Chains of a Diffrent Kind

Radiran thought it quite strange that he wasn’t dead.

Then, of course, he thought it strange that he found his new life unusual. The last thing he could remember was… he wasn’t sure. His life before the Void was foggy, like a dream that was just barely beyond his reach. His mind couldn’t comprehend it. Nor could it comprehend exactly how he came to be standing just outside the Void in a Quasexan desert.

A soft, cool breeze was blowing against his bare arms, but the cold had no effect on him. He had found that, with a little concentration, he was able to shrug off simple discomforts such as cold or heat. Something to do with his new, highly cynical mindset. Yet another gift of the Void, he supposed.

A splitting headache pierced his head, an amount of pain that he was unable to ignore. He grunted quietly and began rubbing his temples in an attempt to lessen the pain. This always seemed to happen when he tried to think of who he was before the Void. Sometimes he felt like the Void didn’t want him to remember.

An accurate assumption. Aia said sarcastically in his mind.

My lord. Radiran said formally, bowing even though there was no one around him. The Lord of the Void had instilled that habit into him upon his arrival to the black entity.

Radiran. Aia responded curtly. Have my other children taught you enough?

They have, my lord. Radiran replied, grimacing as he recalled the teaching techniques the other Flens had used. While in the Void, they all shared a consciousness, a collective mind. Rather painfully, the other Flens had given him knowledge of everything he needed to know as a Flen. This required tearing apart his mind and putting it back together with new pieces jumbled up inside it.

Excellent. Aia said smugly. Are you ready for your first Harvest?

I believe I am. Radiran said. Where is my destination?

Xexera. Aia replied. The Capital of Quasexa. Your target is a man named Cixusa.

The Harvester King? Radiran said, his calm interrupted. Is that wise?

Are you questioning me, Radiran? Aia said darkly. Radiran could feel the disapproval from his god. I would have expected you to have learned what happens to those who disobey.

No, my lord. Radiran said quickly, hoping to stave off any smiting that seemed likely to occur. I will do as you bid.

Good. Aia said. Choose your weapon and go forth with my blessing. Radiran felt the presence leave.

He looked at his body, mulling the choices over in his mind. The five different spikes placed on his body seemed unnatural, yet familiar. He couldn’t recall when or how they had been placed, but he felt as if he knew that they belonged. They felt wrong… yet right.

With a smile, he ripped his vest open with powerful arms to reveal the bone spike protruding out of his chest. Eliran’s Sickle seemed to be the obvious choice for tonight’s mission, and there was something about the Bloodblade that called out to Radiran, something that seemed friendly, enticing.

He grabbed the spike and tore it out of his body, blood flowing fiercely out of his heart. Radiran didn’t know why he could survive with no blood in his heart; but, then again, he didn’t really care. The perfection that the Sickle brought, the power that he felt, masked every other thought from his mind. As the blood solidified and the Blade formed, Radiran relished in the sensory input that flood his mind. It felt right, divine.

Perfect.

His body reverted to the smoke of the Void, and he soared off into the night.

* * *

“I have told you before, my lord,” The man said to Gestarin, gesturing around his workshop. Tools and gems were strewn haphazardly about the room, the sign of a man who flitted between projects with the wind. “I merely carve the gems. I do not know where they go after that.”

“Surely you must know something.” Gestarin insisted. “Who collects them?”

“An emissary of the treasury, your majesty.” The jeweller sighed, taking his glasses off and rubbing his eyes. “He comes and collects the finished Prisms to distribute to the banks. I don’t know what the banks do with them, and I don’t really care.” He gestured to his workbench. “My thoughts are always here, to my work.” He glared at the king. “But, then, you wouldn’t know.”

“Know what?” Vixin burst in angrily.

“What it feels like to create something with your own hands.” The jeweller said airily. “The feeling of success, of glory that comes from the satisfaction of making something as perfect as you possibly could.” He looked down humbly. “Of creating something the way Aia intended.”

“You speak true, master Hujilka.” Gestarin nodded. “I have heard many a craftsman speak of this feeling. I shouldn’t have questioned you so hard. Forgive me.”

“No, your majesty.” Hujilka bowed deeply. “The fault is mine. I worked late into the night last night and I am feeling a tad under the weather.”

“Get some rest, master.” Gestarin said with a smile, putting his hand gently on the jeweller’s shoulder. “You cannot create works of art if you cannot keep your eyes open.” Hujilka smiled and wandered off into the living quarters of his workshop as Gestarin and Vixin walked out the door into the streets.

“That was somewhere near to pointless.” Vixin  said sullenly. “A good man he may be, but he did not give us anything to work with.”

“On the contrary, Vixin.” Gestarin said with a smile that irritated Vixin to no end. “The jeweller gave us exactly what we needed: another lead.”

“And what about the next?” Vixin spluttered. “Will every man we see give us a thread to another man? Will we spend our days running around chasing shadows until we are killed by the very men we are chasing?”

Gestarin said nothing as they pushed their way through the morning crowds, people of all kinds pushing and shoving to get to hawking vendors. The smells that assaulted Gestarin’s nose could hardly be described as anything other than offensive. The sweat of the gathered crowd, the immense smell of unwashed bodies, refuse and litter in the gutters, all wafted into his nostrils and threatened to make his breakfast come back up violently. Gestarin was grateful that Hujilka had given them a lead to the banks; at least then they would be able to move to the Inner Shell and get away from this loathsome crowd. Even Glausianians smelled better than this.

“I see you have found nothing, my lords.” Lord Jikosa said sullenly as he met them at the gate to the Inner Shell. “As you will continue to find in your search.”

“I thought the emperor ordered you to assist us in any way, my lord.” Gestarin said with his irritatingly optimistic smile. “I think that you will assist me the most by keeping morale up.” He raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps you can sing a song, tell a few jokes. Court jesters have found those to work quite well.”

“Are you suggesting that I fall so far?” Jikosa spluttered, his face turning red with outrage. “I would flog any other man for suggesting such a thing.”

“Ah, but I am me.” Gestarin said gaily. “And that is not possible. Now, Lord Jikosa, about those jokes and songs…” Gestarin laughed as Jikosa starting muttering in a flustered manner. “Calm down, my lord. It was merely a joke of my own.”

“Glausianians seem to have an interesting sense of humor.” Jikosa said bitterly.

“We are an interesting people, my lord.” Gestarin replied, but he sighed when Jikosa kept his stony expression. “Very well then, Lord Jikosa. What did you find out from the people?”

“There have been no rumors at all, your majesty.” Jikosa said regally, straightening up with pride. No matter how noble men might be, they always seemed to become haughty beyond belief when a job was completed; Junarians even more than other men. “The people are saying nothing about any violent House activity.”

“Really?” Gestarin said, startled. “Not a single whisper?”

“Not a one.”

“That’s strange.” Vixin noted. “The Emperor’s brother gets the flu and the entire city is gossiping about it, but the king of Glausiania claims an Imperial house tried to murder him and the streets are quieter than the Void.” He raised an eyebrow. “That could be a clue all in itself.”

“Indeed, Vixin.” Gestarin said with a nod. “I have found that silence is oftentimes the best evidence of guilt.” Gestarin looked back at Jikosa. “Were there any rumors about the state of the world’s politics?”

“Only the usual, your majesty.” Jikosa said. “Junarians always think we shall be going to war within the week with various countries. Currently they believe we intend to invade the Reledanian Bureaucracy.”

“So nothing there.” Gestarin said as they continued walking through the Inner Shell on their way to the Central Imperial Bank. “What about money and finances?”

“There actually was something strange there, your majesty.” Jikosa admitted. “Many of the populace seem to think that the Junarian mark will soon be worthless, and that Glausianian coin will rule the country.”

“Economic collapse?” Gestarin pondered, stroking his chin. “That’s a new one. Junarians have always taken pride in the growth of the mark over the years. What makes them think it will happen so soon?”

“I know not, your majesty.” Jikosa said darkly. “I myself have been taken in the same pride you speak of.”

“Look into it.” Gestarin ordered as the approached the Bank. “If money will soon be worthless, it could be evidence of the Houses showering it on the populace. I would like to know what kind of event would cause them to be so… generous.”

“It shall be done, my lord.” Jikosa said with a bow, and he walked off.

“You’re giving him an awful lot of leeway, your majesty.” Vixin said with a raised eyebrow. “Are you sure you can trust him?”

“Of course not.” Gestarin said simply. “I wouldn’t trust any Junarian. At the moment, however, his goals align with ours, and so I can be reasonably sure he will follow my requests.”

“How do his goals align with ours?” Vixin said with exasperation. “We’re interlopers from a different country, using him in a very indignified manner, trying to prove that his friends and acquaintances tried to kill us.” Vixin shook his head. “How could he possibly want to help us?”

“Because he does not wish to become one of the convicted.” Gestarin said with a smile. “I’ve found that self-preservation trumps duty in most instances.”

“You know, your majesty,” Vixin said with a grin and a raised eyebrow. “You are far more devious than most Glausianians have been led to believe.”

“I like to keep it that way.” Gestarin chuckled. “That way, people like Highlord Yrit who attempt to take advantage of me are stopped quickly and quietly by the glorious power of perceived idiocy.” Gestarin’s smile became mischievous. “If they think that I am weak in mind, they keep trying to forward their corrupt goals no matter how many times they are stopped.”

“Remind me not to attempt such things, your majesty.” Vixin laughed. “I fear that I may destroy myself in the process.”

“Duly noted, Viceroy.” Gestarin replied as they descended the stairs leading to the Bank. A few Junarians moved quickly out of their way with bowed heads, almost as if they wished to remain beneath Gestarin’s notice.

“Why does everybody seem to fear us?” Vixin said with contempt as he looked at the downcast citizens.

“The entire city knows why we are here, Vixin.” Gestarin said simply. “And the fall of an Imperial House could very well disrupt the aristocracy and even the emperor himself. If we have our way, the Junarians could be looking at a very bloody war between Houses.”

“I didn’t know that.” Vixin said quietly, his contempt turning to compassion as he looked back at the people. “Are we doing the right thing, Gestarin?”

“Of course we are.” Gestarin said sadly. “No matter how bad a House war is, a confrontation between Glausiania and Junar would be infinitely worse. If we don’t find out who did this, then I will have no choice but to declare war on these people.” Vixin was silent as they reached the end of the staircase and walked through a pair of ornate, hardwood doors carved with the likeness of a lion.

The room they entered was dimly lit, torches sputtering and coughing on all the walls. They walked over a red carpet laid flat over a marble floor to a large desk covered in papers and coins. The skinny, almost emaciated man who sat behind it looked up with disgust.

“What would a pair of Glausianian mongrels want here?” He said angrily. “I have no handouts nor charity for you. As you can see,” He gestured to the people bustling about in the room. “I have many people to deal with and many things to do.”

“Oh, we do not wish for any charity.” Gestarin said smoothly. “We are merely trying to follow a money trail laid before us. Perhaps you can help us?” The man’s eyes brightened, and he leaned forward with interest. Junarians always did love a bit of intrigue.

“Oh?” The man said evenly. “And who will you find at the end of this trail?”

“An assassin.” Gestarin said bluntly. “The man who ordered to have the Glausianian king murdered.” The man looked startled, and he glanced quickly at Gestarin’s face and clothes. His face blanched as he began to stutter and mumble.

“I’m sorry your majesty.” He said quickly. “I didn’t know… I had no idea that you were here…”

“It’s alright.” Gestarin said, cutting off the man’s blubbering. “There is no harm. You are a busy man, and I daresay you would never be able to get anything done if you had to look up every few moments to identify your customers.”

“Thank you, your majesty.” The man said with a quick bow. “Now, what do you need?”

“I need the man who oversees Prisms.” Gestarin said, looking around. “He can help us the most at this point.”

“That would be Pojuru.” The man replied, turning around at pointing at a clean, seedy looking man. “He is the bank’s master jeweller.” Gestarin bowed in gratitude before walking over to the man the clerk had pointed out.

“How may I serve you gentlemen?” Pojuru said with a deep bow. His voice was a warbling buzz, more fitting on a bird than on a man.

“We are told you the master jeweller at this bank.” Gestarin said. “Are you the kind of man who knows every jewel in your care?”

“Of course.” Pojuru said with a smile. “Not a single jewel that I have seen has ever left my memory.”

“Excellent.” Gestarin said, smiling as well. He pulled the ruby Prism out of his pocket and handed it to Pojuru, who looked at it in awe. He pulled a pair of glasses down from the top of his head and inspected the gem closely, turning it around in his fingers.

“Where did you get this?” He asked forcefully.

“It was taken from an assassin who had assaulted the king’s chambers.” Vixin said with a growl. “We are trying to find out which Imperial House hired the man.”

“Do you have any idea what this is?” Pojuru said skeptically. “Do you have any idea who has the skill and expertise to alter a gem like this so beautifully?”

“Obviously not.” Gestarin replied slowly with a raised eyebrow. “Can you tell us?” Pojuru nodded, holding the gem almost reverently.

“The only person who can do this,” He said fervently, “Is Zeyjofu, the royal treasurer.” Pojuru looked intently at both men. “It wasn’t an Imperial House that paid this man; it was the emperor himself.”

* * *

Radiran slipped quietly through the Xexeran streets, dust rubbing off on his arms as he sidled along sandstone buildings. Though his abilities allowed him to move about in a far more convenient way, something just felt right about sneaking. The more he did it, the better he felt.

The phantom moon was bright tonight, illuminating the tan buildings enough to lessen the contrast between the dark earth and light sky. Radiran, true to character, took a few moments to marvel at it. Even becoming a servant of Aia had not changed that.

As he came to a street that he could not sneak across, Radiran sighed and began to walk slowly and confidently, as natural as possible. That was the first rule of crime: if you look like a criminal, then people will think you are one. So, it stood to reason that, if you didn’t want to look like you were doing something suspicious, you acted as if you were doing something normal. Radiran did just that, and the few townspeople that were out at this hour of the night paid him no mind. He chuckled to himself as he realized that anyone up and about this late probably had unsavory business themselves.

As empty as the streets were, progress was infuriatingly slow. Radiran was hindered by the strength of his legs, and, although he was extremely fit, he preferred to be able to fly about as an extension of the Void. That was the only power the Void granted him. The Jods told stories that the Flens could enhance themselves in strange, unnatural ways, but they were wrong. They could change, yes, but only slightly. Their height, their arm span, maybe their width, but no more. That would complicate things, and he had no desire for this task to continue unnecessarily- he just wanted to have done with it. And yet, walking around like a filthy human was not the way he wanted to do it.

Eventually, however, he managed to make his way through the streets without anyone being aware of his presence. Not even a single slave saw him; or, at least, they would never admit it. Any slave observing his surroundings with even a hint of rebellion was eventually put to death. Or worse, he would be given to the Gamekeepers of the Quasexan Games.

Radiran shivered as he walked up to an enormous granite wall that guarded the Xexeran Citadel. Quasexa was ruled completely by the Harvester King, and what better place to house a king than in a palace? Radiran drew his Falconeyes and hefted the twin blades in his hands as he stared up at the wall. Even with the strength of the Void behind him, this would be a difficult endeavor.

Do not be anxious, Radiran. Aia scoffed. I would not give you this mission if I did not believe you could do it. Prepare yourself, Yrinsson. You will make it up this wall, and you will fulfill your duty. Radiran could feel cold, stubborn resolve emanating from his god. Or you will be expunged from my service.

I will, my lord. Radiran nodded. Now, I respectfully ask you to leave me be. I cannot perform my duties with you looking over my shoulder. Radiran couldn’t explain, but he felt Aia nod, as if Aia were a person standing just behind him. A moment later, his presence was gone.

Radiran grunted, set his feet, and stabbed his right Falconeye deep into the grey rock. His muscles made no objection as he lifted himself up slightly and slammed his other blade in a foot above the first. Slowly but surely, he began to climb up the wall with his Blades as stakes. His body showed no strain as he ascended: his breathing remained normal and he made no sound. He was a silent servant.

After perhaps ten minutes of intense climbing, Radiran stepped casually up onto the parapet, sheathing his Blade as he did so. Though his muscles screamed, he paid them no heed. The Void would sustain him, as it did all its servants.

A shout sounded as several guards spotted him, and the sound of ringing steel clanged in the air as they drew their swords. Radiran made no motion, not even to look at the advancing men. He stood, staring straight ahead, as the guards converged on his position. There were two of them, dressed in the white plate mail of the Holy Sentinels of Quasexa: the Harvester King’s own guard. One of the most elite fighting forces in the world.

They were no match for the man that had entered into their view.

“Stand down!” One of the men growled, feet planted in the Way of the Fox. “By the name of Cixusa, we order you to state your business!”

“Aia’s wishes are my business.” Radiran whispered, more to himself than the men. Then he spoke a little louder. “You corrupt humans believe you know his will, but you are wrong. I know my god, and I do as he bids.”

“What is he babbling about?” The other guard growled, stepping closer to Radiran as he lowered his arms. “Is he even sane?” He reached his sword forward as if to prod Radiran with the point.

As he did so, Radiran spun in a blur towards the man and grabbed his arm, twisting it violently down to the ground. The sword clattered to the ground as the man howled in pain. His companion reacted instantly, jumping forward in an attempt to save his friend, but Radiran reacted faster. He let go of the first guard’s arm as the second slashed his sword in a wide arc. Radiran brought his palms together as the sword fell, catching it in between his hands as the guard stood dumbfounded. Quick as a striking snake, Radiran kneed the man’s groin and he collapsed. With a casual grace, Radiran grabbed the man’s head and twisted, bones cracking and snapping as the man died and slumped to the earth.

The first guard leaned upon the parapet, his destroyed arm limp against his side. “Why are you doing this?” He said through tears. His breath came through his clenched teeth like a hiss. “Who sent you?”

“God sent me.” Radiran said, stepping over the body of the second guard. “And I cannot deny Aia his desires.” Radiran took the guard’s sword from off the ground. “I would suggest you start repenting immediately. You do not have very long to make peace with the powers above.”

He stabbed the crying man in the heart, ripping through the plate like it was made of paper.

* * *

“Wait.” Gestarin said, silencing an outburst from Vixin. “Perhaps I misheard you, goodman Pojuru. What are you saying? That the leader of Junar ordered me dead?” Gestarin scoffed.

“That is precisely what I am saying.” Pojuru insisted. “There is only one man who can alter a gem like this, and he fawns over the Emperor like a puppy.” The jeweller shook his head. “I’m sorry, your majesty, but no one else could have ordered this.”

“Why would the Emperor want open war?” Vixin spluttered. “How great a fool is your leader?”

“Lower your voice!” Gestarin hissed. “We are guests in a country that worships its leader almost as much as Aia himself.”

“Fine.” Vixin growled softly. “But I still do not understand.”

“And you think that I do?” Gestarin snapped. “The only person who understands what is going on is Emperor Kiijal.” Gestarin’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps we should pay him a visit.”

“I would not suggest it, my lords.” Pojuru cautioned. “Like you have said, you are guests in this country. Any accusation without evidence would prove more fatal than throwing yourselves to the Void.”

“We cannot just sit here like ducks waiting for their next crumb!” Vixin said through clenched teeth.

“And what do you suggest, Viceroy?” Gestarin said coldly. “Tell us what your brilliant scheme is. We want nothing more than a solution to this problem.” Vixin scowled deeply, but he said nothing. “As I thought.”

“Your majesty, if I may have a word…” Pojuru said slowly, shuffling his feet. Gestarin nodded his approval. “The Emperor may have ordered an assassin to kill you, but there may be more to it than that.”

“What more could there be?” Gestarin scoffed. “The Empire has always envied the power and position of Glausiania. Killing me could plunge the country into chaos, allowing the Empire to quietly slip in and seize control.”

“This is true, your majesty, and I do not seek to disprove it.” Pojuru said, holding up his hands in defeat. “But hear me out. Lately, it has been noted by the nobility that the Emperor has been somewhat… unstable lately.”

“What exactly do you mean?” Gestarin said, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He folded his arms and tapped his foot involuntarily.

“What I mean, your majesty, is that the Emperor may not have done this of his own accord.” Pojuru said fervently. “He may have been influenced into doing this.”

“Or your ruler may not be perfectly sane.” Vixin said darkly. “That explanation seems much more plausible to me.”

“Unfortunately, that explanation is equally as likely.” Pojuru sighed. “Though I do not like to admit it, I must.” His eyes narrowed. “But I would like to exhaust every other possibility first.”

“I believe that is a wise course of action.” Gestarin said with a hearty nod. “Now, goodman, do you have any idea what these ulterior motives may be?”

“I do not, your majesty.” Pojuru said emphatically, shaking his head. “As high my standing is, I am not a nobleman, which means I do not have the opportunity to observe the Emperor myself.” He looked toward the door of the bank. “But that one would probably know.”

Gestarin and Vixin turned toward the door, confused at the jeweller’s words. Much to their surprise, Lord Jikosa had stormed through the doors with anger seemingly flaring out of his body. In his hands he clutched a slew of papers.

“You said you did not know anything about impending economic problems!” He hissed, throwing the papers into Gestarin’s startled face. “Why did you lie?”

“What are you talking about?” Vixin snarled, jumping in front of Jikosa. “My king does not lie.”

“Out of my way, dog.” Jikosa growled back, stepping forward so that their noses were nearly touching. “I have business with the scoundrel you call a ruler.”

“Vixin, it’s all right.” Gestarin said, cutting off Vixin’s outraged retort. “Lord Jikosa may address his concerns to me directly.” His eyes narrowed. “However false they may be.”

“False as a Flen, maybe.” Vixin growled, but he stepped aside. Jikosa made no show of gratitude, instead walking directly up to Gestarin, who stooped down to pick up the papers Jikosa had thrown.

“What are these?” He asked, unable to decipher the strange runes. “This is no language I have ever seen.”

“This is the language of the moneylenders.” Jikosa snarled. “It is used to record transactions between the lower class and the vermin that deal with them.”

“What of it?” Gestarin said nonchalantly, tossing the papers back to Jikosa. “They may be a nuisance, yes, but they cause no problem that I can see.”

“Then you are a fool.” Jikosa spat. “The only moneylenders that operate in this city are Glausianian rats. They seek to extort the lower class by taking their money one at a time.”

“You speak lies!” Vixin roared. “The Glausianian bankers are honorable and reputable to the highest degree!”

“Vixin.” Gestarin said cooly. “If you do not restrain yourself, I will tie you to the underside of a boar and have it run all the way back to Matrikai. Am I clear?” Vixin’s expression was a tempest, but he nodded. Gestarin responded in kind before looking back at the seething Junarian lord. “I understand that our moneylenders may not have the highest integrity, but surely they are nothing more than a nuisance.”

“That would be true,” Jikosa said sharply. “If they kept their business to simply moneylending.” He held out the fistful of papers. “But these abominations describe in detail the degree to which the moneylenders will go to destroy our city.”

“For Aia’s sake, man.” Gestarin sighed, rubbing his temples. For all his words, Lord Jikosa seemed to be able to say very little. “Is it possible for you to tell me without beating around the bush quite so much?”

“Your moneylenders,” Jikosa said, “Have found a certain legal statement in our economic policy that they are now using to bankrupt the entire city and destroy the government.”

“What?” Gestarin said, taken aback. “There exists such a thing?” He shook his head. “I can’t imagine there would be anything in the Banker’s Charter that would cause such damage.”

“There isn’t.” Jikosa nodded, his ire diminishing as his words were heard. “But there is a small proviso that can be exploited. Are you familiar with the Banker’s Reinforcement clause?”

“That small thing?” Gestarin asked. “That can’t really do any damage. It just allows Banks to help moneylenders that struggle with profits. A humanitarian effort, nothing more.”

“That is how it was designed, yes.” Jikosa said, holding up a finger. “But your people have discovered a way to exploit it.” Jikosa pulled one of the sheaves of paper and flattened it against his doublet before holding it up to the light. “The exact law says this: in the event of a default involving a non-banking financial provider and client, the banking system of Junar is obligated to provide the difference between the loan to the money provider and lower the credit extended to the client.” He looked at Gestarin intently. “Do you see now, or is your brain so muddled that you cannot see what is right in front of your nose?”

Gestarin  looked up toward the ceiling, thinking quickly. After a moment, he shook his head. “I still don’t see how it is a problem. If the moneylender is in trouble, the bank is allowed to help him.”

“Wrong.” Jikosa said, shaking his head furiously. “The exact word in Junarian is julioja, which you Glausianians have always taken to mean ‘permission’.” He slapped the paper with his hand. “But its meaning is much closer to ‘duty’, or ‘requirement’, in my language.”

“So if a moneylender isn’t being paid,” Gestarin said slowly. “Then the bank must give him the difference in the loan and then lower the amount they give to the client.” His eyes widened and he grew pale. “And if there are many moneylenders, all giving outrageous loans…”

“Then it will not be long until every bank in Junar is completely empty of money.” Lord Jikosa finished. “And that includes the royal treasury. Junar would be completely bankrupt, and the government would cease to function.”

“That explains why the city looks so much better!” Gestarin exclaimed. “I thought that the slums looked a little too picturesque. The lower class suddenly has much more money to work with.” He narrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “But the moneylenders themselves would have to have exorbitant amounts of money to loan in the first place. Where would they get it?”

Jikosa held up another slip of paper, this one covered in Glausianian runes. “The Royal Treasury of Matrikai funds these rats.” He threw the paper onto the ground. “This letter proves it.”

Gestarin reached down slowly to pick up the incriminating document, blowing a fair amount of dust off it to make it legible.

There, at the bottom of the page, was a signature.

Yrit Yvilirin, it read.

* * *

The garish tapestries that lined the walls would have sickened Radiran’s stomach, had he been exposed to them before his transformation. Now, they were like a child’s drawing of a play battle, with comical scenes that did nothing to portray the brutality they had been attempting to show. The tapestry that portrayed The Battle of Nedirik, for example, was drawn with such detail, yet was so lackluster. Radiran had seen worse.

Radiran had done worse.

He walked through the torchlit hallway, his Fishmonger at his side. The blood of the blade itself hid the blood from his victims quite well. Perhaps that was the reason Aia had created the blades. If a man could not see the consequences of his killings, he would fight longer and harder to win. Strong men benefited from the Blades, while the weak suffered. The guards, for instance, were no match for a man with Radiran’s skill and prowess. They fell like stalks of wheat blown away by a storm. Radiran scarcely felt any fatigue.

Not much longer. He thought to himself. Do not let yourself grow lax.

A pair of red iron doors several feet wide blocked his way to the throne room, and a lazy guard sat in a chair next it, dozing. Radiran smiled. The Harvester’s had grown idle in their defenses from centuries of peace. No one had ever dared attack the Harvester’s, let alone the king, and certainly not in his own palace. Then again, no Harvester King had ever done the things the Cixusa Xeneral III had done. The tapestries may have only been a nuisance, but even Radiran shuddered when he thought of the reasons that Cixusa was to be Harvested. They were not something normal men did.

“Hey!” The guard exclaimed, shuffling to his feet with bleary eyes. “Who are you? What do you want?” His eyes flitted to the sword in Radiran’s hands before growing wide. “Bloodw-” His voice was cut off as Radiran rammed his Blade into the man’s throat, cutting off all possibilities of speech. The guard slid off Radiran’s slick blade onto the floor, gurgling out the last few sounds of his life. Radiran reached down lazily to snatch the keys from off the man’s belt before they were covered in his blood. He hated it when his things were dirty. He unlocked the door before tossing the keys aside and striding into the throne room.

The thick smell of sizzling meat assaulted his nose, and he was deeply grateful that he had not chosen Viperbite as his weapon- the odor might have very well incapacitated him. As it was, he had to focus to keep his thoughts coherent through the disgusting, yet somewhat enticing scent.

The Harvester king was prostrated before an altar of fire, chanting something in Old Quasexan as a circle of hooded attendants looked on. Some sort of carcass was burning on top of the altar. Radiran forced himself to look away from the abomination, not wanting to think about who or where it had come from. He strode towards the circle of men as quietly as a mouse. Surprise was sometimes a more dramatic approach to this business.

“Cixusa Xeneral.” He intoned, and the shirtless King stood up quickly and turned. Blood surrounded his mouth, a contrast to the white’s of his widened eyes and the paleness of his face. He held Eliran’s Sickle in his left hand, and Radiran suspected it to have been newly created.

“You have betrayed the grace of Aia.” Radiran continued, his gaze turning steely. The older, more experienced Flens would usually not allow emotions to enter into their words, but Radiran was not as controlled. “You have spit in the face of his precepts and betrayed the dignity of your position.”

“No!” Cixusa yelled, outrage showing through the crimson film that marred his face. “My actions are a boon to Aia!”

“You have killed innocents and committed atrocities!” Radiran growled, his anger seeping through. “In what book of scripture does Aia condone such actions?”

“The Great God himself visited me in a dream.” Cixusa spat back. “Highlord Yrit is a witness of it.” The Harvester King sneered. “And what servant of Oio is worthy to even speak Aia’s name?”

Radiran chuckled. “The extent of human ignorance never ceases to amaze me.” After an instant of silence, he stepped backward quickly. The two men that had snuck to his side had no time to adjust their aim, and they proceeded to impale each other on the ends of their Blades.

Cixusa, if possible, seemed to grow paler. He nodded to his other men. Instantly, the Harvester’s all threw off their hoods and drew a myriad of Bloodblades from their arms. Advancing as one, they began to circle Radiran, fully intent upon him becoming their next victim and, from the look of things, meal.

Fools. He thought. The men continued to advance, not knowing they were walking to their doom.

Radiran gripped his Fishmonger tight as one man stepped forward, raising his Blade. The second the man began to swing downward, Radiran rammed his Blade through  the man with such force that it carved clean through him and exited out the other side. He caught the hilt as it came through the other side, despite the film of blood that covered it. In an even motion, Radiran swung the Blade around to lop off the head of the man closest beside him. The headless corpse fell to the ground, stopping the other men in their tracks.

“What are you doing?” Cixusa screamed, verging on hysterics. “Attack him!”

The men in hoods nodded, though much more wary than they were before. They stayed a fair distance away from Radiran, not moving an inch closer than they absolutely had to. Radiran did the same, crouching on the balls of his feet and circling like a cat. He would let them make the first move; men usually got themselves killed doing just that.

One of the hooded men yelled, charging Radiran with his Viperbite held in both hands. The other men quickly followed suit. Radiran held his ground, waiting until the men came to a point that he could kill them all in one stroke. As the men came closer, Radiran did something that made the men hesitate.

He unbonded his Blade.

The blood that constituted the sword suddenly reverted to its liquid form, falling to the ground. Radiran focused his mind toward the Void that was present in the blood itself, searching for enough of it to guide his actions. Few, if any others, knew of this technique. Aia himself had taught it to Radiran. Even so, it took an enormous amount of energy to perform it.

Radiran focused on individual portions of the blood, and with one gut-wrenching thought, he forced the liquid to turn into small, individual Blades that shot toward the hooded Harvesters. None of them stood a chance as carefully guided knives flew directly into each man’s heart. In a single moment, the men fell simultaneously to the floor. Radiran himself had to work to stay upright, suddenly extremely fatigued from the effort of manipulating the blood in that way. Cixusa simply stood, dumbfounded.

“How…” The Harvester King gaped, his mouth open in a very undignified manner. “How in Aia’s name did you do that?”

“You know nothing of the Void, Harvester.” Radiran growled through clenched teeth. He knelt down and pressed his hilt against one of the fallen men’s wounds, muttering a few words in the Harvester tongue. The blood of the man and the blood of the Blade immediately began to draw out of him, forming back into the shape of a Fishmonger. “There are powers much greater than the ones you serve.”

“What are you going to do to me?” Cixusa blubbered, tears trickling down his cheeks. Radiran almost laughed at the sight of the Harvester King acting like a child.

“Justice.” He said simply, and he raised his Blade to cut the man down.

“Wait!” A woman’s voice called from behind him, but it was too late. Radiran’s arm fell, and so did the Harvester King. Before he had even hit the ground, Radiran had turned to face the newcomers.

Jods.

“What are the servants of Oio doing here?” Radiran sneered, desperately trying to mask the fear that gripped his heart. Three massive, winged soldiers in white armor stood with enormous Aetherblades in the doorway. “Come to clean up the mess?”

“Did he say Oio, Kiinrin?” One of them, the woman, whispered to another.

“Enough, children.” The tallest one cut her off, brandishing his Blade. “We have business to attend to.”

“As do I.” Radiran said, striding forward a step on shaking legs. “So if you will excuse me…” The tallest Jod held up his hand and he sheathed his Blade.

“We need to explain something, Flen.” He said, stepping toward Radiran. “This Harvest was a mistake. There is something else going on here.”

“This Harvest was not a mistake.” Radiran interrupted, amused at the density of Oio’s servants. “Aia’s laws clearly dictate that acts such as these are prerequisites to Harvest. This man’s fate was decreed by God himself.”

“This man did not do this of his own free will!” The third Jod shouted, stepping forward. “You were tricked into Harvesting this man!”

“Blasphemy!” Radiran shouted, and the young Jod flinched. “Aia makes no mistakes, boy, so cease your inane babbling before I do it for you.” He turned toward their leader, fists clenched and eyes blazing- and yet, it was not anger that drove his words. It was confusion. “I hope I do not see your kind again, sir. It would not end well.”

With that, he transformed into smoke to return to the Void, contemplating the strangeness of this night.