation of breakfast.

Then, a ghost of his former self unexpectedly rose to haunt him; a registered movement in the hall outside, a heavier than expected footfall. He tumbled the prostitute off the bed and had a small crossbow levelled at the throat of the man who entered. The newcomer was dressed in the colours of the Duke’s personal guard and bore the insignia of Captain. He was tall, and sported the most seriously ugly face Sandoran had ever seen. The man’s eyebrows rose as they took in the crossbow, Sandoran’s nudity, and the condition of the girl beside the bed, who hadn’t woken even after the fall.

“Speak quickly Captain, before I find reason to pin you to the door frame.”

The man’s voice when he replied was smooth and clear, with a hint of a sneer which caused Sandoran to take an immediate dislike to the man. He thought to himself.

‘This one’s a Politician if ever I saw one.’

“The Duke requires your presence as soon as conveniently possible.”

This was said with a raise of the man’s left eyebrow which hinted at the fact that Sandoran’s condition was amusing. Calen pointedly kept the crossbow levelled at the man.

“What does he want? I don’t work for him anymore.”

The man’s eyes narrowed; here was a man who wasn’t used to having his commands disobeyed. His reply was terse.

“Although I’m not completely privy to his plans, I believe it concerns the matter of his niece, the Royal Bastard.”

This last was said without any inflection whatsoever, and Sandoran wondered if this could be the Duke’s latest Assassin.

Abruptly he registered the man’s words and felt his gaze inadvertently drawn to the girl by the bed. His lack of memory from the previous night left him suddenly cold with sweat.

‘Surely not, this was a common whore.’

The holes in his memory left him uncharacteristically uncertain, at a loss for words. He began to stammer,

“This is not what it appears. The girl must have come into my room in the middle of the night; I’ve not seen her before this morning.”

At his obvious discomfort, the man suddenly burst into a short laugh although Sandoran could sense no genuine humour beneath it whatsoever.

“Calen Sandoran, ex-captain of the Elite Guard, your reputation does not prepare one for your appearance. Let me be brief, I do not appreciate being forced to travel to the western side of the city, and I certainly do not condone the hiring of mercenaries who lost their effectiveness decades ago. If I had any interest whatsoever, I would desire you to continue drinking yourself into the grave and be damned. However as to the matter of the personal affront...”

The man’s gaze flicked over toward the open window, and Sandoran’s gaze was dragged with it for a fraction of a second. There was a breath of wind against his cheek, as three inches of steel dart suddenly penetrated the bedstead beside his right ear.

“…Pray that you never have occasion to cause me another.”

The bolt vibrated in the wood, setting his teeth on edge.

That was fast!

With a wide sweep of his arm, the man was gone and Sandoran realised that he was sweating profusely.

Gently he lowered the small hand bow down onto the bed, releasing the tension as he did so. His hand shook violently; he probably wouldn’t have been able to hit a barn door at close range. The Duke’s new assassin would be laughing all the way back to the castle.

Realising that he had been tricked into presuming that the girl was more than she seemed, he aimed a kick at her bare behind.

“Here, cover yourself up girl and get out of here.”

As she awoke and started to curse, he thrust a quarter crown into her hand, and she fell silent, looking up at him in obvious surprise. Staring wide eyed at the coin in her hand, the girl, out of nowhere he suddenly remembered her name; Ystria, snatched up her gown and fled, taking the back door as she ran naked out onto the hall. He gave her less than even odds of hiding the coin without her employer finding it.

Calen sat quietly and contemplated the Captain’s message.

“So the Duke requires my services once more. Perhaps things aren’t quite as bleak as they appear.”

With his thoughts turning to optimism, Sandoran began to rummage through the base of his wardrobe.

One hour later, extremely red faced, Calen stood outside the Duke’s Council Chamber in the West wing of Castle Rion. Fifteen years before, the very same Duke he waited to see now had taken him on as Captain of the Guard purely on the basis of his reputation. There was no way of blaming anyone else for the loss of that position, his pride and stubbornness had succeeded in alienating him from the Duke, and the two of them had not parted as friends. Thinking about it now, Sandoran seemed to recall there being a price on his head for some time after he retired his commission. He paced across the marble hallway to look out of a high arched open window. The sun was high in the sky, and it was unseasonably warm. Beneath his fawn coloured tunic, he cursed the need for a whalebone corset, but his pride had convinced him to borrow it from one of the girls at the brothel. Fortunately it didn’t restrict his movements to a great degree. It was a shame that there wasn’t a similar tool that could be used to tuck in the excess flesh about one’s face. What with the cuts from his first shave in an age, and the excesses from last night that his eyes must be revealing, he couldn’t fail but compare himself unfavourably against the three young officers whispering together in the far corner of the hallway. Occasionally one would glance over in his direction, and the conversation would turn to scornful laughter. They were all dressed in the green uniform of the Sere-Tor Guard. Two wore the insignia of second-Lieutenant while the third was an Ascendant. He wondered briefly about the reasons for summoning them at the same time as himself, but then the silence was broken by the sounds of someone screaming out from behind the closed doors of the Duke’s Chamber.

“I will not. I will not, I would rather die!”

The girl’s voice was cut off by the sound of a muffled slap and the quieter tones of a male voice which Sandoran was unable to decipher. There was a brief pause, and then the most piercing scream emitted from the Council Chamber, making all of the hairs on Sandoran’s neck rise. The doors were flung open from the inside, and Sandoran clearly heard the Duke shouting out.

“Divanna, get back in here this instant!”

And then Sandoran was given, for the first time in many years, a view of the royal bastard; Divanna Rion. Eyes red-rimmed from crying, she paused to study him as he did her. Her left cheek was gradually revealing a fine pink handprint. She was older than he had expected her to be, possibly seventeen or eighteen years, but by all reports she maintained the mental age of a ten year old. Dressed in a crumpled white lace dress, she turned her very pretty face so that she could look him straight in the eyes with a murderous stare.

“This is all your fault, I hate you!”

On this enigmatic statement, the young woman lifted her chin and marched very grandly out through a side door, slightly hampered by the sheer bulk of petticoats she was wearing beneath her dress. As the swish of silk and lace receded, a herald appeared in the doorway of the Council Chamber.

“Guardsmen, Mr Sandoran, the Duke will see you now.”

The guardsmen had obviously found the confrontation amusing, but he ignored their smiles and preceded them into the Duke’s Chamber. The room granted immediate relief from the heat of the day. A great fan was turning slowly in the centre of the ceiling, and the only light came in through a pair of decorative circular stained windows high up on the wall facing out towards the ocean. Two other windows were shuttered to keep out the sunlight. The hall was quiet; the only sounds the sound of the fan slowly turning, and the far off cry of the sea.

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